thedrifter
11-14-07, 08:47 AM
We owe veterans our profound gratitude
PETER BRONSON
Robert Stevens, second lieutenant, was sitting in a sweltering, tiny tent on an island in the South Pacific, writing a letter by the light of a flickering Coleman lantern. The date was Aug. 28, 1943.
"The rain's pouring down, here I am in a blackout tent, I can't get out to my jungle hammock to go to bed because of the flood, and I have a chance to write without any interruptions."
Two soldiers played rummy at his elbow, another was writing to his "one and only," the lantern was "throwing fantastic shadows on the canvas," and Stevens was getting drenched.
"Underfoot there's a half an inch or so of puddle in the coral gravel. Overhead, the tent's a bit moldy, and the water is soaking through and dribbling down - a little stream or two into the typewriter, another one on my knee and a gentle drip-drip that shifts from the crown of my head to the back of my neck."
In a few years, Stevens would come home, earn his doctorate in history at the University of Chicago and teach at Duke and Ohio University. He died in 1998. And he never talked about the war, said his niece, Susan Weidner of Milford. This letter was no exception.
The date shows he had recently survived one of the bloodiest battles of the South Pacific, Guadalcanal, where he earned a Bronze Star with Oak Leaf Clusters for his bravery on reconnaissance missions. Like other survivors of that savage fight, he probably saw friends shot and blown to pieces, and witnessed some of the most terrifyingly creative methods of killing ever devised by mankind.
But he didn't mention any of that in his letter. Instead, he told his little brother Richard about an "excursion" to a nearby island, where he enjoyed a feast of rare sweet potatoes and peach pie. He talked about the beauty of flying fish scuttling over "bright green-blue water," and a ride in a dugout canoe. He advised Richard about classes to take, swing bands and teachers they shared.
"How's the drumming coming along?" he asked.
Weidner has hundreds of his letters in an album 4 inches thick. "It's such a treasure that reminds me what a hero my uncle was," she said.
"He didn't want to let anybody know what he was really going through. It had to be really bad there, but here are these nice, chatty letters with no indication that he was going through horrible things."
Back in his tent, Stevens wrote, "It's hot - this lantern uses up the air and throws off plenty of warmth. But what a chance it is. Hardly one man in a thousand here has the conveniences I've got right now."
What an amazing glimpse into the indomitable spirit of Harry Robert Stevens and so many like him. His well-written letter also reminds us that for every heroic battle, there were a thousand hours of sacrifice and endurance in frozen foxholes, rotting jungles or steamy, dripping tents.
Stevens wouldn't describe the terrors he saw, his niece said. But E.B. Sledge put it in his book, "With the Old Breed," which was used by Ken Burns for his inspiring PBS series about World War II, "The War."
Sledge describes how fear worms its way into the heart of every man and makes a home there. "But to be shelled in the open is terror compounded beyond the belief of anyone who hasn't experienced it," he wrote.
"The ground seemed to sway back and forth under the concussions. I felt as though I were floating along in the vortex of some unreal thunderstorm. Japanese bullets snapped and cracked, and tracers went by me on both sides at waist height. This deadly small-arms fire seemed almost insignificant amid the erupting of shells. Explosions and the hum and growl of shell fragments shredded the air."
Yet the Marines stood up and advanced. Sledge said he was reminded of a suicidal attack in a World War I movie. "I clenched my teeth, squeezed my carbine stock and recited over and over to myself, 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me...'"
Sledge starts his book with a message - the best I have heard in awhile to express our gratitude to the men like Bob Stevens and all the others who served to defend our liberty and security in both world wars, Korea, Vietnam, Desert Storm - and those who are making us proud in Iraq and Afghanistan:
"All who survived will long remember the horror they would rather forget. But they suffered and they did their duty so a sheltered homeland can enjoy the peace that was purchased at such a high cost. We owe those Marines a profound debt of gratitude."
Amen to that.
E-mail pbronson@enquirer.com or call 513-768-8301.
