(no subject)
My great uncles Emmett, Jake, and Theron, who everybody called Chug, grew up thick as thieves. They did everything together. In 1917 they went to France together as part of Black Jack Pershing's American Expeditionary Force.
Emmett talked about the Great War often when we visited as kids but it took me years to understand that he never really told us anything.
He told us how my great-grandmother made all three learn to darn socks before they went and how everybody in their unit loved Jake because he learned to knit socks, too. His company counted him a hero because he could make new socks when the old ones became too damaged to fix. He told us how they marched north in the summer of 1918, picking fresh peaches off the trees as they went and eating themselves sick because they hadn't seen fresh food in months. He told us about pretty French girls leaning over fences to kiss their cheeks. He told us he was proud to have served then and again in 1943 at the age of 46.
He didn't tell us about mustard gas attacks, men's feet rotting in wet trenches, the smell of dead men and horses, or constant fear. He didn't tell us about killing other men. He had protected us from having to fight ourselves some day and kept on protecting us from the horror of it.
Happy Veterans' Day, Uncle Emmett. I miss you.
Emmett talked about the Great War often when we visited as kids but it took me years to understand that he never really told us anything.
He told us how my great-grandmother made all three learn to darn socks before they went and how everybody in their unit loved Jake because he learned to knit socks, too. His company counted him a hero because he could make new socks when the old ones became too damaged to fix. He told us how they marched north in the summer of 1918, picking fresh peaches off the trees as they went and eating themselves sick because they hadn't seen fresh food in months. He told us about pretty French girls leaning over fences to kiss their cheeks. He told us he was proud to have served then and again in 1943 at the age of 46.
He didn't tell us about mustard gas attacks, men's feet rotting in wet trenches, the smell of dead men and horses, or constant fear. He didn't tell us about killing other men. He had protected us from having to fight ourselves some day and kept on protecting us from the horror of it.
Happy Veterans' Day, Uncle Emmett. I miss you.