CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A Blurred Line

Really had a turnout at the [V-J Day] parade, on the ground too, according to the papers. It was all quite an experience.—September 2, 1945

When I pulled up to my parents’ house to pick Dad up for breakfast, he wasn’t watching out the window for me. So I went inside. Mom said he was out back and would be back inside at any moment. I sat beside her on the sofa.

“He’s not doing so well,” she said.

“I know,” I answered.

At times he was so sad, so disconnected, that it hurt to be with him. He even seemed to have aged, his posture bent and his walk a shuffle. But more striking than the physical changes were the emotional ones. Many days when I saw him, he barely spoke. Having a conversation with him was stunted and awkward.

Worse, my sweet father now often shot his anger at my mother, and for the smallest of reasons. He yelled at her, belittled her, and argued. Mom would just stand there, her mouth turned down, silent.

When either of my sisters came home for a visit, they stayed at my parents’ house. Invariably, within a few hours of their visit, one sister or the other would call me.

“He’s just so mean,” my sister would say. “Something’s changed. He just yells at her for nothing at all. Is he always like this now?”

I wasn’t sure. Living just a few blocks away, I didn’t have a reason to spend the night, let alone three or four days at their house. But on occasion, I would see the rage. It would be over something so simple. And my sisters told me the worst of it: he called my mother stupid.

And yet my mom, she simply took it. I don’t know how she did it, but she did. It wasn’t that she was made of stone and not hurt by his outbursts. But she knew on some deep level that perhaps only fifty plus years of marriage could explain: that something was wrong with him. It didn’t make his words any less hurtful. But every time he hurt her, she prayed. And when he came back to hurt her again, she prayed even harder.

“He’s having nightmares,” Mom said. “Terrible nightmares, and he had a flashback the other night.”

“What do you mean? What kind of a flashback? How do you know it was a flashback?” I asked.

“You know, when I thought about it later, I half remembered hearing running water in the middle of the night. But I didn’t think anything of it. But when I went into the bathroom in the morning, there was water all over the sink and floor,” she said. “I took some towels from the cupboard to clean it up and yelled for your dad.”

My father had just stood there in the doorway as she soaked the water up.

“What in the world happened in here?” she asked.

“I had a flashback,” he said. “It was like I was back on that ship with Mal. I think I was half awake and half sleeping. My mind just ran the whole thing like a video, but I was in it. I looked down and I saw his blood on my shirt. I was standing here washing it off when I sort of came to.”

We heard the back door open. Dad walked into the living room, grabbing his coat and cane from the chair.

“How long have you been waiting for me?” he asked.

“Oh, not long,” I said. “Just long enough to talk about you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he joked.

He looked at my mother and then at me. Although he didn’t let on that he suspected what we’d been talking about, there was something in his expression that looked suspicious. Still, neither of us spoke of it.

“Are you going to the Veterans Day parade?” he asked on the way to the restaurant.

“Maybe,” I said. “When is it?”

“It’s on Sunday,” he said. “At ten o’clock.”

“But that’s right in the middle of church,” I said. “Why would they have it on a Sunday?”

“That’s just where it fell this year,” he said.

I hadn’t been to the parade in years. It just fell at a bad time. That’s what I told myself. I enjoyed the Fair parade in early September, when the weather was still warm. There was a nighttime Christmas parade in December that was fairly new to our town. However, three parades in four months just seemed a little much.

But after the intense and emotional journey we’d been on, how could I not go with my father?

It was bitter cold that Sunday. Ric filled a thermos with hot cocoa and I put some cups in a plastic grocery sack. But when it came to taking the kids, they did not want to go. The most vocal was our youngest, Caleb.

“Do they throw candy?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “That’s the fair parade. November is just too wet and rainy for candy to be thrown on the street.”

“Then I’m not going,” he said.

“Caleb,” I scolded. “It’s not about the candy.”

“Yes, it is,” he argued.

“Listen, Caleb,” I said. “Veterans Day is the most important holiday of the year. It’s the day we honor people who fought to keep our country free. Think of all the things you can do, all the freedom you have. All of that is because veterans fought for it. Like your grandpa.”

“Grandpa was in a war?” Caleb asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “He was in World War II.”

“Did he carry a gun?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “You know all those letters I’ve been typing up—of Grandpa’s?”

“Yeah,” he answered.

“Well, your grandpa did some really important things during the war. He broke a code called Katakana. And just like all of the young men who went off to fight, your grandpa was very brave. His country needed him and he went,” I explained.

“You know other veterans too, like your uncle Rudy. He is a Vietnam veteran,” I added. “And when people are in a war, they are never the same again. They come home to live their life, but they can never forget the things they had to do and the things they saw.”

“And that’s what the parade is for?” Caleb asked.

I nodded. Caleb, satisfied with my explanation, quickly put on his coat, hat, and gloves. Micah and Danielle had heard the conversation. They’d probably secretly hoped that Caleb would win this one, but he hadn’t and they too dressed warmly.

We met Mom and Dad at the designated spot, arriving early so we’d get a good one. Dad had already set up folding chairs for him and Mom. They were bundled up and had wool blankets across their laps.

Ric handed me the thermos as he unfolded chairs for us. A sparse crowd gathered at the curb.

As the color guard passed, my father raised himself, with some difficulty, from his lawn chair. He removed his hat and held it over his heart.

I leaned down to whisper in Caleb’s ear.

“Caleb, remember, we stand out of respect for the American flag and what it stands for,” I said.

“But nobody else is standing,” he whined.

