December 13, 2011 The Bulge

When I was growing up, we walked to school. It was about a mile from our house to Central School. We walked every day. Rain or shine. Snow or sleet. Like a parade consisting of a dad and 3 children.

Sometimes, people would stop and ask if we wanted a ride. Dad would say "nope!" and we'd keep walking. No matter what, there would be no rides. We would walk.

If I complained about being cold, my dad would say "Do you know how cold it was in the Bulge?" I learned at a very early age about the Battle of the Bulge and that my dad fought in it. And that I am who I am because of that famous battle.

It was December, 1944. Dad and others in the 82nd Airborne Division in old stables built by Napoleon in Sissonne, France. One evening they watched "Saratoga Trunk" starring Gregory Peck and when they returned to the stables the 1st sergeant said to get ready to go in the morning. They were headed to Belgium.

The Germans had broken through and the Battle of the Bulge had begun.

The 82nd Airborne Division was taken by foot and by truck to Werbomont in Belgium. Dad told me that as they were headed north, there were others headed south. Dad wondered if they were going in the right direction, but being a good soldier, he kept marching and didn't ask any questions. There were grave concerns about gear, however. None of the troops had winter boots, hats or coats. It was getting very cold and no one was having any fun. No. One.

There is a monument in Werbonet, Belgium, in the countryside, sort of in the middle of nowhere that says "To the heroes of the 82nd U.S. Airborne Division - Verbomont remembers and is grateful. 1944-1984". The other side says "The 82nd Airborne Divisions sen tin emergency to the Ardenne landed here during the night of December 18. They went toward the invader to fight the hardest battle of their campaign."

In 2002, shortly after Dad died, my brother, sister and I went to England, France and Belgium to trace some of Dad's World War II journey. It was an amazing experience and it helped me to begin to understand that WWII not only molded who my dad was but who I am as well.

As I walked to school, or did anything I wanted to complain about, Dad would remind me that when he was just a kid of 18, he was fighting a long way from home. At times he was cold, he was scared, he was hungry, he was homesick, he was cannon fodder and people wanted to kill him. I began to see that I was (am) extremely lucky.

Christmas is special to me too because it was on Christmas that the Allied planes broke through and provided air support for those guys on the ground in the Bulge...guys like my dad.

One thing my dad learned from the war was his unending desire for peace. A peace that can't be obtained by more killing or invading or bombing.

So, don't whine and carry on the next time you're cold. You could be 18, in the Bulge, far away from home, carrying 3 back packs, barefoot.

The memory makes me smile through the tears tonight, but 50 years ago it pissed me off.

I did not, however, complain about it.