The Silence
The Ex called a few times, starting last night, and continuing through this morning. The former marital dog is failing, and something is going to have to be done, likely today. She thought I might have the day off, since a lot of people do here, though I regretted to say that I did not.
It would be a good day for it, if the little guy has to be put down, since it guarantees that I will remember the anniversary
There is only one living American who does. His name is Frank Buckles, and he lives in West Virginia. He is the Last Doughboy, and he is 107 years old this year. He finds it remarkable that he happens to be the One, out of the hundreds of thousands of Americans who donned the uniform. All things considered, he is happy it is him.
The guns stopped at eleven o’clock, am. The last men had been killed on the last patrols that morning. The moment has already passed in the remaining fields of red poppies near the buzzing motorways of Belgium and northern France.
The moment of remembrance has already swept over the green fields of England, and is hurtling towards us across the gray waves of the wintry Atlantic Ocean.
We don’t remember it that way here. It is Veteran’s Day, an observation we have cobbled out of the cloth of sacrifice, since blessedly, ours from that fight was relatively small. Frank is the only one who sacrificed anything in the matter, so we have expanded the holiday to the point that its meaning is quite diffused.
We celebrate the holiday by giving the Federal Government the day off, while expecting the veterans who are celebrated to report to our civilian jobs.
The real moment of peace meant something to my Grandfather, bluff Mike who ran engines and rail-cars to the front, or close enough to it that the marshalling yards were not under direct fire of the great guns of Krupp.
I assume that, anyway. I would have to go and do my homework on where and what he did. What I do know is precious little, though there might be a unit file moldering somewhere in St. Louis, since Grandpa signed up for the National Army on the first of June, 1918, at Columbus Barracks in Ohio at the ripe old age of 21.
An experienced railroad man by then, he was assigned to the 53 Engineers through the middle of the month, then Co C 54 Engineers to the end of June, and eventually made it to the Big Show via the 153 Depot Brigade. His operational assignment in France was at Company C, 68th TC. He was there with the rolling stock when the Armistice was signed and there was silence across the front.
He stayed with the unit through the first months of the occupation, and was discharged as a private from the American Expeditionary Forces to the 9th of June, 1919, the year of the great influenza epidemic.
Grandpa’s Honorable discharge is dated 17 June, 1919, and for the rest of his life he was content that his sacrifice had helped to make the world safe for democracy, even if his government was stingy about making good on its promises.
Copyright 2008 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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