Memorial Day takes on new meaning for me this year.  After visiting the beaches of Normandy last weekend, I feel the strong need to honor those who serve our country.  Both of my grandfathers survived World War I, my dad served in World War II plus Korea, and my classmates went to Vietnam.  Fortunately, both my son and I are the only Johnston males in the last 100 years that haven’t gone to war.  We both came close, but good fortune has prevailed.  My son actually enlisted after an argument with his Mother and I.  We were able to get him out of the contract he signed to simply spite his parents.  He then moved to Florida instead, and has enjoyed a prosperous life.  I was Draft Number #232 and never called to service thanks to a student deferment.

I will never forget the Draft Lottery.  A group of my friends got together for a sand-lot football game and listened to it on the radio.  I had one of the higher numbers, but several of my classmates were not so lucky.  They did not plan or have the resources to attend college, as I did.  My dad did not want me to have to make the sacrifices that he made.  He had seen enough war for the both of us, having served as a Medic in two wars.  He put his career and family on hold, and spent too much of his life in a tent.  I was never encouraged to learn how to shoot a gun, and shared his feelings about weapons and killing.  Instead of carrying a gun in the Army, he chose instead to wear a giant red cross on his sleeve. Although we never discussed it, I’m sure he felt that saving lives was better than taking lives, but he also made himself a target on the battlefield.

My grandfathers never mentioned their service, and I’m fairly confident I never thanked them.  When it became common practice to thank our soldiers, I did thank my dad for his service.  My mom and my grandmothers also made sacrifices, serving the wars in different capacities.  I try to make an effort to show my appreciation to those who fight for my freedom.  My classmates, on the other hand, experienced the opposite.  They, I’m sure, felt like second-class citizens, unable to use educational opportunities to avoid the war that nobody wanted to talk about.  The battle was so far away and the cause so questionable that the privileged, like myself, never had to put on a uniform, only a graduation gown.

I feel a degree of guilt in not having served my country.  I’m envious when others are asked to stand to be recognized.  I wonder sometimes how I would have handled war?  Could I have wounded or killed another human being?  Could I have handled the stress of battle?  Would I have run or stood my ground?  Could I have been a hero, sacrificing my life for others?  At the age of nineteen, I couldn’t even comprehend simply having to cut my hair, let alone suffer the rigors of boot camp.  Along with my skinny legs, I had big ears that were hidden by my long hair.  I would have been embarrassed to wear a crew-cut.  I was so immature that I couldn’t get beyond my own vanity to even think about joining the Armed Forces.

I’m sure  I would have been a Marine.  “From the Halls of Montezuma.”  My birth father was a Marine, about two years older than my 18 year-old birth mother. When she was pregnant with me, as an unwed mother, she must have hummed the Marines hymn in thinking of him.  I say this because the song has always haunted me, and was the only song I ever learned to play on the piano, despite years of lessons.  I used to play it over and over again, with my adopted dad understanding its significance as written in the brief paragraph describing the birth father in my adoption papers:  “Your alleged father was a Marine.  He was 20 years old, 6’2 1/2 ” tall, and weighed 195 pounds.  He had wavy, black hair, dark brown eyes, and a medium complexion.  He was described as gregarious, easy-going, generous, a good worker, and good looking.  He was a high school graduate.  He played football, baseball, and basketball in high school, and liked boxing, swimming, bowling, and dancing.  His ancestry was Irish.  He was also a Baptist.”  It’s all I know about him, but he could have been killed in Korea the year I was born.  I will probably never know, but it’s one of the things I thought about in looking over the nearly 10,000 grave markers at the American Cemetery on Omaha Beach.  These were young men, like my alleged father, my adopted father, my grandfathers, and my classmates.  They died and served for me.

I was part of a brief ceremony at the American Cemetery on what was a beautiful, sunny day in France.  It probably should have been rainy and gray considering the circumstances.  I doubt that the soldiers who landed on Omaha beach on D-Day remember what the weather was like.  I’m sure it wasn’t sunny to them as they dodged bullets, mines, traps, and bloody bodies.  Those who survived would probably never see a sandy beach again without thinking of their lost comrades, and despite the beauty of the landscaping and white crosses that now fill the pristine grounds around the shoreline, it’s hard to imagine the horror that took place there.  As part of the ceremonies, we honored those who died, those who are missing, those few that are still living, and those who currently serve our country.

There were about a dozen veterans as part of our tour group.  Most of them served in Vietnam.  I made an effort to thank them for their duty.  I was not surprised to find out that many of them had never been given a simple “thank you.”  Unfortunately, when they were lucky enough to return  from Southeast Asia, they were reluctantly received back into society.  Like their forefathers, they never openly discussed what they had witnessed and many of them will carry to the grave their experiences.  Unlike today’s service men and women, who are considered heroes, they were ignored and sometimes even criticized for their participation.  I know that they had no choice, like I did.  They know they were  the lucky ones to enjoy retirement, somehow overcoming the physical and mental trauma of battle.   Many of their buddies died, lost limbs, suffered from chemical damage, and struggled with post-war syndromes.  All of them still have nightmares and bitter memories.   Most of today’s warriors talk openly of their war experiences, and their stories are welcomed rather than shunned.  It’s a much healthier environment when we honor our soldiers and listen to learn from their experiences.

“Thank yous” are simply not enough, but sometimes all we can do!  With this humble post, I honor my grandfathers, their parents, my adopted father, my birth father, friends, and classmates who served our country.  I also honor their spouses, companions, and children who made sacrifices to maintain our freedom.  As an adopted child, I only have limited knowledge of my family tree and those who ultimately shaped my life.  All I know is that I have lived my life without wearing a uniform or fighting in a battle.  It’s because others have done the fighting for me. As a result, I sleep well at night and am enjoying the luxury of retirement.  I have not forgotten why!  I’m just glad that one of my retirement journeys took me to the site of D-Day, where I could see first-hand what transpired.  One of most valuable treasures that I took home was a small bottle of sand from Omaha Beach.  It sits in my office where I now write, and will remind me of what a bad day really is; and how many good days I’ve been given because of the sacrifices of others.

Happy Memorial Day.