[LARRY NOTE: This is a personal contemplation about voting and Americans who kept us able to vote and say just about anything we wanted to say.]
Over the weekend the Commemorative Air Force put its old planes on display at and over Dallas Executive Airport and the Red Bird area of town.
That’s not far from our home.
So, now and then, some extremely loud plane from a bygone era would fly over our neighborhood, the rumbling of engines rattling our windows and making even the birds and squirrels look up.
Majestic old planes, each held aloft by skillful pilots who know how to use pioneering technology from the first half of the 20th century.
These planes flew peacefully over the Dallas landscape. I thought what a blessing it is that these war planes are now “for display only.”
And, as I looked and listened -- running outside like a kid now and then to see what in the world was in the sky -- it occurred to me that I was probably hearing something my dad first heard -- heard for the first time! -- back in the early ‘40s. He was a poor kid from a poor side of town, a school dropout in a family for whom The Great Depression continued for decades.
Because of bad people in Germany, Italy and Japan, my daddy and millions of men like him became pawns -- the necessary but horrifying infantry -- in the great “human chess game” against the Axis.
That was my pop, years before I was born: Scrawny, unschooled and bewildered Calvin Powell in a uniform that was too big but not as big as the job he’d been drafted to do.
He’d never been out of his dirt-poor neighborhood and, suddenly, there he was being shot at, attacked and enduring hell on earth in a unified effort to save the planet from evil.
He lived, but, some of him didn’t survive. He lost his optimism, I think. He saw the ugly side of humanity and it never left him.
In his last hours, decades later in November, 2008, he wasn’t recalling his triumphs in life, his family, his friends, his family vacations paid for with money earned by the sweat of a blue-collar soul.
He wasn’t seeing a greeting at the Pearly Gates from a hospital bed.
My sweet Dad was hallucinating that he was back with the army more than six decades earlier and going into a concentration camp -- Nordhausen -- and trying to help people understand that they were being freed from a manmade hell.
Thanks to an interview with Mom, I learned that Pop was with the the 39th Infantry Regiment of the 9th Army. Col. Paddy Flint, who led the 39th ashore at Utah Beach on D-Day Plus 4, made sure his men were known as the “AAA-0.” That stood for “Anywhere, Any time, Any place bar none.”
And Pop was with the 39th from Utah Beach, into France to take back Saint-Lô from the Germans, and capture The Bridge at Remagen and capture Roetgen, described as “the first German town to fall in World War II.”
Pop just about never talked about the war to his three little boys. You can see why when you search for the video of the liberation of Nordhausen. [I won’t link to it here out of respect for the dead and those who found them, but if you have questions about how bad it could have been, google it and watch it. We need to remember what happened there and that it was other humans who did this. And, remember, too, what evil men did to make terrify our parents enough to make them go to war around the entire planet. Hell won’t be hot enough for some people.]
My father was in a hospital bed, looking up with eyes seeing something not in the room and, with great animation, mimicking the arm gestures of concentration camp inmates rushing to the truck he was in and holding up their arms and begging.
This was from a scene he once told me about in an extraordinarily quiet moment in a late-night conversation when neither of us could sleep. I was already gone from home and had come back to attend my grandmother’s funeral -- his mother-in-law and the only mother he’d known since the 40s. Pop never -- NEVER -- talked about the war. Never. But his heart was near the surface this night.
“They were looking up at us and reaching out with their hands and begging with what I guess was the only English words they knew. They’d all say, ‘Brown bread! Brown bread.’”
Then Pop stopped talking, and after a few seconds, my iron-hard father tearfully said, “Hell, we didn’t have any brown bread to give ‘em. We’d just fought our way into the place and we didn’t have anything but what was on us.”
Years later, on his death bed, he was reaching up, like those people from decades ago, and saying, “Brown bread. Brown bread.” I knew what he was seeing. No one else in the room with him knew.
So, on a warm October afternoon in Dallas, when I heard OUR planes over my own home in Dallas -- on the other side of reality from my dad’s young years -- I knew what he heard and what it meant to him. It meant help. And, ultimately, that sound meant peace to him and his fellow infantrymen.
Pop left Europe on Dec. 22, 1945 -- the port was Le Havre, straight across the inlet from Utah Beach where his unpleasant tour had begun in 1944. Pop took a troop ship across the Atlantic and returned to the U.S. on New Year’s Day, 1946. He never wanted to leave America again and didn’t. We could barely get him to leave town. He probably wasn’t the only GI who said if he ever got back home, he was never leaving again.
So, for no reason other than the fact that so many of us Baby Boomers grew up with parents who went to war, I offer these thoughts today. We love those Pops and Moms who were protecting us even before we were born. They gave us the right to have a future. They built an America with opportunities. They made a nation stronger, made it a place people want to come to so they can have the American dream of ambition and achievements. These soldiers and sailors and airmen and nurses and doctors and all manner of men and women came from all sorts of backgrounds to unite in a cause that protected the future of America.
The future they created? It’s just one of the reasons I vote. I’m not going to war, but I have sons and grandsons and granddaughters and I don’t want my ol’ Pop’s lost youth and crushed-by-war opportunities to go to waste. Those opportunities have been handed down. Things he could not do live on in his descendants. You know Pops and Moms and Granddaddies and Grandmas who also created the same legacy for our nation, our families.
This is America. And it is beautiful.
And not only should we respect what these people did, the candidates for office ought behave like it matters to them, too. They are able to run because of what these people did. Respect it. Show some grace and dignity.
God bless you, Pop, and all our forces for good around the world. May the sounds of peace prevail. Babies being born. Applause at graduations. Congratulations at weddings and emotional “Amens!” at the prospect of peace for us all.
This is why I vote. Every election. My Pop earned it for me.
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