When my Dad was born in the 1924 he was diagnosed as a Blue Baby. These infants generally only survived a couple of weeks; he proved them wrong and lived for 75 years. Though surgery was required later in life to correct the heart issues that were caused by this condition.

He was a veteran of WWII (Europe) serving in a combat engineering unit and worked as a school teacher for 35 years, starting off in a 2 room school house. He often said if it wasn’t for the GI bill, he would have made a living from the skill the Army had taught, driving trucks. He loved teaching; so much so, he turned down becoming a principal. He taught elementary grades, languages, remedial reading and life. Having 7 boys he also volunteered as a Scout leader. One of my fondest memories of him was going to his school and finding him sitting in the hall with a first grader sitting in one of those small chairs they use in that grade, I wish I had a camera. He always worked at their level. Throughout his career he wore a suit and tie even after it was no longer required; it just meant something to him.

He learned to hunt during the depression era, being the oldest of four children, not for fun, but to put more food on the table when it was in short supply. He became an excellent shot since there might only be a few bullets; had to make them count. Once out of bullets he’d switch over to bow and arrow. During anti-aircraft training in the Army with the .50 cal., he got in trouble for hitting the drone, forgot himself and was leading the plane like he would have a duck. One time when he arrived home after work one of my brothers was practicing with a bow and was hitting around the target. He took the bow and shot once and hit the bulls-eye and went inside.

I’ve always wondered how he handled a classroom of kids all day and then come home to the nine of us. We were hardly saints and often pushed the envelope. Though there was a rumor that he wasn’t allowed a wooden pointer in class, allegedly he broke too many.

My Dad had many stories about the war which he shared with us. But when it came to the men of his unit rarely did he speak of them and if it came up tears always came to his eyes. Roughly a fourth of his company of 200 men made it back unscratched, he was luckily one of them.

During a training phase in the dessert (originally the unit was going to Africa) he was lucky in being assigned to drive the water truck, so while others would be rationed a half a canteen of water a day, he had all he wanted. One night they went to sleep under the stars and from his Scout training he learned to always put the cloths in his sleeping bag, while the others in the unit didn’t do this. That night as often happens in a dessert the temperature dropped and it snowed. The next morning they woke up to frozen cloths covered in snow, except for my Dad, he knew better.

He recalled times when they were building bridges. It would take eight men to lift one section and put it into place. The German snipers would wait for them to hoist it into the air and then shoot one man so the piece would fall on the rest. During one instance when a sniper was doing this, they were shooting from a pill box up river, so my Dad’s unit took a bull dozer and buried the door and the slits and went on building the bridge. Another time they had to shoot a gap with their trucks, then do a fish tail to unload the bridging and return through the gap without getting hit by German 88’s, many trucks didn’t make it. My Dad would say the 88’s were like a rifle, if they could see you, they could hit you.

He was also his unit’s interpreter speaking both French and German. He recalled one time in Paris, shortly after liberation, he collected up a box full of soap figuring the French didn’t have access to it during the occupation and he could make some easy money. So he went to a busy street corner and announced there was soap for sale and before a price could be set he was besieged by French women stuffing money into his pockets/shirt and grabbing the soap and running off and it was sold out immediately. He was also very popular with his fellow soldiers when it came time to speak with the local women.

Outside of Paris his unit built themselves barracks out of shipping crates, being an engineering unit they were well built and they used them for a couple of months. There was a refugee issue occurring and when it came time for them to move out, they had French refugees waiting to take over the barracks. They were all homeless and it was a place to live.

My Dad never really had a lot of facial hair, so when his Lieutenant during an inspection told him, “solider you need a shave”, he responded by smiling ear to ear and the Lieutenant walked away shaking his head. He only had peach fuzz at that age.

What I miss most about him is just being able to call and talk. It has been 16 years since his passing and just typing this is bringing tears to my eyes. No matter how old you get, you still want your Daddy.

Post #350