Another problem is, when I get a name, it takes me one to two days to do all the research I can which either validates what I feel about them, or completely surprises me--I told you I'm running about 50% with my "intuitions."
On our walks last week, I met one World War II veteran I'll call "Donny." His granite and copper head-plate announced his service as a p.f.c. (private first class) in the army air corps, and that he had been the recipient of a "Silver Star" one of the U.S.'s three top medals for valorous conduct above and beyond the call of duty a soldier or sailor or pilot could earn.
Two days later, I met "Charlie," who was also a private and had an engraved announcement he had earned a "Bronze Star"--also one of the three top honors as well as a purple heart.
Since I was, of course, curious to learn exactly what feats of amazement under enemy fire they had performed, I spent several days trying to find their precise military service records, the units they were in, what theater they fought in (either in Europe or in the Pacific), and a description of their citations.
I searched for hours after discovering a site that had all the names of all the men and women who earned the top five meritorious medals, including the purple heart--earn for receiving a wound in combat--for all major wars and conflicts, from the Civil War to America's War on Terror.
The people who control the site have been fastidious about dates, names, award, and the description of the citation--as well if the soldier died due to his heroic actions, and if he saved others in the course of what any recipient would say was "just doing my job."
The word "hero" never comes out of their mouths if you're lucky enough to get one of them to talk about the incident--most won't even mention the experience, let alone describe what they did to get the award.
I spent so much time looking for Donny and Charlie's names on the rolls of honor, I thought perhaps the site was incomplete, so I had to find another only to come up with the same results--nothing. Then it hit me--why don't you look up a name of a Marine you know won several awards, and if he's on the site then Charlie and Donny should be there, too. So I looked up my Uncle Jimmy, and sure enough, there he was and his three citation for meritorious service--two during World War II and one during Korea.
Quickly I looked for Donny and Charlie, careful to spell their names correctly before clicking "search." Each time I got the same result. "Sorry, no results for ---- could be found."
What came to my mind was sad, pitiful and a bit tragic.
Both men had come home from the war, not very proud of their service--I learned Donny hadn't even left the States. Once they got home, friends, family and town-folks all demanded to know what happened. Talk about peer pressure.
Not wanting to sound as if what they did was little more than shuffle papers or supplies from one combat unit to another, both men told stories about how brave they were--about how patriotic--ready to stare the enemy in the eye and do something so miraculous even they didn't know how they survived the events.
I can see them telling the same story or stories again and again, first to family then to friends, and finally to grandchildren who were enraptured that the old man telling the story was ever young enough to have done the heroically described tale. The more the two old men related their fictions, they even started to believe they had actually performed those courageous actions, believed it so vehemently that if they had taken a polygraph, the machine would not indicate deception. That's the sad part.
The tragic part is, even if all they did was shuffle papers, reports and communiqués, even if all they did was count rolls of toilet paper, cans of beans, or belts of ammunition, even if that was all they did for the two to three years they were enlisted in the US Army, they were doing vital and important jobs--jobs they should never have felt ashamed of doing.
If these two men hadn't shuffled those reports or counted those cans of food then how could the combat units have been able to do all they did in order to be called "American's Greatest Generation." If an intelligent report doesn't reach the correct hands then a unit of Marines making an amphibious landing on some Japanese held island wouldn't have known what they were facing. If those belts of meticulously counted ammo didn't reach the B-2 airborne units who made bombing runs everyday over targets in Europe, they wouldn't have been able to protect themselves from the German fighters who attacked them before reaching their targets.
Yes, they did vital, important, and necessary jobs, but they weren't proud; in fact, they were ashamed--they must have been because they told their families they had won medals. Perhaps they even found some military surplus store and bought the actual medals in order to validate the stories they told. That's the pitiful part.
My Daddy Lt. Commander
Rufus W. Boldman
I had to beg my dad, Rufus Wilson Boldman, to tell me some of his war experiences he endured while working first as an ordinary sailor to finish the war as a chief petty officer. He didn't win a single medal, although he did get honors for facing the enemy--honors written in reports that didn't come with a piece of shiny metal--only raises in rank and pay. Now I know the stories he told were heavily edited--were stories that gave him nightmares twenty years after they happened (when I was pestering him for them). I loved knowing my father saw combat and on his World War II service ribbon got to have a small metal star set in the middle--displayed on his khaki suit coat or his khaki shirt to show his service--even as the gold colored oak leaves pins told everyone he had earned the rank of lieutenant commander (that's like being a major in the army). He wouldn't never agree with me he was a "hero." But he was my "hero" even though he didn't even get a purple heart. When he told me he hadn't gotten one, I said, "That's alright daddy. It means God protected you all the way through the war 'cause He didn't want you getting hurt."
