The question - as all good questions do - came straight out of a delicious and unpredictable moment: "Do you ever know for sure, I mean really for sure, that you actually killed someone in the war?"
A few seconds of uncomfortable silence followed, which I expected; the nature of my father's quiet answer, I did not.
"Yes."
I looked up from my newspaper at my father, who still stared down at his breakfast plate. In the midst of the scrambled eggs and turkey bacon he searched for answers. Most likely he was simultaneously recalling and fighting away memories, wondering and going back in time.
"You did?" Mom asked.
"It's in the book," Dad replied, still looking down at his eggs.
A few years ago - after much plodding on my part - my father wrote the memoirs of his World War II experience in a now-copyrighted book which I edited on an old so-last-century word processor. It was a labor of love.
It began with a draft notice and a ride in an unheated bus to the certainty of basic training in Louisiana. Eventually there was a seasick-inducing ride across the Atlantic in troop ships that used tens of thousands of gallons of fuel for ballast, which would not have produced a good result had they taken an enemy torpedo. Eventually, England. There, the uncertainty ended with the reality of a nearby and vicious war.
Staff Sergeant Dad was a tank commander, the guy who directed the movement of travel for that machine and a bunch of other stuff that a novice like me would never understand. After weeks of more training, his unit eventually made its way over to the European mainland.
In his book were many anecdotes of army life, including an abscessed tooth, a near-plunge off the side of a mountain, a man shot through both hands and both knees while bent over huddled for warmth, and a toss by another soldier of a mostly empty and "fake" grenade that had just enough powder left in it to explode. Unexpectedly explode. Eventually the book - and the war - began to wind down.
Towards the end of the conflict, Dad's tank was part of a contingent that had German units trapped in a ravine. The enemy would not surrender, and a decision was made from upper levels of command that Allied tanks would be driven through the ravine in order to flush out the enemy. Dad's tank was among the ones given the order and, being the tank commander, he directed his driver to proceed into the ravine. Moments later, the sunken ground was cleared of the enemy. The Germans died where they were prone and hidden, also instructed and so ordered to hold their ground.
I wondered what Dad was thinking the other morning when the question was asked of him. Did he remember the sounds? The fear? Did he recall the directness of the orders in his ear? The revving of the tank engine? The feel of the unevenness beneath the tank tracks? The sight of - in his words in the book - helping his fellow soldiers clean shards of flesh out of the tank tracks while alternately stepping away to become physically ill? He remembered all of those things, most likely.
That morning, I wanted to say again to him as I've said before that it wasn't his fault. That he was just following orders, helping to rid the world of a great, incendiary evil, and, that in all such quests, the defenseless die. Dad is the most gentle-hearted man that I could know, and I know that deep down that he understands this and how war works. Does it still bother him after all these years? Sure. No one could ever erase that from their mind. He's forgiven and understood, though. I believe that it bothers him most that as he nears the end of his life, he fears that God won't understand or forgive what happened in that European ravine.
But God knows, loves, and understands gentle souls. And he knows yours, Dad. He was there in that ravine that day and He was with you in your tortured moment at the breakfast table. He is there with you in the night when those memories come. He remembers all and He forgives the gentle.
And Dad? He forgives you.
When I get really, really tired, I hallucinate. I don't mean the can't-stay-awake-during-a-movie tired, that sort of garden variety fatigue that is so common anymore amongst the general populace. I mean exhausted tired. The kind of tired where you fall asleep while stopped at a red light (have done it); where you almost literally are asleep while walking (also have done it); and, in my best personal example, where you drive off the road into a ditch at about 35 or 40 mph on a country road. I don't recommend any of these examples to anyone, but the upside to the last one? You wake up really, really quickly.
The hallucinations come in the form of thin, whispy, people-shaped blurs that dart from side to side (usually left to right, but not exclusively so) across my field of vision, causing me to jolt for a second until I realize what's happening. They're like little friends of mine who come to visit but outstay their welcome; teasing temporary lasers who draw their strength from my lack of it; and fleeting foot soldiers who draw up their own marching orders at my psychological expense. I've come to learn that "seeing things" is a common side effect of fatigue so I don't think much about it now. But when it first happened? Freaked me out.
The human body has limits, and when it is stretched past those limits bad things predictably happen. It goes without saying that President Obama is perpetually exhausted - part of the job description - but have you seen John Boehner lately? The guy is spent. Even Nancy Pelosi - awash in the perpetual creepy alertness that is her trademark - never had the obvious problem that Speaker Boehner has. People right now are making decisions about our future - important ones - while running on personal tanks that are 1/8th full.
The result of this is that decisions will be made and compromises agreed upon that will be as much about setting policy as it will be about simply doing something - anything - to end the marathon and enabling people to jump off the spinning wheel and get some rest. It's an awful way to govern.
The drooling Conservative in me rebels when I say this, but I propose that we construct a new government agency to deal with politician fatigue. The Organization Against Deathwalking In Excess (TOADIE) would watch over our elected officials, making sure that each and every one got proper rest so as to do their jobs, earn their pay, and prevent them from selling us collectively down the proverbial river. Cots could be spread out on the floor of the House - blankets for the back benchers - for designated nap time with the whole thing being telecast on CSPAN along with that dignified classical music background that they play during votes. Vegas could get involved by taking bets on who would wake up first (The early line: 8/5 on the GOP) with part of the ensuing largesse going to help pay off the national debt. Ad space could be sold on the cots and blankets. It has potential.
Exhaustion and fatigue affects us all. We don't react as well when it overtakes us and our instincts are dulled; it causes us to make hasty and wrong decisions; it forces us to forego long-term thinking in years for the short term goal of "Where can I sit down?" For all of our technological advances, being tired brings us back forthwith to the level of our cavemen ancestors: We must sleep. And nothing is right and nothing can be properly decided until we do so.