Ellie
PETER BRONSON
Robert Stevens, second lieutenant, was sitting in a sweltering, tiny tent on an island in the South Pacific, writing a letter by the light of a flickering Coleman lantern. The date was Aug. 28, 1943.
"The rain's pouring down, here I am in a blackout tent, I can't get out to my jungle hammock to go to bed because of the flood, and I have a chance to write without any interruptions."
Two soldiers played rummy at his elbow, another was writing to his "one and only," the lantern was "throwing fantastic shadows on the canvas," and Stevens was getting drenched.
"Underfoot there's a half an inch or so of puddle in the coral gravel. Overhead, the tent's a bit moldy, and the water is soaking through and dribbling down - a little stream or two into the typewriter, another one on my knee and a gentle drip-drip that shifts from the crown of my head to the back of my neck."
In a few years, Stevens would come home, earn his doctorate in history at the University of Chicago and teach at Duke and Ohio University. He died in 1998. And he never talked about the war, said his niece, Susan Weidner of Milford. This letter was no exception.
The date shows he had recently survived one of the bloodiest battles of the South Pacific, Guadalcanal, where he earned a Bronze Star with Oak Leaf Clusters for his bravery on reconnaissance missions. Like other survivors of that savage fight, he probably saw friends shot and blown to pieces, and witnessed some of the most terrifyingly creative methods of killing ever devised by mankind.
But he didn't mention any of that in his letter. Instead, he told his little brother Richard about an "excursion" to a nearby island, where he enjoyed a feast of rare sweet potatoes and peach pie. He talked about the beauty of flying fish scuttling over "bright green-blue water," and a ride in a dugout canoe. He advised Richard about classes to take, swing bands and teachers they shared.
"How's the drumming coming along?" he asked.
Weidner has hundreds of his letters in an album 4 inches thick. "It's such a treasure that reminds me what a hero my uncle was," she said.
"He didn't want to let anybody know what he was really going through. It had to be really bad there, but here are these nice, chatty letters with no indication that he was going through horrible things."
Back in his tent, Stevens wrote, "It's hot - this lantern uses up the air and throws off plenty of warmth. But what a chance it is. Hardly one man in a thousand here has the conveniences I've got right now."
What an amazing glimpse into the indomitable spirit of Harry Robert Stevens and so many like him. His well-written letter also reminds us that for every heroic battle, there were a thousand hours of sacrifice and endurance in frozen foxholes, rotting jungles or steamy, dripping tents.
Stevens wouldn't describe the terrors he saw, his niece said. But E.B. Sledge put it in his book, "With the Old Breed," which was used by Ken Burns for his inspiring PBS series about World War II, "The War."
Sledge describes how fear worms its way into the heart of every man and makes a home there. "But to be shelled in the open is terror compounded beyond the belief of anyone who hasn't experienced it," he wrote.
"The ground seemed to sway back and forth under the concussions. I felt as though I were floating along in the vortex of some unreal thunderstorm. Japanese bullets snapped and cracked, and tracers went by me on both sides at waist height. This deadly small-arms fire seemed almost insignificant amid the erupting of shells. Explosions and the hum and growl of shell fragments shredded the air."
Yet the Marines stood up and advanced. Sledge said he was reminded of a suicidal attack in a World War I movie. "I clenched my teeth, squeezed my carbine stock and recited over and over to myself, 'The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me...'"
Sledge starts his book with a message - the best I have heard in awhile to express our gratitude to the men like Bob Stevens and all the others who served to defend our liberty and security in both world wars, Korea, Vietnam, Desert Storm - and those who are making us proud in Iraq and Afghanistan:
"All who survived will long remember the horror they would rather forget. But they suffered and they did their duty so a sheltered homeland can enjoy the peace that was purchased at such a high cost. We owe those Marines a profound debt of gratitude."
Amen to that.
E-mail pbronson@enquirer.com or call 513-768-8301.
Ellie