I know something of war. I’m convinced my awareness of it began in
utero—in November, 1942 when my parents conceived me and America had been fighting
in World War II for nearly one year. Bob, my mother’s beloved older brother was
already in it—he was one of Patton’s warriors in Operation Torch, the November,
1942 British-United States invasion against Germany’s stronghold in French
North Africa, my country’s first official military action in the European
Theater of the war. By then, Bob had been in the Army for a year, stationed at
various training facilities on the east coast of the United States. My father’s dear
older brother Bill had enlisted the day after Pearl Harbor was attacked by Japan.
Although at the time I was conceived Bill was still stateside, in California,
actually, among my parent’s other male friends and relations of draft age, most
were in military training camps or fighting overseas, or expected to be at any
moment. “War” was at the front of everyone’s mind then, in their conversations,
their dreams; it defined every facet of their lives. It was as much a part of
my mother as her blood type, and through our interdependence was transferred to
me. I’m sure of it. 
November, 1942 was momentous for my parents in
another way since it was the month Dad turned eighteen, and therefore, became eligible
for the draft. My parents had been married for two months almost to the day.
And if my calculations are correct, considering the 280-day gestation period
for humans, Mom’s egg and Dad’s sperm that united and made me blossomed a mere
six days before Dad’s eighteenth birthday and 57 days after they had tied the
knot. Needless to say, Mom’s anxiety went through the roof, and to elevate her
disquiet still further, her seventeen-year-old brother Bussy, seriously ill
since the age of ten with a respiratory ailment, took a turn for the worse and
died on January 5, 1943. A sad sidebar to his death is that more than likely,
penicillin would have saved him, but it occurred before the drug was available
to the general public. My grandmother, my mother, and Bob never got over losing
Bussy.
For an achingly long period of time after Bob’s
deployment to Africa, letters between American servicemen abroad and their
families back home were few and far between. This was a family of prolific
letter writers. (I know without question the source of my writing gene.) Having
grown accustomed to receiving a letter, and sometimes two letters per day from
Bob, my grandparents and all who knew and also corresponded with him grew
frantic with fear for him during the lengthy communication blackout. The worst
of it for my grandparents was that they had no reliable means of informing Bob either
of his brother’s failing health, or of his passing. Following my grandmother’s
death in 2001, among hundreds of old letters, cards, newspaper clippings, photographs,
and other print material spanning the years of the Great Depression and World
War II, found in an old chest tucked at the back of a closet of her house, was
the following letter. At the time of her passing, Dean, her youngest, was her
only living offspring. She was eight months shy of her 100th
birthday and had outlived her husband and seven of her children, including Bob
and my mother:
Peebles,
Ohio Jan. 10, 1943
Dear Son:
It is with a
sad and aching heart [but] I am going to write to
you. I have studied and thought what is best to do. But this is the only way I
can see. Son poor little Bussy left us on Jan. 5 at Cora’s house. [Cora was
my grandmother’s sister who lived in town close to the doctor and hospital] I am so lonesome & nervous. I was constantly
by his side for 3 weeks. He passed away just 3 weeks from the day he took bad. He
& I was sitting at the table eating our dinner on Dec. 15, when I just
happened to look at him & seen something was wrong with him. His face &
head was jerking awful. I ran around to him & asked what was wrong. He
coulden’t talk. It only lasted a short time. When he got over it he said, “Oh
Mom. It is just this old disease getting the best of me.” We had the Dr. He [the
doctor] said he could do nothing. He [Bussy]
had 5 of those spells then took an awful
headache. We took him to the hospital. They said there was a clot on his brain.
