Repy to Requests
Darrell P. Weldon (dweldon@OITVMS.OIT.UMASS.EDU)
Sat, 19 Oct 1996 02:51:42 -0400
This is my first time converting a MS Word document to text and posting to
a list server. My apologies if it does not work properly:
My father passed away in December of 1983 at the age of 61. He was a
disabled vet who served with the 814th Signal Corps in World War II.
He was a wonderful human being who loved people and life itself but
eventually had a very difficult time dealing with his past. From about the
age of 8 I can remember the many visits to the VA hospital to see him, his
increased dependency on alcohol, some very troublesome times with the
family and inevitably his demise from these complications.
There was a long period in my life when I tried to blame him for everything
that was wrong. I was often embarrassed by his conduct and even despised
him for the way he treated my mother. I could not understand how someone
could act the way he did with what seemed to be complete neglect of his
family.
In 1973 I entered the USAF at the age of 19. Despite what had happened with
my father, I was always captivated by the image of the military. I had
always taken an interest in reading books on various wars and enjoyed
playing some board games. In high school I entered the Air Force ROTC
program, was chosen to be a member of the honor guard, and attained the
rank of master sergeant with command of my own flight in my junior year.
With less than three months to go before my senior year graduation I
dropped out of high school and went to work as an apprentice automobile
mechanic. Shortly thereafter I got married and eight months later my first
daughter was born. After job jumping for about a year, much to both my
parents surprise (and worry), I enlisted with the Air Force.
I consider myself very fortunate to have never seen combat personally.
And I consider myself even more fortunate to have been with those who did
have that experience. For it was here that I first began to understand
my father and his depression. Many of my comrades had served in Vietnam
and some had been involved or had seen the death and destruction first
hand. I also have vivid memories of "patients" at Wilford Hall Hospital
at Lackland. Watching some of these men triggered recollections of
visits to my father at VA hospitals. It did not take long to recognize
that there was something different about those who had observed
first-hand the consequences of battle. Even when it was not openly
apparent.
While I was away from home I would write often to my family. To my
surprise it was my father who wrote back to me the most. He had begun
to change in some ways and had become much less violent. He also had
"found" his way back to his religion and even became a daily communicant.
Sadly though, he could not find a way to divorce himself from the alcohol.
For the most part he just remained in the house and drank almost from the
time he got up until he went to bed. My mother, who none of us would ever
have blamed for leaving him, was content now to leave him be. I think she
knew that despite the medical help and counseling that he had received that
a cure was not to be expected and she accepted him with her own
understanding and compassion that we, his children, could not have
experienced because we did not know this young man before he entered
the war. A man that, before this war, never touched alcohol and wanted
only to be with the beautiful woman with whom he had fallen so deeply
in love that in his hundreds of letters to her from the war he often called
her, "My Imagination".
It is those letters that have helped me in my quest to understand and
appreciate the "real" man who left behind a wonderful (but still very
confused) family. For some time now I have been trying to pull the pieces
together to fulfill not only my own longing to discern what did happen to
him but to also give something to my siblings and our children. Something
that they can read and be able to know who he really was and be able to
accept him and the fate dealt to him.
My mother's health is not very good. She has had bypass surgery, minor
strokes and some progressive memory loss. I had known for some time that
she had kept his letters to her from the war. Last year she surprised me
by giving me these letters. I have them from the time he entered the
service and through much of his time in North Africa, Sicily and Italy.
There is a letter or two from Germany at the war's end. We are fairly
certain that there are more that cover his time between Italy and Germany.
My brother believes that they are somewhere in a box in the attic of her
house.
In the many letters I have read to date I am not sure where he has been
exposed to battle or if he ever was at all. He writes not of encounters
but of the aftermath and often mentions the destruction. The following
is an excerpt from a V-mail he sent postmarked,
JULY 10, 1943 IN NORTH AFRICA:
"Earlier in the evening while on the way down to church and confession I
passed through a small park that at one time must have been a favorite
rendezvous of those young in love. Today this place has lost much of its
former beauty and many of its numerous trees are little more than stumps.
What were once benches are now but scrap wood. A beautiful statue is now
beyond recognition and a huge slab of marble is the only remains of what
used to be. My thoughts recalled our yesterdays and "our park" with its
little stream in constant motion and its quaint wooden bridge and I
whispered a prayer of thanksgiving that this was not my country, our world.
It is during moments such as these that I am grateful that I am away from
home rather than near standing amid our precious memories subject to this
same devastation and ruin. Things I love and cherish so much will still
exist and there will be no heart breaking sights such as these to lessen
the wonderful joy of that glorious home coming.
The walk back to camp was so deserted of human activity that I became so
bold as to sing a song without fear of disturbing the peace or annoying
the sound waves. You can imagine the name of that song. Since it is
also your turn this should prove so much the easier and I did sing it for
you though you were not near to hear, you lucky girl. Still Marge you and
your precious love are near and dear to me and no matter how far apart
these unfortunate circumstance take me deep in my album of cherished
memories you too will come with me. I shall always love you Marge,
on this you can rely. Meet me tonight. Goodnight Imagination.
Brud (signed)"
I cherish these letters deeply and thank my mother for revealing a
private part of their lives. In many ways they are helping me yet they
also raise many questions. Where was he in North Africa? What was going
on in that area and was he directly involved in the combat there or at any
time during the war? What was it that happened to have changed this man
that writes with his heart and professes a love so intense for this woman?
I hope some day to be able to trace some of his footsteps and maybe find
some more answers. Thank you for allowing me to share this.
Darrell Weldon
dweldon@oitvms.oit.umass.edu