He’s in the hotel lobby. He is old. He is wearing Coke bottle glasses and hearing aids. He wears a University of Georgia ball cap. But hey, nobody’s perfect.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
He is eating hotel “scrambled” eggs, which taste like a four-letter word. This particular hotel chain also serves pork sausage. But it is neither pork, nor sausage. The hotel employee tells us these are turkey wieners.
Those poor turkeys.
The old man is easy to talk to. His name is Norman. He is 100 years old. Although you’d never guess his age. His mind is as sharp as a Barlow knife. His eyes move quickly. I notice a tattoo on his forearm. It’s an Army tattoo he says.
“I was in the War,” he says. “World War II,” he adds.
The man was a doughboy. Infantry. One of the tough guys. He endured the worst of the worst. They marched through a soggy European hell. Through miles of mud. Sometimes his feet would get so waterlogged, when he would remove his boots, pieces of his feet would fall off.
Still, he insists he didn’t have it as bad as some. “We had it easy. There were some guys who didn’t come back. Plus, it wasn’t all misery.”
I ask him to elaborate.
“Well,” Norman says. “It was Europe. We met lots of Italian girls.” He raises his eyebrows in a way that indicates he may be old, but he ain’t dead.
He takes a sip of bathwater coffee and gazes into the distance. Maybe he’s thinking about dead men. Maybe he’s thinking about old friends. He tells me times have changed. Not many people in today’s culture talk—or even think about the War Against Hitler.
“Used to,” he says, “All you had to do was mention the War, and everyone knew exactly what you were talking about. They lived through it. We all lived through it. There’d be a handful of guys in every room who’d been in the army. We all understood each other.
“But now you mention that War; nobody even remembers. My grandson’s kids don’t even know what the hell I’m talking about.”
Norman laughs. It’s not a cheerful laugh. It’s a sad one. “They’re forgetting about us.”
There were 16 million Americans who served in World War II. Nearly 40 percent of those were volunteers. The rest were draftees. Women served, too, lest we forget. There were 200,000 women in the military, 3 million women volunteering with the Red Cross.
And we’re losing these people every day.
Last year, there were 167,284 World War II veterans left. The number is dwindling. Each day, 180 of these veterans die. By the time you read these words hundreds more will have passed.
This means the sights, the sounds, the smells, the memories of history’s largest and most fatal and cataclysmic war will be gone. The recollections will have disappeared, and a young generation will happily continue using ChatGPT to write their college essays and scrolling on their phones.
I ask the old man if he’s ever thought of preserving his stories. Writing them down maybe.
“Nobody wants to hear my stories,” the old man says with another laugh. “I wish there was something I could do with my old memories. But nobody gives a [bad word] about us.”
“I think you’re wrong,” I tell him. “I think people do want to hear your stories.”
He chuckles at me. “Believe me, son. Nobody in this country cares.”
Which is why I’m writing this. Namely, because I care. And I’m betting a lot of other people do, too. So if you are a veteran of World War II, or if you have (or had) one such veteran in your life, and you have a war story to tell, I’m officially collecting them. You can email me your stories, or send them c/o 184 Starlight Lane, Santa Rosa Beach, Florida, 32459.
Maybe Norman is right. Maybe nobody in this country cares. But I doubt it.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
Sean of the South: The Generation
By Sean Dietrich, Sean of the South
Commentary
He’s in the hotel lobby. He is old. He is wearing Coke bottle glasses and hearing aids. He wears a University of Georgia ball cap. But hey, nobody’s perfect.
Sean Dietrich (Photo courtesy of seandietrich.com)
He is eating hotel “scrambled” eggs, which taste like a four-letter word. This particular hotel chain also serves pork sausage. But it is neither pork, nor sausage. The hotel employee tells us these are turkey wieners.
Those poor turkeys.
The old man is easy to talk to. His name is Norman. He is 100 years old. Although you’d never guess his age. His mind is as sharp as a Barlow knife. His eyes move quickly. I notice a tattoo on his forearm. It’s an Army tattoo he says.
“I was in the War,” he says. “World War II,” he adds.
The man was a doughboy. Infantry. One of the tough guys. He endured the worst of the worst. They marched through a soggy European hell. Through miles of mud. Sometimes his feet would get so waterlogged, when he would remove his boots, pieces of his feet would fall off.
Still, he insists he didn’t have it as bad as some. “We had it easy. There were some guys who didn’t come back. Plus, it wasn’t all misery.”
I ask him to elaborate.
“Well,” Norman says. “It was Europe. We met lots of Italian girls.” He raises his eyebrows in a way that indicates he may be old, but he ain’t dead.
He takes a sip of bathwater coffee and gazes into the distance. Maybe he’s thinking about dead men. Maybe he’s thinking about old friends. He tells me times have changed. Not many people in today’s culture talk—or even think about the War Against Hitler.
“Used to,” he says, “All you had to do was mention the War, and everyone knew exactly what you were talking about. They lived through it. We all lived through it. There’d be a handful of guys in every room who’d been in the army. We all understood each other.
“But now you mention that War; nobody even remembers. My grandson’s kids don’t even know what the hell I’m talking about.”
Norman laughs. It’s not a cheerful laugh. It’s a sad one. “They’re forgetting about us.”
There were 16 million Americans who served in World War II. Nearly 40 percent of those were volunteers. The rest were draftees. Women served, too, lest we forget. There were 200,000 women in the military, 3 million women volunteering with the Red Cross.
And we’re losing these people every day.
Last year, there were 167,284 World War II veterans left. The number is dwindling. Each day, 180 of these veterans die. By the time you read these words hundreds more will have passed.
This means the sights, the sounds, the smells, the memories of history’s largest and most fatal and cataclysmic war will be gone. The recollections will have disappeared, and a young generation will happily continue using ChatGPT to write their college essays and scrolling on their phones.
I ask the old man if he’s ever thought of preserving his stories. Writing them down maybe.
“Nobody wants to hear my stories,” the old man says with another laugh. “I wish there was something I could do with my old memories. But nobody gives a [bad word] about us.”
“I think you’re wrong,” I tell him. “I think people do want to hear your stories.”
He chuckles at me. “Believe me, son. Nobody in this country cares.”
Which is why I’m writing this. Namely, because I care. And I’m betting a lot of other people do, too. So if you are a veteran of World War II, or if you have (or had) one such veteran in your life, and you have a war story to tell, I’m officially collecting them. You can email me your stories, or send them c/o 184 Starlight Lane, Santa Rosa Beach, Florida, 32459.
Maybe Norman is right. Maybe nobody in this country cares. But I doubt it.
And I’m making it my mission to prove him wrong.