I looked around, and then pointed out the few who were standing. After the flags passed, Ric served hot cocoa as we watched the parade. There were horses, vintage cars, and a few groups that marched by. Unlike the Southeastern Washington Fair parade or the Christmas parade, this one was sparse both in participants and in spectators. For a small town that was full of patriotic folks, this was a pathetic showing.

A short time later, the last of the parade passed us and we gathered up our things. Caleb looked up at me.

“That was it?” he asked.

I held his hand as we crossed the street.

“I thought you said this was important,” he said.

I again told Caleb the importance of veterans and the freedom they’ve given us, but I knew it was a moot point. You can’t fool a child; he’d already seen what people thought of Veterans Day. I couldn’t change that.

May 31, 1945

Dear Folks,

It has been about three days since I wrote last. I suppose you think I’m at least at Guam by now. Surprise! I’m still here.

I wouldn’t think a little thing like a ride home from Pasco would be much to worry about. Personally I would be glad to be turned loose over here in the middle of a pineapple field with orders to find my way back to Dayton.

I didn’t beat you far as to seeing “Here Come the Waves.” Saw it about a month ago. I notice most of the shows advertised in the Chronicle Dispatch are about the same ones we have here at the same time. Don’t tell anyone but I seem to know more about the DF news than Waitsburg news. That is except when they tell a bit about some old school chums. Saw Merle Eaton’s picture in the Times for example. Sure hope he was just a prisoner in Germany and is OK now.

I’ve often speculated too, as to what I’ll do when I get back. I change my mind about once a week. I understand I can start school any time within two years after I’m discharged from the Navy under the GI bill of rights. I imagine at least another year in the service and then I’ll be 25. That’s darned near too old to start a regular college course of four years so imagine if I go to school at all it will be to Kinmans or some kind of business course of a year duration or a little more. Kind of hate to lose out on a chance to get some free higher education but on the other hand, I’ll probably just lose out that much more time in getting caught up again on things on the railroad. I’ve thought quite a lot lately, that it might be a better idea to take a few weeks off (if I can stand it) when I get out and then work for a year or so on the railroad (at Helix I s’pose) and then take in a year of school. But you are probably right mom as to cash. I think I’ll just run around until the dough runs out. That shouldn’t be long, as I figure it will take most of the total three hundred bucks mustering out pay to get new clothes. But then, we have a few days yet. Another thing—men (good men) must be scarce. All my old gal friends are pitching in and really writing nice letters. They’ll probably all be lined up at the depot and make me take my choice when I get back.

We got word a couple of days ago that the first four rows of tents along a main road here would have to be vacated in one hour. They assigned us to new tents about the same distance from the office—about 50 yards. I really hit it lucky there. I was put in a tent with four of the guys that practically run the school here. Of course I knew them all before but not too well personally. Two of them are storekeepers (Navy rate) who washed out of flight training last year. The other two are a radioman and signalman who are in the big shots.

We have the best tent on the base I think. They have a special floor of heavy painted plywood—smooth as glass and easy to clean. That makes it much cooler during the day. And the table in the center is varnished wood same as the individual chairs. We also each have a chest to put things in instead of living out of sea bag as before. Also have four radios now including mine. No use doing anything about sending it back tho as you never can tell about the Navy. I might be by myself again tomorrow. And the best thing about the change is the food. They all know all the cooks and bakers and do them favors now and then so we are well furnished all the time with any kind of meat anytime we want it. One of the men is a good cook so he does the cooking. Another takes care of the dishes and silverware. I drew keeping the table and floor clean. It’s really a pleasure after living in that other tent. Had the best steak sandwiches tonite I’ve eaten since I hit the “rock.” We really have a swell bunch. We all work together here and when it comes to any special favors now and then we can always help each other. I’m in the post office and of course can slip mail out a couple of hours or more early instead of waiting ’til mail call, and they can do me favors. That’s the way the Navy is run so I just as well take advantage of it.

And mom whatdaya mean, me find socks for Iris. I’d be embarrassed to pieces buying stockings for a gal. And besides I’ll bet they either don’t have them or wouldn’t let me send them anyway. I’ll take off one day (real soon too) and see if I can find her some costume joolry. That’s about all they have on the island.

Love, Murray

After the parade, as the kids went back to their lives, I looked around our house. Ric had made a fire in the fireplace. We had warmth. Homemade soup was warming up on the stove. The house was homey and comfortable. These were all things that my father didn’t have during the war. He made the best of it, but it wasn’t easy. In some letters he was so homesick, you could feel it. And in others, optimism dripped from the pages. More often than not, he was simply trying to make the best of a bad situation. He was thankful for the floor in his tent and the radio he listened to. Try as we may, I thought, we can never really know what it feels like to be in a war, leaving home with just a few things; leaving absolutely everything that brings us comfort and joy. We can never really know what it means to completely lose control over even the most rudimentary of things.

The next Wednesday, I felt like I had to say something. The showing at the parade of both spectators and participants was so poor that it had really upset me; I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I was angry that in a small and patriotic town, it seemed nobody would take the time to simply participate in some way to honor our hometown veterans. I felt guilty that I too had ignored this simple ritual for so many years. I didn’t know if Dad had thought about the parade or even cared. If he did, he hadn’t let on. Still, I had to say something.

“I want to apologize,” I said, as soon as he got in the car. “For the parade. I can’t believe how few people were there. We owe the veterans of this town so much more.”

Dad sat quiet in thought. “What I missed,” he finally said, “was the marching band.”

What a simple thing, I thought. He wanted just one thing; a marching band.