My dad, God rest his soul, enlisted right out of high school in 1942, went to radio operators' training and was assigned to the 9th Infantry Division and sent to North Africa. He was involved in some fighting there, but trained primarily for the invasion of Italy through Sicily.
When the 36th Division was activated -- it was a Texas National Guard unit -- he was transferred there because of his combat experience. That was limited, but it was more than the radio operators for headquarters companies throughout the 36th had. He was assigned to the 142nd Infrantry Regiment, HQ company.
For three years, Dad was in combat. In those three years, he got 55 days R&R. He was awarded the Purple Heart with two oak leaves (for multiple awards) because he was wounded three times -- "Never so bad I had to leave the line" he always told me -- and was involved in actions that got him awarded two Silver Stars and a Distinguished Service Cross. When the war ended, instead of celebrating, he and his unit began prepping for transfer to the South Pacific in anticipation of the invasion of the Japanese homeland.
Fortunately, Truman used the only two atomic weapons we had to end the war entirely, and he never had to go to the Pacific. He spent another six months in the army of occupation, ferreting out the remaining (though limited) Nazi Resistance and pacifying the countryside of northern France and northwestern Germany.
In April of 1946, Dad got off a train in our hometown in north Missouri and walked home -- seven miles. No telephones, so he couldn't tell his widower dad that he was back. They had a glass of Austin Nichols WIld Turkey to celebrate, and the next day he was in the fields plowing.
My dad was a hell of man, but he was copied over six million times over by the other vets of that war. They saved the world. And didn't think anything of it.
I'm proud to be my dad's son.
