Daddy was a Soldier.

Daddy was a soldier in World War II and the Korean War and he was proud of that fact. Back when I thought I knew everything – I used to say “War World II was Daddy’s finest hour.” He was in Europe and a G.I. Life was an adventure. Black soldiers were considered heroes, a thing of wonder like an exotic bird – there was no segregation and no Jim Crow in European cities for a soldier. A Black man from the South could walk freely and speak with a man and look him in the eye. I believe war was different then. There was a clear enemy. There was no doubt that Hitler must be stopped. No derision nor protests back home over the righteousness of this war. I saw the photos. He was standing proudly, hoisting his rifle, smiling at the camera. There were photos with unidentified frauleins and mademoiselles in clubs. There were group shots with smiling beautiful young men in their prime, all so handsome in their uniforms, soldiers pointing at snapshots of wives and girlfriends taped on their lockers. It was all so romantic – like a movie.

And then at home 30 years later there was his slight obsession with anything war-related: movies, documentaries, the VFW, the marching as color guard in parades. I thought: “This was a great memory for Daddy.”

I didn’t realize until many years later that though exciting, Daddy’s time as a soldier was a dark, troubling time. I realized this at a dinner party thrown by my dear friend Brenda. My folks made one of their rare visits to Chicago from my hometown in Ohio and Brenda threw this party so that my parents could meet my friends. One of the guests asked Daddy about the War. He politely refused to talk about it. “I don’t talk about that.” His face grew dark and troubled. It was during this night that I found out that Daddy was a paratrooper.

“Daddy, I never knew you jumped out of planes! what was that like?”

Again, no response. If anything, he got more quiet and mumbled that he doesn’t talk about “those times.” He gave me a look that said: “Drop it.” It wasn’t a look of anger but one of sadness and disturbance.

It was then that I got it.

In all of my romantic notions about the War, I forgot that “War is Hell.” I didn’t realize that Daddy’s connection to the VFW and his need to march in the those parades was a way to connect with others who had also experienced that Hell. A Hell to which no one but a soldier could relate. Only a soldier who was on the front lines (as he was) could recall the darkness, the fear of random death – your own or that of your best friend lying on the ground next to you. Only a soldier could recall the training that it takes to turn a gentle soul into a killer for God and Country. Only a soldier could feel what it means to return to “normal life” after that.

After I left my parents house as a young college co-ed, I went through an anti-military phase. I considered all the pomp and circumstance as a facade, a joke.

That changed at my father’s burial.

Daddy died from primary Brain Cancer. Per his request, he was to be buried at the V.A. cemetery. In my opinion, it was a most unromantic resting place with all those identical white markers in formation on green rolling fields.

Unbeknownst to me, on the day of Daddy’s funeral there happened to be some sort of meeting of top brass from all branches of the military at the V.A. As we sat there under the tent staring at his casket draped in the U.S. flag, there was a commotion as vehicles came rolling down the hill towards us. The military officials had heard that there was a fallen soldier about to be buried there and they interrupted their meetings to attend and stand guard and pay their respects. At about the same time, two vans appeared filled with elderly veterans (all white who probably would never have even socialized with an African American in their youth) I watched as they hobbled out of their vehicles to stand at attention at his gravesite.

And then came the pomp and circumstance.

A lone soldier stepped forward to play the most heart wrenching “Taps” I had ever heard. We sat there as he played this lonely mournful melody. It echoed across that cemetery as though in a concert hall. To this day the sound of “Taps” brings me to tears. Seven uniformed soldiers with rifles slowly marched forward, stopped and upon shouted commands fired three volleys of seven shots. The soldiers in full military regalia paid their respects and then stood and performed a slow-motion salute in unison. This about killed me as I fought to keep from sobbing.

I have never been so moved as I was that afternoon watching my Dearest Daddy being honored in such a way.

The Military did not let him down. Once a soldier, always a soldier.

I kept thinking:

“Daddy would have loved this.”

Soldiers are dedicated to loyalty, discipline and sacrifice. It’s a hard life but it’s an honorable one.
To all the soldiers out there: I salute you. God Bless.