Like many people
my age, both of my grandpas served in World War II.
My generation is attached to the Greatest Generation by a few
degrees of separation and the kind of time that makes it difficult to associate
either grandpa with his vitamins and cranberry juice and attachment to Matlock with the square-jawed young men raising the flag at
Iwo Jima or posing in uniform in the German countryside.
And like many grandchildren of vets, the stories I know I only
know in fits and starts. Either because I was too young to understand or the
stories, even decades later, were still too fresh to be told.
Still, what I do
know is that home was a talisman, at least for one of my grandpas.
R. Gregory Warren
was only a year into military school in Claremore, Oklahoma, when he enlisted
and was sent to Germany in May 1943 as a paratrooper. He was an only child,
famously ornery, and pretty much joined up to learn some discipline along with
the fact that he was compelled that fighting against the Nazis was the right
thing to do.
He doesn’t tell
many stories about the war. Mostly mentioning how he was super careful about
having clean socks and took up smoking because personnel got cigarettes for
free. (He quit smoking when he returned but has been obsessive about
cleanliness ever since.) No stories of bravery or killing Nazis or saving
innocents, though, I’m sure there’s some mixture of those things locked up
tight in his 89-year-old mind.
But the story he
does tell, and that I’ve heard many times, is about when a piece of home found
him in the middle of Germany.
As I’ve mentioned,
he was an only child—The Great Depression kind of ruined his parents on having
other kids—but he was very close to his twin female cousins, called Bob and
Frank by the family and everyone else (though their names were Barbara and
Frances). They were like his older sisters and they were extremely important to
him and he missed them dearly, though both had wartime jobs as nurses.
One day, in the
middle of Germany, Greg’s supervisor drove up in a Jeep and said, “Warren, come
with me.” Of course, he did, because by then the orneriness was under wraps, and he
was pretty good at doing as he was told. Plus, in an active war zone, you
always do as you’re told.
He followed the
commanding officer over to a Jeep. There, in the back, was a woman. And as he
got closer, his heart started racing.
It was his cousin,
Bob.
The nurse had been
given time off and went in search Greg, and in doing so, both found a little
home, there in the middle of Germany, in the middle of a war.
Greg’s commanding
officer waited for the pair to stop hugging before clearing his throat and
saying, “Warren, can you drive a Jeep?” Greg nodded. And was told he had three
hours and the Jeep to do with as he pleased.
The pair jetted
off as far as they could go, trading stories and catching up half a world away
from the farm in Oklahoma where they’d pal around each summer together, along
with Frank, who was on leave in England and missing out on the fun Greg and Bob
were having in Germany.
And fun they did
have, even taking a picture together in front of a bombed out church: My
grandfather’s only picture from Germany during his entire tour.
Today, it’s hard
to imagine how amazing that experience must have been for both of them. Now,
we’re all so utterly connected, and finding a friend in a crowd or even a
foreign country is as easy a single text, an address and time. Maybe an email,
if necessary.
It will probably
always be exhilarating to get a taste of home when far away, true. But I’m
fairly certain that feeling doesn’t hold a candle to his surprise and her
delight at connecting a world away.
I hope everyone
had a fine Veteran’s Day this week and got a chance to remember those who have
served or are serving at this very moment.
