Memoir

Uncle Joe never wanted to talk much about the war.

I can't say I blame him, really. Only with the death of my Grandmother did I learn about the turmoil of fighting in the European Theater during World War II. She kept the letters he'd written in the bottom of her jewelry box, tied together with string underneath a multitude of well-meaning, but ultimately rarely worn presents of silver, gold, and semi-rare precious stones.

"Letters from Joe, WWII" was the preface to this collection, scrawled with a blue ink pen on a dusty, faded sheet of cheap paper in my grandmother's familiar palmer-method long hand, shaky and slanted.

Joe enlisted without a second thought. The way to impress the girls and prove your manhood was to sign up. When the first army recruiter came to the Sound he jumped at the chance. Although technically a month or so underage, the eager recruiter cleverly falsified his birth-date by thirty crucial days. It was easy to manipulate records in those days before internet databases. His mother had been committed to an insane asylum fifteen years before, so there was no maternal presence to cry and beg that her youngest child reconsider. Lucky Strike greens had gone to war, and now it was his turn.

Fresh-faced and largely naive of the outside world, he looked forward to seeing Paris and the rest of Europe, which seemed glamorous locals. This had no doubt been fostered by romanticized portrayals in films and the ubiquitous propaganda newsreels. It was a quite a turnaround from the way he felt in later years; He would often joke that the farthest he got was Belgium and one trip abroad was enough. This is why he declined the opportunity to visit the Continent in later years.

Reading through the letters I found a rare portrait of the nasty reality of war, which I'm honestly surprised got through the censors. Even pictures of American war dead were officially verboten in the popular press. The president was officially crippled, although the media was, in those days, quite careful to never show the President in a wheelchair or with his cumbersome and bulky leg braces on.

Uncle hadn't been in country long before the grim reality of warfare reared its ugly head. A fast friend he'd made from training camp died abruptly in front of his eyes. They had been cracking jokes and boasting about female conquests likely rooted in nothing more than wishful thinking when German long-range artillery brought a sudden end to the light-hearted atmosphere. He never saw it coming. None of them did, really. They were mulling about bored, concealed by the heavy canvass of a beige colored tent when the German counter attack ripped into the Allied Lines.

Later it would become known as the Battle of the Bulge. Uncle Joe was one of the unfortunate GIs in the front lines. By some miracle, he would escape with only shrapnel lodged in his left calf. The friend, however, was not so lucky and had the misfortune of having his face rather abruptly and rudely ripped apart. The friend (his name must be lost to humanity) died instantly. Uncle observed this all directly in front of his face, and despite his wounds ran outside in some sort of combination of fear and adrenalin to observe the German tank several yards beyond which had launched the fateful salvo.

He passed out from a combination of shock and loss of blood only to regain consciousness in a military hospital.

The doctor informed him upon his regaining consciousness that he was headed back home. Uncle wanted to stay and fight, but the doctor was kind, but firm. No more fighting.

V-E day came five months later, in April of 1945.