It was on the right side but made his left arm & leg useless. He woulden’t
stay in the hospital. I took him to Cora’s as they told me it would be allright
since they could do nothing. Said all I could do was keep his head packed in
Ice, rest & quiet. We were at Cora’s a week, and the last few days he
seemed so much better. I thought he was going to get well, and could soon take
him home [to their farm], as I wrote
and told you. Don’t know if you ever got the letter or not. But the suffering I
guess was to much for his heart & then you know what a condition he was in
any way. Son he took it all so patient. Just prayed all the time almost. He
wanted Herman [Tolle, the preacher]. He
told him he was ready to go. Oh son how he prayed for all you boys. It would
wring your heart. The last words I heard him say was,“Tell them all to meet
me.” His mind was so on Sim [Workman, their friend who was also in the Army
fighting in North Africa] somehow. Said “Mommy,
I feel sorry for Sim. He diden’t have a Mother to tell him about Jesus like I
have.” Although you know Sim has a good mother. He [Bussy] would put his arms around me and say “I love
you Mommy.” I don’t know whether I can ever stand this or not, but Son put your
trust in Jesus. Ask him every day to take care of you. Bussy would say “Mommy,
don’t worry about Bob. He is coming back.” But the Lord can cut us all off any
time. So don’t forget to pray if it is only to yourself. Poor little Bussy is
in a better home but I miss him so. He was always here with me. I can never
stay here alone anymore. Well Son I can’t write more but can only say put your
trust in God and we will all be living on for happier days some where. Answer
if you can. With so much love, Mother.
P.S. This is Mon. morning. I
forgot to say the rest of us is well. Son I hope you are well. Try and not to
grieve to much only live to meet Bussy. I feel a little better this morn(ing). Some
think I shoulden’t of let you know. But I coulden’t of lived a lie & write
to you like everything was allright, and then probably some one else would of
said something about it when they would write to you. All we can say is Gods
will must be done. By by. XOXOXO
Bussy’s heroic seventeen years of
life is a centerpiece of GUARDIANS AND OTHER ANGELS (http://goo.gl/imUwKO), my novel that is
a blend of fact and fiction, populated by my great-grandparents, my
grandparents, my parents and the people of their circles, as well as one main
fictional character. It is set primarily during the years of the First World
War, the Great Depression, and the beginning of America’s involvement in World
War II. An additional key feature of the novel is the transcription of dozens
of my family’s old letters, of the tenor of the one above. The letters
chronicle, in exceedingly intense intimacy, the hearts and minds of a community
of deep country people far removed from mainstream life at the time. While they
were poor and unsophisticated, eking out a living from the soil, they fell in
love, got married, and raised children; they endured illness, death, and every
conceivable loss, and yet they celebrated life so profoundly as to warm your
heart or break it. It was these people and their counterparts across the nation
first called upon to put the lives of their boys on the line and to save the
world during World War II. I gave Bussy life once again in my novella for young readers titled
ROOSTER TALE (http://goo.gl/vNq32g).
My
father was drafted into the Navy in mid-1943. He was given a medical discharge
while still in boot camp, however, a consequence of a severe problem with his
stomach. It was a condition that plagued him all the 89 years of his life. He
didn’t make it home in time to witness my birth, but arrived soon thereafter.
Following my mother’s death on June 29, 1992, Dad was the one remaining
constant of love and strength for my sisters and me until his death on March
29, 2014. Had she lived, the day my father died would have been my mother’s 91st
birthday.
From
the instant of my conception to the present day, “War” has been my consistent
reality, as it has been for everyone else, to one degree or another—far too
many of us in the thick of it, and others like me, witnessing it via the media.
Today it is quite possible we are in peril of yet another war—and if it comes
to pass this time and under the present circumstances, it might be the final
one for reasons too frightening to contemplate. If that is the case, where will
future generations find reserves of old letters, CDs, computer hard drives, and
flash drives among the carnage and charred remains of our planet to tell them
about us? The elephant in the room is whether or not there would be future generations. GOD HELP US!
Best-selling author, blogger,
award-winning artist and interior designer Linda Lee Greene is on social media
at the following:
Amazon
Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/lindaleegreene
Twitter: @LLGreeneAuthor
Also
look for her at LinkedIn and Google+
+Gaffin+&+Dorothy+Bowman+(1941).jpg)
