Maybe it was people seeing one of their buddies talk to me
but just after Fred left, a short man tufts of grey hair sprouting from his ears walks up to my table with his wife
He reaches down shakes my hand, smiling,
“Henry Kolar pleased to meet you…. Sorry about your Dad. “
“Thank you sir
“No ‘sirs,’ here ” he says, “Just me, Henry. ”
I point to the empty chairs and the Kolars sit.
“I’ve got some good stories”
Great. I say. Great. I position the table mike in front of him, slide my list of questions to my right.
Turn on the recorder this time and Henry takes me to his war:
landing at Omaha Beach “14 days after D-Day;” “building bridges that got blowed up the next day.” From my list “Were you ever nervous” I ask?
“One time I was so scared when the Germans were shelling, I dug a hole in a River bank put my head in it and left my butt out.” and we laugh and 25 minutes later after Stories of friendship, privation, close calls we’re done. The Kolars get up, hug me, sweet, and walk toward music of the Bayou Room.
as another man mid-60’s lean country face, brings his wife grey hair pretty, proper to the table.
“Joe Napier.” Shakes my hand. Pulls out the chair for her “This is Rosalie She’s Dutch, Met her at the end of the war.”” We sit. Settle down. .
I turn on the recorder and enter his war.
“I was 19, growin’ corn on my Daddy’s farm when I volunteered in … 1944 .” He’s put in a rifle company shipped to Northeastern France to fight the Germans. Twenty minutes later he tells his squad was patrolling the edge of a woods and when they walked into a grassy field where a German machine gun nest ambushed them, cut em down and how had to sling his wounded squad sergeant over his shoulder and carry him to safety. And I say, “Fred,” he stops. Nods.
“Yes”
“Fred Love?”
“How?...”
“…He told me about you, Mr. Napier but only called you Joe.”
“Well, I’ll be,” he said. Laughs.. his wife laughs.
Rashoman.
Over the next three nights out of 510 people walking past me, a few more sit down and I keep learning.
Pete Preston:
“I don’t want to talk about me I want to talk about Moose.
I never knew where I was or what I was doing but when the fort blew up and the concrete was aflyin’ in the air. Moose pushed me under that half-track saved me.
And after the war I wanted to put all that behind me, I’d get letters from my buddies , ‘Pete, Pete where are you? Are you all right. Just write’ but I didn’t.
And five years ago I realized they loved me more than anyone else in my life and now they’re all gone.
So want I want to say”
and he grabs the neck of the mike, pulls it to his mouth and shouts
“Moose Manoy was a good man.”
Slams down the mike. Dials spinning on the CD recorder CDs ruined but my backup cassette player captures it all.
Newburn, Hollan, Jameson, Jones, Ribbens, Olive, Snell, Watson, Kolar, Napier, Preston.
They all came and shared.
On Sunday, the last day, at the ceremony when candles are lit for each veteran who had died since the past reunion, my Dad’s name is called, I stand, bow my head
Say inside my head “Thank you Dad. Thank you for bringing me here, meeting these men, learning something, “
From behind me I hear a woman whisper “That’s the man with the recorder.”
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An hour later, dragging my luggage from the elevator to check-out I pass by the glass doors to the pool patio
look See three old men at a glass topped table.
and I sigh “Jesus, David, You’ve done a lot, You’re tired. Keep walking. Just keep going…”
“No,” I think “No… One more time, sit down one more time”
I fish my cassette recorder from my bag slide open the patio doors.
A grizzled sunburned face turns in my direction. “Here’s the young man with the tapes”
Waves me forward, shakes my hand. “Dick Schoen” he says.
“Siddown young man. Have some gin. “
A waxy, wispy haired man to his left pours three fingers of Beefeater from a glass decanter into a green tumbler as i sit Shoves it toward me
A brown haired leathery wrinkled faced man sitting across from Mr. Schoen lifts his tumbler. “Skoll,” he rasps. We lift our glasses to each other and drink.
Mr. Schoen points to Raspy. “Leslie Snyder – silver star.”
“Yeah… killed me some Krauts.”
“They tried to kill him, “ says Mr. Schoen, “but he was too darn mean.” (laugh)
Mr. Schoen Points to Wispy
“William Versavel, Artillery,”
Mr. Versavel nods, angles his two index fingers into the air up from the table aims “Boom, Boom” he says “Howitzers… Boom, Boom.”
Mr. Schoen continues, “I was a medic, didn’t carry any firearms Medic.”
“That was most dangerous job of all,” says Mr. Snyder.
“I wouldn’t say so” says Mr. Schoen
I put my cassette recorder and put it on the table. “Do you mind?”
“I don’t give a damn. You,” Nobody cares at the table. I push the record button,
“Here everybody… Let’s have some more gin. Stories get better when you’re ginned up.”
“Skoll” says Mr. Snyder and we toast and laugh.
They trade stories. how wet and cold it was, importance of dry socks, climbing up the sides of buildings, mouseholing, slag piles, shooting being shot,
“I was just 18.” says Mr. Snyder, “I grow’d up a lot.”
“We all did,” says Mr. Versavel
They look down into their drinks.
Mr. Schoen clears his throat. “Anyone remember Dan Pettrigrew?”
Looks to the others.
“Pettrigrew, Pettigrew. He was with your unit Snyder wasn’t he.”,”
Mr. Snyder, “Oh yeah, didn’t he step on a bouncing betty.”
“Yeah,” says Mr. Schoen, “I … I was with him.”
Mr. Versavel leans to me. “You know what a bouncing betty is?”
“No.”
“Land mine. Size of a plate, little plug on top, Step on it the whole thing bounces up on a spring and explodes in the air.”
“Cuts you in two” says Mr. Snyder.
“Yeah, I was walking with Dan Pettrigrew just outside of Boulay and he stepped on one, poor bastard. Tore his leg off.”
“I leaned down to him and he said, ‘Shoot me Dick Shoot me, I can’t go home like this.’”
(Silence) Mr. Schoen wipes his eyes.
“Well,” croaks Mr. Snyder, “Did you shoot him?”
“Naw, patched him up. I had to leave him for another medic, I had to go forward.. Orders.”
He looks down again.
……..
…….
Versavel pats Schoen’s shoulder. “Well, he probably died anyway,”
“Probably” say Schoen.
Wipes an eye.
Looks up
….
….
“More Gin?”
Yeah… “Ha-ha” “Sure..”
All tears gone just like that.
“Skoll….Skoll”
Skoll…”
Skoll..
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Now I live in Hawaii and volunteer at Pearl Harbor
Greeting visitors
As they walk from the parking lot across the concrete plaza to the entrance turnstyles
I catch their eyes. “Excuse me.” I say. “Excuse me.”
“Welcome to Pearl Harbor National Monument, Historic Sites, and Cemetery.”
You could have gone to the beach today, gone shopping, drinking mai tais in Waikiki but you chose – chose to come here.
You honor us with your presence.”
I put my hand on my heart. “Thank you.”
Sometimes they’ll put their hands to their hearts, too. And we nod our heads
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------.
So that’s what I say to you my visitors from Substack.
You could be listening to many things just now but you choose to come here.
Thank you for honoring me with your presence.
I hope you come back and walk with me as I walk with the 95th to all the places it took me.
Now…
Scram.
Couldn't agree more. Your intervieews are so insightful. How do you do it?
That was so inspirational and touching to listen to, and indeed hard at times. Thank you for keeping these stories and your story alive David🙏