Seaman First Class, Rufus Wilson Boldman
It was my Uncle Jimmy who was the "real" decorated family hero. He had enlisted before his brother, and had joined the U.S. Marines. Since he had gone to college he got to be a first lieutenant--daddy was only in his first year he had started at the bottom, as he would say.
Uncle Jimmy, that's Lieutenant Colonel James Dean Boldman (his rank at his retirement), had had the adventures one could write a book about--and a man he knew only in passing--Pappy Boyington--eventually did. My uncle knew navy and marine giants--like Boyington and Jimmy Thatch, who won the Congressional Medal of Honor and created the "Thatch-weave," a tactic needed in
order to bring down a Japanese Zero because the Navy's aircraft, prior to getting the Chance-Voight Corsair, were inferior to the superb banking and climbing ability of the Mitsubishi enemy plane.
the only picture I have of Uncle Jimmy on Orcas Island in the San Juans
As a U.S. Marine, Uncle Jimmy earn two meritorious medals for valor in World War II, but I like the story about the third better--liked it so much I used it in one of my novels set during World War II.
He was a captain in Korea, the commanding officer of an air group, and the small air field they flew out of was continuously being shelled first, by the North Koreans then by the Chinese. One day, when the enemy started the mortar hoping to take out his groups' aircraft, Uncle Jimmy got so pissed off, he grabbed the nearest enlisted man, handed him a radio (those were large box-like instruments that had a telephone receiver but needed to be wound up to generate enough electricity to send a verbal communication). The two marines got as close to the enemy as they could; Uncle Jimmy confirmed the story after I hounded him about it. He swore and told me daddy's version was full of "sh--" and he had to set the record straight because daddy couldn't tell a story correctly even if he was paid to do it. (Daddy was in NIS and wrote accurate reports as part of his job.)
"We got so close to the Chinese we could smell the rotten kimchee on their bad breath," Uncle Jimmy said--his way of saying they were close enough to see them while keeping themselves from becoming obvious targets. They wound up the radio and gave map coordinates to their artillery units who were supposed to protect the airfield from mortar attacks. The two men stayed there, under fire for over an hour--long enough for the artillery to hone in on the Chinese mortar crews and wipe them off the face of the earth.
He told me directly--eye to eye--"I was doing my job, girl, so don't go calling me a hero. I didn't want any more of my planes destroyed or any more of my pilots wounded or killed. I did what needed to be done. That's all. End of story."
He was angry as he told me--I think he was mad that daddy had told me his brother was a great warrior and pilot.
I grinned at the old Marine, proud of him as much as I was of my dead father.
Because Uncle Jimmy didn't want me to think he was so great, he told me a story about how five Kiwi (New Zealand) pilots had saved his ass from being shot full of holes from four Japanese Zeros which had managed to jump him, after he got separated from his unit and wingman while heading back to Henderson Airbase on Solomon Island.
"They killed three and the other two bugged out," he said, suddenly sounding younger than 70, his face changing, hardening, one hand trembling unconsciously. "After I limped home and got out of that damn death trap (his Corsair), I threw up all over myself. Heroes don't puke on themselves, girl. I wasn't a hero."
I didn't believe him. His denials confirmed my suspicions that he was, indeed, a hero--one who desired the medals he received for actions in combat.
But so were Donny and Charlie. If men like them didn't do their jobs, my daddy and uncle wouldn't have been able to do their jobs. If only they could have realized how important a role they played, they wouldn't have had to make themselves liars.
No, they didn't win "pretty-trinkets" as Uncle Jimmy called his citations; no, they weren't the "heroes" killed in movies; but they were heroes. They were doing the jobs that needed to be done in order to save U.S. property, but more importantly, to save lives in combat zones--places neither of these two old dead man ever came close to seeing up close and personal.
My Uncle Jimmy getting the Bronze Star during World War II.
Very nice....when did you meet my dad?
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