VETERANS DAY

My dad had burnt his feet when he was young and he was a mechanic/truck driver when he was drafted.  So where did the Army place him?  In the infantry of course.

My dad, PFC John H. Pittman, served in WW II.  He was in Bravo Company, 115th Infantry Regiment, 29th Infantry Division, American 9th Army.  There was a change at one point to Company 16th Infantry, Company B 115th Infantry, Hq Company, 1st Bn. 115th Infantry.

Dad did his basic training at Camp Wheeler, Georgia.  In a letter dated October 12, 1944, we know he was somewhere in the southern part of England.  They were training and trying to get used to the weather.  After October 29, 1944, he was in France, then Belgium, and then Paris. 

I always thought his division was a “clean up” division.  I thought they went in after the main battle was over and found any strong holds or soldiers hiding in small towns.  I thought his job was pretty safe.  Or as safe as any soldier can be in a war.  Then I read the letters he had written to my mother.  The letters that had been in a closet for a very long time.  Sitting there unread.  Until….

As I read those letters, I realized his job was anything but safe.  Often he was in the middle of heavy fighting.  And those soldiers, hiding in those small towns, still had ammunition.  I didn’t want to know that.  I wanted to picture him safe, but reality is often something we don’t want to know.

Dad never talked about the war.  He never told us stories.  He never explained the pictures in the photo album.  There were not many pictures anyway.  He told mom a few things

• there was a young boy he helped but the young boy was killed
• he had some souvenirs, but when they told them to pitch anything they didn’t want, he threw one duffle bag on the pile forgetting about the items he meant to bring home
• he wanted to get home

And there was a book beside his bed.  On the cover was an emblem of The Blue and Gray.  I don’t ever remember him looking at that book. 

The only time he talked about the war was when his friend and fellow soldier came to visit.  The kids would all go out to play.  The two wives would go to the living room.  And dad and Gene would sit at the kitchen table… smoking one cigarette after another… heads bowed… voices low… and sharing stories they would not share with their families.  They wanted to protect their families from the true horror of war.  And that horror could only be understood by someone who had been there.

I wonder if dad and Gene realized their wives were also telling stories.  Stories that could only be shared with someone who also had taken care of the home and the finances and the children and the struggles. 

Playing catch or croquet or just looking at clouds, we were oblivious to the stories being told inside our home.  Stories that could only be shared and understood by those that were there. 

I was going to put a picture of my dad in his uniform.  I decided not to.  I want you to see my dad – at peace.  Sitting in our yard.  Wearing a shirt my mom made him.  And I can guarantee there is a Camel cigarette in the hand you cannot see.

Thank you dad for serving.