thedrifter
07-04-06, 07:38 AM
On this day, pride of country, but also memories of its cost
By Donald M. Murray, Globe Correspondent | July 4, 2006
To many of us, the patriotic holidays are easy. When I was young, I was one of them.
I remember watching grand parades from Uncle Will's office window on State Street or from a window at Shepherds, where my father worked, thrilled at the flowing river of heroes, bands, and flags.
This was the 1920s and 1930s. I feared that after World War I -- the War to End All Wars -- I would not have a war, would not wear a uniform, carry a gun. I would never march to the beat of Sousa -- `` The Washington Post " march, `` El Capitan, " ``The Thunderer" march, ``The Stars and Stripes Forever."
But my war came. Eager to be a hero, to leave home the Monday after Pearl Harbor, I volunteered for the Marines.
A sergeant barked, ``Take off your glasses. Read that sign."
``What sign?" asked the skinny teen ager.
The following week I volunteered for the Navy, the Army, and the Coast Guard. No spectacles allowed. I feared I would be like my father , who missed his war and sold women's hosiery and told me over and over again he never felt, for sure, that he was a man because he had not been over there.
Then I was drafted into the Army and volunteered for the paratroops. Now experienced in the military life, I gave an Army eye surgeon a quart, not a fifth, of Four Roses and miraculously had 20/20 vision.
I had my days under fire , and on the third day I controlled my terror by deciding I was going to die, so all I had to do was to try to die well. Surprised at staying alive , I sailed home and marched in the official victory parade in New York City with the 82d Airborne Division.
My dream of marching down Fifth Avenue, bands playing, flags waving, had come true. But, like so many dreams, the reality was far different from what I had imagined. The bands played, the flags waved, the politicians and the cardinal saluted us.
But I marched in the front row of our unit, and all I saw ahead of me were bouncing heads, faces that had the look of surprise that comes at death, dancing legs without a body, bodies with their pink intestines still unraveling.
The grand victory parade was one of the worst experiences of my life -- over there and over here were far more than an ocean apart.
Today I am proud of my combat service and yet ashamed at what we all -- enemy and comrade -- discovered in ourselves: the hard ability to kill. I do not have the courage to be a pacifist, and there may be times when diplomacy fails and we have to go to war to survive.
The president's adventure in Iraq is not one of them. Our men and women serving in Iraq are not heroes. They are victims.
Ellie
By Donald M. Murray, Globe Correspondent | July 4, 2006
To many of us, the patriotic holidays are easy. When I was young, I was one of them.
I remember watching grand parades from Uncle Will's office window on State Street or from a window at Shepherds, where my father worked, thrilled at the flowing river of heroes, bands, and flags.
This was the 1920s and 1930s. I feared that after World War I -- the War to End All Wars -- I would not have a war, would not wear a uniform, carry a gun. I would never march to the beat of Sousa -- `` The Washington Post " march, `` El Capitan, " ``The Thunderer" march, ``The Stars and Stripes Forever."
But my war came. Eager to be a hero, to leave home the Monday after Pearl Harbor, I volunteered for the Marines.
A sergeant barked, ``Take off your glasses. Read that sign."
``What sign?" asked the skinny teen ager.
The following week I volunteered for the Navy, the Army, and the Coast Guard. No spectacles allowed. I feared I would be like my father , who missed his war and sold women's hosiery and told me over and over again he never felt, for sure, that he was a man because he had not been over there.
Then I was drafted into the Army and volunteered for the paratroops. Now experienced in the military life, I gave an Army eye surgeon a quart, not a fifth, of Four Roses and miraculously had 20/20 vision.
I had my days under fire , and on the third day I controlled my terror by deciding I was going to die, so all I had to do was to try to die well. Surprised at staying alive , I sailed home and marched in the official victory parade in New York City with the 82d Airborne Division.
My dream of marching down Fifth Avenue, bands playing, flags waving, had come true. But, like so many dreams, the reality was far different from what I had imagined. The bands played, the flags waved, the politicians and the cardinal saluted us.
But I marched in the front row of our unit, and all I saw ahead of me were bouncing heads, faces that had the look of surprise that comes at death, dancing legs without a body, bodies with their pink intestines still unraveling.
The grand victory parade was one of the worst experiences of my life -- over there and over here were far more than an ocean apart.
Today I am proud of my combat service and yet ashamed at what we all -- enemy and comrade -- discovered in ourselves: the hard ability to kill. I do not have the courage to be a pacifist, and there may be times when diplomacy fails and we have to go to war to survive.
The president's adventure in Iraq is not one of them. Our men and women serving in Iraq are not heroes. They are victims.
Ellie