I remember my first 4th July, as a small boy, maybe 6 or 7 years old. My mom and dad had friends come to our house to play cards and shoot some sky rockets. I was kind of dull, dark and waiting for the fireworks to begin. I decided to go into the basement and play.
There, in the middle of the basement all that was what my father set to take to summer camp in a few weeks. He spent his two weeks summer training at Camp Ripley, Mn. In later years, as a teenager, Iwould accompany Dad to summer camp and work in the exhibition as an assistant while he trained.
My dad was my hero, through and through. I always loved looking at his military equipment. Above all, I was always fascinated by his locker. His name, rank and service number, dark green stencil onto the page in color. He made it seem so formal and yet so mysterious. I wanted to get a closer look at this big mysterious box. It was a big lock on the hasp, but it hung open. When I gentlyI peeked into the usual socks, underwear, handkerchiefs, belts, saw a pack of cards, packs a few Raleigh unfiltered cigarettes. He told me in later years he liked to camp on it because they're so cheap. That was in 1954 or 1055, so I doubt they were much more than $ 1.50 to $ 1.75 per carton.
Anyway, as I continued looking around, I noticed that lifted the upper section of our show. I grabbed him and lifted him gently out of the locker and put it on the floor. There wereShirts and trousers, and khaki fatigues. Among the top-shirts, there was something shiny in the corner. It looked like leather. Honey, what was that? I picked it up and examined it closely. I did not recognize. I had never seen it. Wait, there is a flap with a snap on them. I asked myself, dear, what could be possible to hide it inside.
I picked him for a better look get out and snap to open. As soon as I raised it on a big black metal hit the ground. Aboutsame time on the ground, Dad came down the basement steps to verify myself. He looked at the situation and yelled at me ... "Allen, get back. Do not touch, it can hurt you!" He hurried, picked it up, put it back in the leather bag, put it back into the chest, closed the lid and locked the lock.
He looked hard at me and asked me if I am OK. I answered: "Yes, Daddy. I'm OK. Why, what's the matter?" At this time his eyes were a bit damp, and he had a strange look on hisFace. He did not answer me. I asked him: "Dad, what that thing was?" This time he answered me ... "a gun".
"A weapon, I asked," how to kill people with Daddy? "" Yes, Allen. "Dad, you always have to kill someone with a gun?" His answer was a muffled sound I could not understand. In later years I found his answer was: "More than I wanted ..."
Since I was in a teenager, my father and I talked about his service in World War II. He was stationed in the Philippines. Later, when the conflict in KoreaHe broke again and spent some time there. We spoke often go back to the Philippines for my studies. We wanted to retrace his steps. He always wanted to show me how beautiful he thought the country could be without war and suffering.
As I grew into a young man, I spent my time in service from 1968 to 1977. I was among the lucky few who get a good assignment. But in those nine years I've learned, what was the expression on the face of my father, thatNight in the basement. It was the same expression you have when you see your best friend suddenly limp, as he is hit with a jump-off round. It is the same expression you have when a coffin is closed for the last time. It is the expression you have when you look death in the face and tore something important away from you ... and you know there is absolutely nothing you can do ... it is too late to stop it ... We can only pray.
My father and I became much closer as adults. We have oftenspoke about the military, politics, stock market, nothing serious. He taught me a lot about life. Some of them I did not like, but it was the truth. Sometimes the truth is not always likeable, but you can not change it, so you learn to accept it.
When he died, he had a funeral with military honors. I stood before his coffin at the grave, the guns fired their salute and taps played, I raised my hand to greet him. That night in the bedroom my earliest memory of my father and his funeral is thelast. This highly decorated hero of World War II and Korea had to be a lot of effort in his life. I think it was for many of the stages in his life, good and evil responsible. But he was my hero. His bravery and courage carried him through combat as safe as they carried him through life.
My father was just one of millions of men and women who have it all for their country, there was no question, but a painful burden when they return home. I will certainly remember him, and allthe rest of this Independence Day. They paid for our freedom. Let us not forget.
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