The most important WWII veteran (to me)
The last day of this month marks the 60th anniversary of Hitler’s suicide, which precipitated for good and all the end of World War II in Europe a week later. By the summer of 1945, U.S. soldiers in the European theater were making their way home.
On a bright, sunny day in the relaxed beauty of northern Italy’s Lake Como, at the base of a statue in the town square of the little village of Cernobbio, a 20-year-old lieutenant had his picture taken, a victor in a righteous war, for whom the only spoils that mattered was the chance to walk back into the lives of his loved ones on his own two feet. He was Lynn H. Hall, an army engineer who had spent the last two years of his young life taunting German regiments with decoy bridge-making in an effort to distract them from more pressing affairs on other fronts.
Hall, along with thousands of other young men, endured unenviable hardships intermixed with scenes of wonder. The long, sick trip across the Atlantic in a tossing ship, braving claustrophobic bunks and communal, sloshing trough-toilets; the terrifying panopticon experience of Monte Cassino, with the Nazi-occupied monastery atop the mountain glaring down perniciously at the Allied troops in the valley below like Sauron’s evil eye; exotic moments with Italian girls and their families around the hearth, stealing glances and hearts; finally getting hold of some real butter, eating an entire stick, and regretting it wholeheartedly soon after; standing at attention at a checkpoint as Winston Churchill drove by, being saluted by same, and having a news clipping, complete with photo, to prove it. Plus being witness to wickedness the likes of which most of us in our comfortable, civilian lifetimes will thankfully be spared.
When Hall was 71, he returned to Cernobbio with his 33-year-old son to steep himself in the memory of that life-changing episode of his youth, to taste that sense of coming full circle. Another picture was taken, same statue, same soldier, a little grey around the edges now. The two photos are framed side by side in his den.
Today, 15 April 2005, the man who risked his life to help defeat a cancerous evil all those years ago celebrates his 80th birthday. He’s my Dad, and he taught me everything I know about humor, laughter and wit. He showed me by example (he is a prolific letter writer) how effectively to put pen to paper, and instilled in me a penchant for language, especially English, which has guided my life. He has inspired lasting awe in me, a fierce pride—my Dad was a soldier, one of the lucky (bittersweet) ones who survived the battlefield to wrestle over the course of a long life with the nightmarish memories only long-retired war veterans can imagine.
Thanks, Dad, for all you’ve done, not just for me, but for our country.
Happy Birthday!
—Greg Hall, Northern Interloper
On a bright, sunny day in the relaxed beauty of northern Italy’s Lake Como, at the base of a statue in the town square of the little village of Cernobbio, a 20-year-old lieutenant had his picture taken, a victor in a righteous war, for whom the only spoils that mattered was the chance to walk back into the lives of his loved ones on his own two feet. He was Lynn H. Hall, an army engineer who had spent the last two years of his young life taunting German regiments with decoy bridge-making in an effort to distract them from more pressing affairs on other fronts.
Hall, along with thousands of other young men, endured unenviable hardships intermixed with scenes of wonder. The long, sick trip across the Atlantic in a tossing ship, braving claustrophobic bunks and communal, sloshing trough-toilets; the terrifying panopticon experience of Monte Cassino, with the Nazi-occupied monastery atop the mountain glaring down perniciously at the Allied troops in the valley below like Sauron’s evil eye; exotic moments with Italian girls and their families around the hearth, stealing glances and hearts; finally getting hold of some real butter, eating an entire stick, and regretting it wholeheartedly soon after; standing at attention at a checkpoint as Winston Churchill drove by, being saluted by same, and having a news clipping, complete with photo, to prove it. Plus being witness to wickedness the likes of which most of us in our comfortable, civilian lifetimes will thankfully be spared.
When Hall was 71, he returned to Cernobbio with his 33-year-old son to steep himself in the memory of that life-changing episode of his youth, to taste that sense of coming full circle. Another picture was taken, same statue, same soldier, a little grey around the edges now. The two photos are framed side by side in his den.
Today, 15 April 2005, the man who risked his life to help defeat a cancerous evil all those years ago celebrates his 80th birthday. He’s my Dad, and he taught me everything I know about humor, laughter and wit. He showed me by example (he is a prolific letter writer) how effectively to put pen to paper, and instilled in me a penchant for language, especially English, which has guided my life. He has inspired lasting awe in me, a fierce pride—my Dad was a soldier, one of the lucky (bittersweet) ones who survived the battlefield to wrestle over the course of a long life with the nightmarish memories only long-retired war veterans can imagine.
Thanks, Dad, for all you’ve done, not just for me, but for our country.
Happy Birthday!
—Greg Hall, Northern Interloper
posted by Marc at
11:49 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home