The Pacific

I just finished episode 10 of 10 of the series The Pacific. I remember when Band of Brothers premiered in September 2001. I had watched the first episode just before leaving for my first trip to New York City to teach a class for Sun Microsystems. When I entered the Nasdaq building that first day to sign in at the security desk, I overheard the security guards talking about Band of Brothers and how much they enjoyed it. How real it seemed and how intense it was. I love that series and have watched it many times. I had been anticipating The Pacific with the same excitement for a long time because I knew that it would be both entertaining and that it would bring a somewhat real feeling to me about that part of World War II.

During one of the first episodes of The Pacific, you see a group of Marines scaling down the side of a troop transport to load into a Higgins boat. I noticed the two sailors in the back of the boat: one at the helm, the other managing the loading process. That scene struck me and I had to rewind and watch it a couple of times. It occurred to me that my dad was one of those sailors. Not during the month depicted in that scene, but not too long after and he was only 14 years old. He had lied about his age and joined the Navy while he was still 13. Pretty amazing.

I do not have a great deal of connection to my dad. He has always been somewhat aloof with me with regard to thoughts, real thoughts, and real feelings. He certainly has opinions and a lot of them, but his hopes, dreams, fears, mistakes, successes, they all remain somewhat hidden. That experience in the Pacific campaigns of World War II must have had a large part to do with his inability to express himself. Then again, so could losing his family at such a young age.

I watched young Marines board a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, that knew they were likely not going to survive the next several minutes of their lives, and that same reality engulfs you as you watch this show as a bystander. My dad had to have had the same feelings. Maybe those thoughts or fears are as vast as the ocean, and maybe they are just big enough to keep a person isolated from those that long to know them. I have tried many times to discuss those events with my dad, but never received much information. I think there have been times when my dad has tried to reach out with the darkest of admissions about what haunted him the most, but, unfortunately, I think that those moments came at a time when we were at odds with one another and they may not have sounded like an attempt to gain understanding or build a bridge of communication. Difficulty in communicating seems to be a theme with those that deal with trauma. My dad and I have had difficulty in communicating with one another for a long time.

Not long after I became a father, I experienced my own version of trauma. I mentioned earlier that I taught a class in New York City in September 2001. When I arrived into New York, it was September 9, 2001. Monday was a pretty average and hectic day. Class started and off I went. It was my first time to teach the material I was there to present, and the whole day was a success. The saddest and worst part about it was that I was covering the class for a fellow instructor, who I had known, that died suddenly the previous week. Needless to say, the whole training center was already somber. Tuesday started off without much fanfare. I had breakfast and thought that Tuesday September 11, 2001 would be just like any other Tuesday. My assumption was that great weather and an easy walk from my hotel past the World Trade Center towers and down to my building was as exciting as it appeared things were going to get that day. You know what they say about assuming. Shortly after leaving the elevator and arriving into my classroom, I found out about the worst attack on U.S. soil since Pearl Harbor was attacked by the Imperial Japanese Navy nearly sixty years prior.

A few hours later, I found myself down on the sidewalk next to my building wondering how far out of my way I would have to walk to get back to my hotel. I knew I would have to avoid the World Trade Center towers, but assumed that getting back would not be a problem. Remember what I said about assumptions? Just as soon as I had said my goodbyes to my colleagues on the street with me, I heard a noise. This was not a normal New York City street noise. It sounded like a jet engine and it sounded like it was very near me and getting steadily louder and closer by the second. People began to scream and run in all directions forgetting they were running out into the middle of the busy street next to the building. I am not writing this to say I was brave, but I simply did not move. I felt an overwhelming feeling that if I ran, where would I run that would make the difference in survival if a jet airplane was indeed headed straight for me. You see, only moments prior, I had witnessed first-hand a jet airplane filled with real people hit a real building and create a rip in what I considered reality. I was now faced with that same reality again, only this time, I might have been in the path of an airplane flown by people hell bent on ending my life. Well, I am the one writing this note, so you know the ending, but the saddest ending of all was that sound I heard was not an airplane but World Trade Center tower 2 falling to the ground. A building I had been standing in the day before.

Sometime later, my dad said that we were the only two people in our family who had been in real combat. Say what you will, but that meant a lot to me in some grim way. I guess you could say it was a connection.

