Looking to the Past to Find Real in the Present
My great-uncle Robert joined the US Army on August 20, 1942. He would be killed just 2.5 years later when the B17 he was flying went down.
Only his letters to his family during that period, compiled in a book printed by my sweet mother, remain.
So much is contained in those letters. Reading them gives me an idea of the man he was.
The immaturity of youth giving way to wisdom borne of experience and perspective.
The appreciation and love of family that can only grow from time spent far away.
The optimism and hope for a joyful, long-imagined return, paired with recognition of the ever-present possibility that that day would never come.
Stories, frustrations, frivolous details — all penned by hand and sent by mail across long distances. Scrawled intentionally, carrying meaning and emotion from a cot in cold barracks back into to the warm living room of his childhood home.
Opened and held by the same hands that had prepared countless meals for him, bandaged his cuts, and taught him the value of hard work.
Read over and over again by eyes that had looked deeply into his, full of anticipation and hope for the life he would live and the man he would become.
Letters that would stay with his parents, then his sister, then a niece that he would never know and eventually read by her son — long after his body had been brought home and buried with both pride and sorrow in Cedar City, Utah.
Not sure exactly what this all offers, other than — for me, at least — an intense appreciation for the men and women that sacrifice everything on behalf of freedom. It gives me an understanding of each's humanity and individuality, their oft-entwined but occasionally conflicting senses of loyalty, heritage, love and duty.
It provides me with a tactile token of the value of life, inevitability of death and importance of words not left unsaid.
Moments like these stood out to me:
November 19, 1942
“If this war keeps up like it is now, we will all be home by next year at this time. If it takes longer, we will do it. They haven’t a chance to win now.”
December 7, 1942
“This doesn’t sound like me. But at times I have to talk to someone about the things that bother me. Then I feel much better.”
January 28, 1943
“You should see your boy now… This training is tough, but I feel like a million… If it were not for being far from home, I would like to stay in the Army forever.”
February 7, 1943
“I keep asking myself — why can’t they end this war? — so that we can all go home and start where we left off?”
June 13, 1943
“I never want to hear of you worrying about not being able to take care of yourself when you get old. After all, you know that I am going to take care of you… What good would I be if I couldn’t do at least that much for you…?”
I hope I leave as much “real” behind as Robert did.
Only his letters to his family during that period, compiled in a book printed by my sweet mother, remain.
So much is contained in those letters. Reading them gives me an idea of the man he was.
The immaturity of youth giving way to wisdom borne of experience and perspective.
The appreciation and love of family that can only grow from time spent far away.
The optimism and hope for a joyful, long-imagined return, paired with recognition of the ever-present possibility that that day would never come.
Stories, frustrations, frivolous details — all penned by hand and sent by mail across long distances. Scrawled intentionally, carrying meaning and emotion from a cot in cold barracks back into to the warm living room of his childhood home.
Opened and held by the same hands that had prepared countless meals for him, bandaged his cuts, and taught him the value of hard work.
Read over and over again by eyes that had looked deeply into his, full of anticipation and hope for the life he would live and the man he would become.
Letters that would stay with his parents, then his sister, then a niece that he would never know and eventually read by her son — long after his body had been brought home and buried with both pride and sorrow in Cedar City, Utah.
Not sure exactly what this all offers, other than — for me, at least — an intense appreciation for the men and women that sacrifice everything on behalf of freedom. It gives me an understanding of each's humanity and individuality, their oft-entwined but occasionally conflicting senses of loyalty, heritage, love and duty.
It provides me with a tactile token of the value of life, inevitability of death and importance of words not left unsaid.
Moments like these stood out to me:
November 19, 1942
“If this war keeps up like it is now, we will all be home by next year at this time. If it takes longer, we will do it. They haven’t a chance to win now.”
December 7, 1942
“This doesn’t sound like me. But at times I have to talk to someone about the things that bother me. Then I feel much better.”
January 28, 1943
“You should see your boy now… This training is tough, but I feel like a million… If it were not for being far from home, I would like to stay in the Army forever.”
February 7, 1943
“I keep asking myself — why can’t they end this war? — so that we can all go home and start where we left off?”
June 13, 1943
“I never want to hear of you worrying about not being able to take care of yourself when you get old. After all, you know that I am going to take care of you… What good would I be if I couldn’t do at least that much for you…?”
I hope I leave as much “real” behind as Robert did.