thedrifter
11-06-07, 08:23 AM
Veterans day
Don Coldsmith
Originally published 01:06 p.m., November 5, 2007
Updated 01:06 p.m., November 5, 2007
In the coming week, we’ll be celebrating Veterans’ Day, a tribute to all veterans of all of the wars in which our nation ever fought. The idea, that of recognition of all veterans, of all American wars, was born in our town, Emporia, Kansas, and we take pride in that.
But, there have always been a variety of reactions on the part of homecoming warriors. There are several organizations based on the comradeship of military experience. They have always done a good job, enjoying the fellowship of others who have had similar experiences, and who understand. I’ve admired and respected their efforts, but have never joined any of them. One reason was that of time. I felt that I had to “catch up,” somehow, and reclaim the years spent in combat areas and the “hurry up and wait” of a military existence. I just wanted to kick back and enjoy living the life I had missed as a teenager. I didn’t join, and never felt that I missed much.
Along came one of our five daughters, a pretty headstrong individual, who wanted to join the United States Marines, one of the first women to do so. If she had known what a great idea her parents thought this was, she wouldn’t have done it. But, as we expected, she was stubborn enough to get the job done. (I don’t know where she got that stubborn streak). But the experience was good for her.
A year or two ago, she came home for a few days. She’s long since decided that her parents aren’t quite as dumb as she thought. (My dad had learned a lot while I was in the army, too).
As we sorted some of the ancient stuff in the garage, we came across some of my moth-eaten army souvenirs: a dress jacket, with all the appropriate insignia of rank and other information, decipherable only by someone in the military.
“My gawd,” she exclaimed, “you got two stripes in that short a time?”
I had to explain that sometimes in a combat situation you rise in job description and in rank, pretty quickly. She was still impressed.
The jacket was a badly moth-eaten woolen fabric, not restorable, but we found a cotton shirt with the same insignia. With a pair of khaki trousers and a cap, I had a complete outfit. To everyone’s surprise (especially mine), I could still wear the uniform. I’ll admit, my weight had been up quite a way, but was now back down. I found that I was beginning to enjoy the pride that I could take in putting on the uniform.
Recently, we’ve watched the TV series, “The War,” on the public KTWU channel. I’ve had a tendency to avoid such programs, but this seemed different. I recognized some of the areas where I’d been in the South Pacific. I almost expected to recognize some of my fellow soldiers in some of the islands. I began to take a little pride. (Yes, I remember that!)
It wasn’t that I hadn’t taken pride before. I just didn’t feel authorized to show it before, somehow. So many had given so much more than I had. In some cases, their lives. Maybe I felt a little guilty to be here, alive and happy, while some gave all, literally.
But gradually, I began to take pride. Some of the insignia which had so impressed our Marine Corps daughter began to take on new meaning. South Pacific, Philippines, occupation of Japan. Our combat unit was one of the first ashore on the Japanese real estate. We were assigned to operate the Omori Prison island, where about 40 of the high-ranking Japanese officers were to be held. I was their primary medical caregiver for several weeks until trained occupation personnel arrived to take over. I was a Private, First Class, a combat medic. Soon, a Tech-5, with another stripe.
I managed to diagnose an acute appendicitis in a high-ranking officer and sent him by ambulance to the hospital for treatment. I gave appropriate immunization “shots” to admirals, generals and treated Prime Minister Tojo himself. Tojo had attempted suicide, but botched the job. I dressed his bullet wounds, front and back, for several days after he had been treated at the hospital. His small-caliber bullet hadn’t even hit a rib.
Now, I can hardly believe: “Did I do all that?” But, I guess so. It’s all documented. And now, I’m proud of it.
See you down the road.
Author and columnist Don Coldsmith lives in Emporia.
Ellie
Don Coldsmith
Originally published 01:06 p.m., November 5, 2007
Updated 01:06 p.m., November 5, 2007
In the coming week, we’ll be celebrating Veterans’ Day, a tribute to all veterans of all of the wars in which our nation ever fought. The idea, that of recognition of all veterans, of all American wars, was born in our town, Emporia, Kansas, and we take pride in that.
But, there have always been a variety of reactions on the part of homecoming warriors. There are several organizations based on the comradeship of military experience. They have always done a good job, enjoying the fellowship of others who have had similar experiences, and who understand. I’ve admired and respected their efforts, but have never joined any of them. One reason was that of time. I felt that I had to “catch up,” somehow, and reclaim the years spent in combat areas and the “hurry up and wait” of a military existence. I just wanted to kick back and enjoy living the life I had missed as a teenager. I didn’t join, and never felt that I missed much.
Along came one of our five daughters, a pretty headstrong individual, who wanted to join the United States Marines, one of the first women to do so. If she had known what a great idea her parents thought this was, she wouldn’t have done it. But, as we expected, she was stubborn enough to get the job done. (I don’t know where she got that stubborn streak). But the experience was good for her.
A year or two ago, she came home for a few days. She’s long since decided that her parents aren’t quite as dumb as she thought. (My dad had learned a lot while I was in the army, too).
As we sorted some of the ancient stuff in the garage, we came across some of my moth-eaten army souvenirs: a dress jacket, with all the appropriate insignia of rank and other information, decipherable only by someone in the military.
“My gawd,” she exclaimed, “you got two stripes in that short a time?”
I had to explain that sometimes in a combat situation you rise in job description and in rank, pretty quickly. She was still impressed.
The jacket was a badly moth-eaten woolen fabric, not restorable, but we found a cotton shirt with the same insignia. With a pair of khaki trousers and a cap, I had a complete outfit. To everyone’s surprise (especially mine), I could still wear the uniform. I’ll admit, my weight had been up quite a way, but was now back down. I found that I was beginning to enjoy the pride that I could take in putting on the uniform.
Recently, we’ve watched the TV series, “The War,” on the public KTWU channel. I’ve had a tendency to avoid such programs, but this seemed different. I recognized some of the areas where I’d been in the South Pacific. I almost expected to recognize some of my fellow soldiers in some of the islands. I began to take a little pride. (Yes, I remember that!)
It wasn’t that I hadn’t taken pride before. I just didn’t feel authorized to show it before, somehow. So many had given so much more than I had. In some cases, their lives. Maybe I felt a little guilty to be here, alive and happy, while some gave all, literally.
But gradually, I began to take pride. Some of the insignia which had so impressed our Marine Corps daughter began to take on new meaning. South Pacific, Philippines, occupation of Japan. Our combat unit was one of the first ashore on the Japanese real estate. We were assigned to operate the Omori Prison island, where about 40 of the high-ranking Japanese officers were to be held. I was their primary medical caregiver for several weeks until trained occupation personnel arrived to take over. I was a Private, First Class, a combat medic. Soon, a Tech-5, with another stripe.
I managed to diagnose an acute appendicitis in a high-ranking officer and sent him by ambulance to the hospital for treatment. I gave appropriate immunization “shots” to admirals, generals and treated Prime Minister Tojo himself. Tojo had attempted suicide, but botched the job. I dressed his bullet wounds, front and back, for several days after he had been treated at the hospital. His small-caliber bullet hadn’t even hit a rib.
Now, I can hardly believe: “Did I do all that?” But, I guess so. It’s all documented. And now, I’m proud of it.
See you down the road.
Author and columnist Don Coldsmith lives in Emporia.
Ellie