Years later, I once asked my dad where he drove a Higgins boat, and he told me in the Solomon Islands. When I pressed for a more specific location, he told me Guadalcanal. From what I understand from him, it was sometime around November of 1942, just after his 14th birthday. Most of the fighting that made the First Marine Division famous on Guadalcanal took place earlier around August, but I suspect it was just as dangerous toward the end of that year. I can not imagine being 14 years old and being asked to do what he did, not because he was drafted, not because he had an endorsement from the U.S. military that his age and stature in life made it appropriate, but because that is what he signed up to do, albeit unknowingly. I can not understand what life circumstance thrust him into a recruiting line ready to sign his life away at such a young age. I can only imagine the magnitude of what came next. My guess is he dealt with it as best he could until he received his honorable discharge two years later in November 1944 at 16 years old.

I have always had an interest in World War II. My wife thinks my interest in the military and military history has a far wider reach. As a child, I was firm in my intention to become a Marine. I used to buy and read "Fighting U.S. Marines" comic books when I was a kid. I wrote a letter to the Marine Corps when I was 13 asking for more information and how I could become a Marine. The very polite but firm response I received in return from a Marine recruiter stated "We appreciate your interest in the Marine Corps. Contact us when you are eighteen." I am sure that last part was written tongue in cheek. I have made some good choices in life and some bad ones too, but I did not enlist in the Marines or any other branch of the military. Young, stupid, rebellious kids do not always make the best decisions about their lives. I personally feel regret from that particular choice to this day. To some degree, my wife is probably right about my interest in the military. I do find all of the events and all of the history fascinating, but the older I have gotten I now think it is also an interest that helps me to connect with my dad.

My dad and I certainly do not talk in great detail about WWII. He is the "typical" veteran that has no interest in bringing it up. I say "typical" because I grew up in a small Arkansas town filled with men who had fought in World War II. Not one of them offered any information, but they did offer me a glimpse. That glimpse came not from words so much as going from a toothy grin and easy going demeanor to stone cold, bracing silence, and usually followed by a grim and short response. Their heads shaking off my questions with responses like "Aw, that was a terrible time and a terrible place. It is something I really do not like talking about." Out of respect, my questions would cease.

My whole childhood was spent playing "Army", wearing dad's old uniforms, adorning them with his medals and other badges. Pretending to be in combat with Nazi and Japanese soldiers. I guess every kid of every veteran does something similar just to be like dad. I do not know what he did or what he saw, but whatever it was, it was likely not something that made him want to talk about it and it certainly was not the romanticized spin that I put on it as a child. I do have one memory of dad coming clean once about a Japanese submarine causing him to lose some sleep. How it torpedoed a pier near the boat he was stationed on. I suppose that is not a real conversation starter or a great way to get the mood going in an upbeat direction.

Just after watching the first and second episodes of The Pacific, I had the opportunity to speak to my dad about what I had seen. I recognized quite a bit of historical accuracy. I brought up subjects from the show like areas of interest, island names, geographical landmarks, the names of Marines like Lewis "Chesty" Puller and John Basilone, actions and battles, and the like. I do not know if that made a difference, but my father makes some sort of connection with me when the topic arises in that particular way. When I choose not to drill into his specific memories, but the memories of that time, in a more general way, he seems to recollect in a warmer and more retrospective way.

My father is 43 years older than I am. When he was 12 or 13, he lost his mother. When he entered service in the U.S. Navy, he was 13. When he became a father he was not much more than 17 or 18. When he was nearly 20 years into his career as a Dallas Police officer, he became seriously injured while on duty and forced to retire from the only occupation he knew. All this as he became a father for the fourth time with me. I am not sure why his life was charted on such a drastically different course than my own, but I do now notice that there are far fewer instances where I feel I have that lost connection with him the older we get. I suppose time and rational thoughts tame our deepest fears and biggest regrets.

The battles I fight are on the battleground of who has the best software or hardware solution to run your business. We do not receive medals or have our names written in history books for our accomplishments. The best thing I can do is connect with my own son and daughter, and show them what it means to live life in an God honoring way. I have made plenty of mistakes in my life, but I am proud of my dad and am thankful he made it through the war in the Pacific. Never having said that in some way is a regret I refuse to live with.