I still have a perfect memory of my father walking me hand-in-hand up to Riley Elementary School for my first day of kindergarten. Oh, this was truly back in the day: Vietnam was just getting started; Bobby and Martin were still alive; the surface of the moon was still uncluttered and pristine; Reagan, Iran, Iraq, and 9-11 were all still ghosts yet to be uncovered. During those days, the vast majority of my life was a clean slate upon which to write of my future existence. And that, besides my father's hand in mine, was probably the best part of the whole deal.
Kindergarten existed of building blocks shaped of squares, circles, rectangles and two or three ultra-desirable ones made to look like little ships; stories of the Muffin Man; Show and Tell; coloring "outside the lines" (an absolute NO-NO); Mrs. Jones and her red hair; and sawdust-covered vomit "accidents" on shiny hallway linoleum squares. It was an idyllic life, full of simplicity and youth; of big windows looking out upon Orchard Street; and of new and strange little people who were now invading - at half-day intervals - my personal space, and who, over the years, would portion themselves into three categories of my life: Forever friends; Mortal enemies; And those of the paradoxically long remembered and easily forgotten.
We were all required to bring a "blanket" to school with us, which was really nothing more than a big bath towel. Mom still has mine; it was purple. I saw it recently and my first thought was: "I laid on THAT?" To a full-grown man of fifty years, it seemed impossibly small for anything alive to have ever rested upon.
At designated times during the day - one per as I remember - we took out our blankets from three-sided storage boxes along the wall, placed them on the aforementioned linoleum floor, and lay down upon them for a few moments of "rest." I clearly remember alternately meeting the glances of my classmates - albeit from a strange angle - during this quiet time and also seeing and seemingly having my face being mere inches away from the new tennis shoes of the kid next to me.
The sunshine streamed down upon us from the north-facing windows, warming us in our silence and in our dreams. Mrs. Jones probably caught up on some paperwork or prepared the next activity during the moments of respite, and all was well. There were no worries of locked and secured doors to the school. I'm clearly positive that the side door to the classroom just a few feet away from us next to the Borax dispenser was unlocked, as were all the other school entrances. This was 1965. Other than the convoluted maze that led to Principal Dodd's office, no one thought in terms of "school security."
Now it is 2012.
The school shooting in Connecticut is just the most recent in a long string of tragedies in what should be places of memories and learning. Students in our nation's schools now learn about things like "lock downs" and "evacuation drills" alongside math and reading and history. It is a completely different world from 1965, and not just in our nation's schools. Something has been unleashed somewhere, and it has nothing to do with politics. A darkened hand and a flipped switch and willing minds are all it takes, and the abyss opens and beckons. And some walk towards it and enter.
So I remember the purple blanket and the warming sunshine and the peace in the room. There were no thoughts of what evil may lay outside waiting to come inside. All was peace and newness and the promise of a tomorrow and a tomorrow and a tomorrow...
In his song "No Man's Land" on the fine album "River Of Dreams", Billy Joel wrote these words: "I see these children with their boredom and their vacant stares/God help us all if we're to blame for their unanswered prayers."
Amen to that, Billy. Amen to that.
She was a classmate of mine.
We were side by side in the senior yearbook, that juxtaposition purely due to the alphabetical closeness of our last names and not because we were close friends. Truth is, I barely knew her.
To me, she was Regina Rap. We shared the same stomping grounds of northeast Lincoln, Nebraska, certainly crossed paths in the hallways of Lincoln Northeast High School many times, and became Rockets for life because as it is said, "Once A Rocket, Always A Rocket." We probably sat close at pep rallies, relatively close at places like Seacrest Field and Pershing Auditorium, and passed each other while cruising "O" on the weekends. Acquaintances, friends, classmates, dancing around the periphery of each other while barely knowing that the other even existed.
After graduation on a stormy May night, Gina and me and the rest of our class went our separate ways, scattering to the Midwest wind like so many pieces of naive multi-colored confetti. Further education followed for some; the military for others; marriage and/or work for more.
Gina found her way into her music, becoming a talented singer and songwriter. That love would eventually shape and determine her destiny.
On October 17, 2000, Gina (then Gina Bos) left home for an open mic performance at Duggan's Pub just south of downtown Lincoln. She left the bar shortly before close and was last seen walking to her car with her guitar.
At that point - and to this day - she has vanished without a trace. The next morning, police found her car in the spot she had left it outside Duggan's. The trunk was ajar; her guitar inside. She was gone. Authorities believe they know who is responsible for her disappearance, but cannot prove it.
Her sister Janell, also a singer-songwriter, within the last few years has started the Squeaky Wheel tour, a world-wide event consisting of hundreds of musical artists that came together to promote and shed light on the plight of missing persons. (Janell's song "October 17th" that chronicles the cause can be seen here). It usually begins on that same date and ends on Bos' birthday, November 4th. At a recent concert in Lincoln where Janell performed, the 2010 missing person case of Peru State College (NE) student Tyler Thomas was profiled which shows that this problem continues over the years and across the generations. To date, over 1,000 missing persons profiled by the GINA: For Missing Persons FOUNDation have been located.
To her credit Janell has turned her sister's plight into a positive, spreading the word of Gina's disappearance and that of so many others with the hope of bringing them home and finally finding resolution for all involved. For my part, I write this post to do my part to make sure she is not forgotten and to ask that all who read this take a look at this page to familiarize yourself with Gina's characteristics with the hope that someone, somewhere might know something and tell about it.
As I go back and read the first sentence, I realize that I used the past tense to describe my relationship with Gina. Gina? You'll always be my classmate. And the people who love you - and a stranger beside you in a faded, nicked-up yearbook - will never give up hope that you will one day be found safe.
