Memorial Day -- Remembering What is Important
MEMORIAL DAY ~ APPRECIATION OF WARRIORS
The Captain raised his sword and three times commanding the Honor Guard to “Fire”, the entire valley echoing as the shots rang out. As the tightly folded flag was delivered to my Mother I recalled that at my 46th birthday weekend, I gave my children their option to see a movie; my then twelve-year old son Jason selected “Saving Private Ryan”. I noted as we entered the theater that just that past summer Jason had asked his grandpa, “ ... did you kill any Nazis in the war? ... ” My dad, for the only time I can really remember, became sullen, and with a distant look said, “Jason, that is a secret that I share only with God.” After leaving the movie, Jason looked into my eyes and said, “Daddy, Grandpa must be a really brave man.”
It is with this background and during my ride home from the theater that I recalled those crisp clear spring days in late May each year, sitting on our front lawn watching the town’s veterans crisply marching by our home. The sky always seemed to be painted brilliant blue with the sun’s warming rays casting a special light on these men. It just never seemed to rain on Memorial Day, it was too special a day. I remember waiting for my uncle to come by; he was always in the Color Guard. Each year he would show up in front of the column, stepping in perfect time, giving us a smile and my dad, who was seated on the porch, a special nod.
The neighbors from behind our home would work in their garden each year, not watching the parade but somehow needing to hear it pass by, almost as a silent tribute and prayer for their young son, who had not returned from Iwo Jima.
I remember sprinting after the parade, taking shortcuts through the neighbor’s yards, following the column into the cemetery to watch the town pay tribute to its fallen fathers, sons and friends. The grounds were covered with forever-green grass, the graves displaying so many American flags, all flapping smartly in the breeze, playing their own song of tribute, honor and respect. The ranking officer reciting name after name, so many names of people I didn’t know, all of whom had paid freedom’s ultimate price. I recalled waiting patiently for the 21-gun salute to be fired and like the other “baby boomers,” scrambling to obtain one of the ejected cartridges. My uncle, who also served in the Honor Guard, made sure each year a souvenir found its’ way into my hand.
I grew up with TV’s army squads from “Combat, ” the “Gallant Men” and countless others from Hollywood’s big screens. I played army in the fields and woods behind my home, emulating all those famous battles. I read countless books, wrote terms papers and ever today watch innumerable documentaries. Yet it was Steven Spielberg who made me really “see” the men – men who did not know the word “me” and lived the word “us”. Men called upon to throw themselves into a conflict of unbelievable horror with the sole goal of getting the job done. Men and women from a generation that survived a depression, a world war, and created a nation second to none. They weren’t criers and complainers, but mortals; however they accomplished tasks in their lifetime that no one even could ever have dreamed.
As I sat and watched “Ryan”, I did grimace at the horrors of war displayed on the screen, but more importantly, I relished the sense of honor, duty and the sheer bravery the men of this nation demonstrated during that world wide conflict. I could not count how many times I teared, how often I cried.
Throughout the movie, I thought of a young man called upon and taken from his home in the Poconos of Pennsylvania at 17. The country said he was needed for the great crusade against tyranny. From boot camp to North Africa, then Anzio and Pisa, living the images so graphically portrayed, nay displayed for us in “Ryan”. Fighting in battle, showing courage and leadership, being elevated in the field from private to corporal and then to acting sergeant and squad leader. Ordered to maintain a position, his fellow soldiers retreat as their position is being overrun. His loader is killed, so he single-handedly fires his mortar until all his shells are gone. He moves to a foxhole for cover but a "88" shell explodes when it hits the branch of a tree above him. He is wounded and bleeding; his foxhole buddy is cut in half. Medic! Medic! First aid, field hospitals followed by 29 months in hospitals.
As we grow up, he walks with a serious limp but he never treats himself as handicapped; somehow we never see him that way, he was wounded. Invariably, he would not park in handicapped spaces in case someone worse than him needed it more. He had a box of medals but the Bronze Star, DSM, Purple Hearts, etc. were hidden away in the basement, not because he was ashamed, but because he was merely doing his job.
No matter how great I always believed my dad to be, when I saw “Ryan”, I elevated him even further and told him so. I hope when we watch Monaco and Indy 500 this weekend we just one time call to mind the special meaning of the day. If your dad had served you owe it to him to see “Ryan”. You will never look at him the same way again. You will look at him, and other men in the generation, with new found and well deserved admiration, and tell them. We have laid to rest Cpl. Elmer Joseph Generotti. Your time is running out.
E. J. Generotti
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