In Memoriam
A family memory, for the 11th of November.
My grandfather never told me much about the war. He wasn't one to recall those old days. Maybe because he didn't have that many of those 'old days' to recall; he caught a piece of mortar shell in the side of the head a week or so after the landing in Normandie. It tore out his left eye, parts of his skull and damaged his brain. Incredibly, he made it, and didn't have any major handicap besides the loss of an eye.
This is the story he told me once, when I was twelve or so, maybe younger. I don't know why he told me this. Maybe I asked. Maybe he just felt like talking about it, for once.
He was part of a recon unit; a small squad of soldiers who mapped out enemy positions for the artillery. They were going through a village. To get to where they could 'spot' the enemy position, they had to cross this lane with rock walls on either side. And there was a German machine gun at the end of the lane, in a pretty unassailable position.
The first man of the unit lept into the alley, trying to get to a street on the other side and shelter. He was shot down.
The commanding officer sent the second man. He was shot down.
He sent the third man. He was shot down.
Then he turned towards my grandfather.
My grandfather made it. I don't know why - if the enemy had been picked off by another group, if they'd decided to move, if they'd run out of ammo (surely that only happens in movies...), if they simply missed...My grandfather didn't speculate.
I remember staring at him in horror and saying 'But how could you go?!' I mean, I was familiar with the concept of getting shot for refusal to obey orders, so it wasn't 'why did you go', but how the holy hell did he ever get his legs moving after all that?!
At that age, I could understand - barely - risking your life for something you cared about. But that? To just step out into that alleyway, knowing you were going to get killed, pretty fucking inevitably, and have your death serve no purpose that I could discern...? Surely it would have been worth standing up to the officer, argue, try to suggest a way around the f**%£ lane?!
I don't remember what my grandfather answered, because I was young, and because it wasn't memorable. It wasn't one of those brilliant one-liners full of wisdom that you get in the movies. It might have just been 'Because'. Because when you're a soldier in a war, and you're trained for it, that's what you do.
This story doesn't have a moral, or end in a pearl of wisdom. It's just a story. There are millions of stories out there. War crushed many of them, before they were ever told. My grandfather died before I was old enough to truly appreciate what those stories meant, and to get him to tell them to me (maybe he wouldn't have...I think he didn't like to remember any of this).
At least this story is in my head, and in my personal history. I've never known war. I hope I never do. Because damn, I don't think I could have gone out into that lane. And if, by dint of a lot of training and habit and desperation and bravery, I did, then I think it would stay with me for way, way longer than the few seconds it'd take me to cross it.
In memory of my grandfather, of those who didn't make it, and those who did. We may not agree with the war, but we must never forget the warrior, who simply put his life in the hands of his country, to serve as its shield and its weapon.
My grandfather never told me much about the war. He wasn't one to recall those old days. Maybe because he didn't have that many of those 'old days' to recall; he caught a piece of mortar shell in the side of the head a week or so after the landing in Normandie. It tore out his left eye, parts of his skull and damaged his brain. Incredibly, he made it, and didn't have any major handicap besides the loss of an eye.
This is the story he told me once, when I was twelve or so, maybe younger. I don't know why he told me this. Maybe I asked. Maybe he just felt like talking about it, for once.
He was part of a recon unit; a small squad of soldiers who mapped out enemy positions for the artillery. They were going through a village. To get to where they could 'spot' the enemy position, they had to cross this lane with rock walls on either side. And there was a German machine gun at the end of the lane, in a pretty unassailable position.
The first man of the unit lept into the alley, trying to get to a street on the other side and shelter. He was shot down.
The commanding officer sent the second man. He was shot down.
He sent the third man. He was shot down.
Then he turned towards my grandfather.
My grandfather made it. I don't know why - if the enemy had been picked off by another group, if they'd decided to move, if they'd run out of ammo (surely that only happens in movies...), if they simply missed...My grandfather didn't speculate.
I remember staring at him in horror and saying 'But how could you go?!' I mean, I was familiar with the concept of getting shot for refusal to obey orders, so it wasn't 'why did you go', but how the holy hell did he ever get his legs moving after all that?!
At that age, I could understand - barely - risking your life for something you cared about. But that? To just step out into that alleyway, knowing you were going to get killed, pretty fucking inevitably, and have your death serve no purpose that I could discern...? Surely it would have been worth standing up to the officer, argue, try to suggest a way around the f**%£ lane?!
I don't remember what my grandfather answered, because I was young, and because it wasn't memorable. It wasn't one of those brilliant one-liners full of wisdom that you get in the movies. It might have just been 'Because'. Because when you're a soldier in a war, and you're trained for it, that's what you do.
This story doesn't have a moral, or end in a pearl of wisdom. It's just a story. There are millions of stories out there. War crushed many of them, before they were ever told. My grandfather died before I was old enough to truly appreciate what those stories meant, and to get him to tell them to me (maybe he wouldn't have...I think he didn't like to remember any of this).
At least this story is in my head, and in my personal history. I've never known war. I hope I never do. Because damn, I don't think I could have gone out into that lane. And if, by dint of a lot of training and habit and desperation and bravery, I did, then I think it would stay with me for way, way longer than the few seconds it'd take me to cross it.
In memory of my grandfather, of those who didn't make it, and those who did. We may not agree with the war, but we must never forget the warrior, who simply put his life in the hands of his country, to serve as its shield and its weapon.