Thanks to the Greatest Generation

As a child in the Fifties, I was fascinated with all things World War II—the great battles, the inspiring leaders, the movies and documentaries, the books and memorabilia—and I have maintained that interest to this day. I was mesmerized by the stories told by the victorious vets who had come home to start families, to hold civilian jobs, to teach Sunday School and coach Little League baseball teams. They were giants to me then, as much for their heroism as for their evident pride of service and their selfless humility.

They are still giants to me.

Like so many other Americans, my family had a history of service and sacrifice during the war. My uncle, an Army NCO, was wounded at Schofield Barracks on the Dec. 7, 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor and its Honolulu environs, giving the nation a Gillis casualty in virtually the opening minutes of World War II. Another uncle was a member of an Air Corps bomber crew who flew dozens of risky missions out of England. My cousin was wounded at the Battle of the Bulge as a member of the Army’s famed 101st Airborne Division. Another cousin died as a Navy pilot in a carrier accident during the Battle of Tarawa. My own father’s forward Air Corps base was bombed during the Aleutian Islands campaign.

My mother worked for the Atlanta office of Western Union during the war years. There were thousands upon thousands of cables sent, many of which bore the dreaded news that a loved one was wounded or missing or killed in action. In fact, my aunt was notified of her pilot husband’s death via a Western Union telegram in what began an unspeakably hard day for her.

My parents’ generation survived the Great Depression and then went on to win World War II. They saved the world from totalitarianism. They faced the veteran armies and navies of the Axis, fought it out in hedgerows and across beaches, in bone-chilling cold and mind-numbing heat. They fought and they won, and in the process freed millions of innocents caught in the slipstream of unprecedented global catastrophe, left tens of thousands of American dead in cemeteries across the Atlantic and Pacific, and then finally packed up their gear and came home.

Sixty years later, they are dying at a rate of 1,000 per day. There will soon come a time when none will be left. Their legacy will survive, a legacy as the Greatest Generation, but their physical presence will disappear. The difference they have made is not just profound, but astonishing. Is there an equal in American history? In world history?

As we approach this Memorial Day, I salute the victors—the members of the armed forces who won it on the ground, in the air, and on the seas; the women and men who supported the war effort back home; the military and political leaders whose wisdom and strength and skill saw the nation through.

You are indeed the Greatest Generation. Thank you and God bless you, and may you never be forgotten.

A Mother's Day Visit

My 87-year-old mother lives in an assisted-living facility and is in the unyielding grip of Alzheimer’s, moving steadily toward the late stages. She retains some recognition of the names and faces of her immediate family members, but she has difficulty with the specific relationships. She still has a grasp of the concept of family, however, and the deep meaning it still holds for her, even if she can’t quickly resurrect someone’s spot in the family tree.

We visited her on Mother’s Day, bringing milk chocolate which she still indulges with a childlike enthusiasm, and chocolate-chip cookies which also raises her eyebrows and produces a mischievous grin. My son and daughter-in-law brought along their 4-year-old daughter and 8-month-old son, the sight of which instantly relegated the chocolate to insignificance. Those kids brightened her day like nothing else, like they always do. And while she greatly enjoys the adult visitors, nothing transforms her face quite like the visit of one of her great-grandchildren.

Nothing. Not the latest chit-chat nor the cookies nor the resident cat who saunters in for a visit.

We stayed for a little while, and the children warmed to her. She has a heart for kids, and they can sense it. It’s in her eyes. And her smile. And her gentle touch. Even under the circumstances.

When we made ready to leave, she commented on just how special the visit had been for her, how much she had enjoyed it.”We were all together,” she said with evident satisfaction. And it showed on her face, exactly like it would have had the visit been twenty years ago, or forty years ago. I know that expression as clearly as I know anything, as timeless and unchanged as if I myself had been the child.

I was glad for the visit. Glad for her. Glad for us. And especially grateful that her love of family still somehow resides in her mind, and especially in her heart, despite the harshness of her disease.

She’s truly still a gift. Even the kids can somehow see that.