He Almost Died for Me

My grandfather is 95 years old.  He is not a man of great stature standing approximately 5'4" but he always had the body of scrappy fighter.  He used to remind me of Jack LaLanne.  Now he lives in an assisted living community fighting a losing battle against Alzheimer's Disease.  It's not the first battle he's fought and it's not the first time he's been wounded in action.

My grandfather and daughter

Today is Veteran's Day and I can't help but think of my grandfather as a young soldier lying there on the border of France and Germany shot by the Nazis and left to die.  My mother, just an infant then, at home with my grandmother in New York, the two unaware of the trauma that had occurred.  Fortunately, he survived.  Throughout my life we would ask about the war, and he would answer very generally.  He never shared such details as whether he had to shoot anyone.  I would listen in awe, but it was not until much later in life that I grew to appreciate the sacrifice he made for me and for every American.

As he used to tell the story, my grandfather was hiding with his men behind a barricade of steel drum barrels when automatic rifle fire from the enemy swept the line.  He was shot in the forearm which shattered his bones and caused considerable bleeding.  As the story goes, the man next to him was shot between the eyes.  Those that survived were captured and held on the field of battle by guards until they could be taken as prisoners of war.  This is where the story begins to get a little fuzzy. 

My grandfather spoke a little bit of a few languages - not enough to be a translator, but enough to piecemeal a message to his captors.  He warned that U.S. forces were approaching and that death would be imminent if these guards remained.  Whether or not this was a bluff is not clear.  He would then tell that the soldiers ran off in the middle of the night in fear of their lives.  Later versions of this story made it seem that the guards were just boys, possibly Nazi youth.  Other versions suggest that the U.S. prisoners overtook the Nazi guards and possibly killed them.  I have never felt completely sure of the reality.

Regardless, my grandfather was taken to an Army hospital in France where he was treated and eventually released back to New York with a Purple Heart and a grateful family.  My uncle was born shortly thereafter.  World War II ended and the U.S. and it's allies were triumphant in ending the attempted genocide of so many innocent victims of Hitler's reign.  The casualty of the war was nevertheless catastrophic.

The inner wounds for those involved would forever remain.  I know this from having met a number of holocaust victims and veterans.  My once proud and authoritative grandfather is no longer in control of his mind and his body has become feeble.  His memory slips from past to present illogically and those mental war wounds prove as deep if not deeper than the physical scars which prevent him from turning his arm.  It is not unusual for him to barricade himself in his room to keep the staff out or to challenge a caregiver or even another resident if he feels he is being threatened.  He is fearful and cautious in a way that I believe transcends aging or Alzheimer's.  His military training and his experience on the field of battle taught him to protect himself and those around him... and he does just that as best he can.

Here we are 65 years after World War II in a war against terror and I am too often apathetic.  I don't feel the impact of this war in my daily life.  I don't suffer it's consequences.  But I know that others do feel its impact and do suffer terrible sacrifices.  I know that my peace of mind and my very freedoms come with a heavy price.  My grandfather almost died for me and many more brave men and women will ultimately meet that fate in the name of honor, courage, freedom, and democracy.  To them and to my grandfather I am eternally grateful.