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When My Father Spoke
By
Nate Murray |
Marshfield - Like
many combat veterans, my father didn’t talk much about his
fighting service. Occasionally he’d retell a funny story
about the time as an MP when he ran into his cousin in a bar
fight in Germany, pretending to arrest him to get him out of
trouble.
Beyond that there were only hints from my mother or
grandmother about how he suffered from what today we call
Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) due to his combat
experiences. As a boy I would often ask him about it,
especially around Memorial Day when he would dutifully don
his 82nd Airborne uniform and, along with my mother who had
served in the Marine Corps, and my Grandfather, a WWI AEF
Veteran, he would march in our hometown parade to honor the
fallen.
Dad never spoke about it; never told any stories of guts and
glory, of defeating the enemy that a boy wants to hear about
his brave Dad. But on Memorial Day he was always very
solemn, and he would usually drink a fair bit as I recall.
Every Christmas the man would get visibly depressed and the
only explanation we ever got from my mother was his mood was
“because of the war”. That was the extent of the
explanation.
Growing into adolescence, seeing the boys coming home from
Vietnam, seeing the war footage on TV every night I gained a
better understanding about what battle was really like. In
my little town of Cohasset, Vietnam cost us more than a
dozen boys. One day in early June around Father’s Day,
perhaps around 1975, sitting on the porch in the sun sharing
a beer with Dad I once again asked him about what his combat
experience was like.
And to my surprise, he quietly spoke. He spoke about being
up on a tall brightly painted box on a beach on D-Day
directing chaotic traffic with a line of other MP’s, all
boys really, waiting for him to get shot so the next one
could climb up to take his place.
He did get wounded in the back of the neck while bending
over to yell directions to someone, the bullet exiting the
back of his helmet, but he was able to keep working. He
spoke of a guy in his platoon that would take German
prisoners out for a walk and routinely shoot them because
they were “escaping.” The man was Polish. He spoke about
guys being shot next to him and their blood getting on him.
About missing his family and fearing he’d never see them
again, never spend another holiday together.
He referred to witnessing gore, death and madness as we sat
there on that sunny porch, on that warm, safe day far away
from Europe and the days he seemed to do his best to leave
behind. His eyes were wet. He never spoke about it again. It
was as far as he could go. It was a shared moment that was
as powerful as it was intimate between us.
Memorial Day, Flag Day, Father’s Day.
They all come together and seem to have lost much of their
solemn meaning. We use those days mostly to open up pools,
put boats in the water and have parties.
I am sure though that many combat veterans spend time those
days thinking, or perhaps actively trying not to think,
about experiences that are haunting them and that shaped so
much of who they have become.
If you are with them on those days you might ask, what was
it like? There are a few WW II Vets left. There are Vets
from Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf Wars and now Afghanistan. Men
and now many women have had this experience. If you do get
them to open up you might have a chance to say I am sorry
you went through that. And to say thank you. |
About The Author
Nate
Murray, LICSW is the President of Visiting Angels of the
South Shore a private in home care practice serving elders
and their families. He can be reached at (781) 834 -6355 or
on the web at www.visitingangels.com.
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