The Search Begins
Many years passed, and the memory of my father faded into the landscape of my daily routine. For several years I was able to visit his grave once in a while at Rose Hills in the City of Industry. I would stop by and just sit with him on the grass, trying to make sense of it all. When I left I always felt better, more assured than I had felt when I arrived. But as the years went by, I was thrown farther and farther away from him, and rarely gave the past much thought.
It all changed in 2001, the year the movie Band of Brothers aired on HBO television. That year, I began my own strange and wonderful odyssey into the past. I didn’t see the movie at that time, but I borrowed a copy of the book by Stephen Ambrose from the public library. I began reading about the men who volunteered to be paratroopers in WWII, and how they trained and strove to “be the best,” to obtain their wings and the voice reading the words in my head was that of my own father. It was as if he were telling his story. He told me how he had made several jumps from the 250 foot training towers, and how he was hurt, and afterwards we jumped together from a C-47 and I realized that he had made those jumps, that he wouldn’t have had the wings on his chest if he hadn’t. I saw myself back in Navy bootcamp, standing in line to jump off the platform into the pool, and how I had felt him in front of me, and we had jumped together. And though I couldn’t swim, and he couldn’t fly, we made both of those jumps together, on our faith, and I had been with him.
And then I read the following:
“On December 26 (1942), the last jump, each got a certificate declaring that he was ‘entitled’ to be rated from this date as a qualified parachutist. Then the proudest moment of all, the one toward which they had been working for six months, the pinning on of the silver wings. From that moment, never to be forgotten, each member of Easy, every member of the 506th, was forever special.”
I felt the shame my dad must have felt when, after getting his wings, he was transferred from the Airborne to another unit for going AWOL.
I read further how Colonel Sink, the regimental commanding officer, sent the men home on a ten day furlough, and how when the furlough was over, many of the men reported back late for duty.
And then I read this:
“Colonel Sink held a regimental parade. The men turned out in their class A, or dress, uniforms. They were marched down a sandy street to an empty lot behind the cooks’ hutments. Sink called them to attention, then gave the command ‘At ease.’ They watched and listened in silence as a lieutenant read a list of names, one from each company, from among the men who had reported in last.
‘Private John Doe, E Company,’ the lieutenant called out. A drummer, standing beside the lieutenant, beat a soft, mournful roll. Two sergeants, bearing submachine-guns, moved to Private Doe. He stepped from the ranks. His face was pale. The sergeants, one on each side, escorted him forward. The drum continued to roll. They stopped in front of the lieutenant. he read out the orders. Private Doe was being drummed out of the paratroopers, condemned to the infantry.
The lieutenant ripped the 506th patch from the private’s arm, the wings from his chest, the parachute patch from his hat, and threw them all on the ground. It was so humiliating that the officers and men were cursing under their breath….There was more. A jeep drove up and dumped out Private Doe’s barracks bags. He had to take off his boots, put on regular shoes, wear his pants down like a regular infantryman (’straight legs,’ as the paratroopers called them). He picked up his bags and, followed by the submachine-gunners, marched sadly away, the drum continuing to roll, a picture of bleak loneliness. This was repeated nine times….”
Suddenly, I broke into tears. Could my father have been one of those Private John Doe-s?
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