On the front page of today's New York Times was a picture of the American military cemetery in Manila in the Philippines, which brought back a flood of memories for me.
My middle brother, Alfred, is buried in that cemetery. He was killed on the island of Leyte in the Philippines on January 8, 1945 at age twenty-one. There is an old army cliche that says you don't worry about the bullet with your name on it but the one that says to whom it may concern---and that is exactly how Alfred died.
He had been in on the invasion of the Philippines in November of 1944, serving as a T/4 (the equivalent of a corporal) on an LST, the landing crafts that turn into a form of tank. While on Leyte, he contacted jungle rot in his arm, a form of infectious fungus common in the tropics. He had been in the hospital near Ormac on Leyte and had been unable to participate in the battle for the town of Ormac because of this infection. On January 7, he was released from the hospital and able to rejoin his outfit, where every soldier wants to be with his buddies. He was assigned to guard duty in a bivouac area and, although the battle was over, there were Japanese stragglers in the nearby hills. One such group fired a mortar shell, and Alfred was the only one killed. That certainly qualifies as "to whom it may concern".
The family decided the best decision was to leave him buried with his comrades and not go through the ordeal of bringing his body back for burial at home. in 1968 my father had planned a trip to Manila in order to view his grave, but ill health prevented him doing so. In 1977, on a business trip to the Orient, I decided,prior to returning home, to stop in Manila and see Alfred's grave.
Manila was under martial law at that time and was a scary place with police and soldiers roaming the streets with machine guns strapped to their backs. A series of Communist insurrections had caused this state of emergency. I hired a taxi to take me to the U.S. Military Cemetery (which is American land and maintained in every foreign country where our troops are buried). At the cemetery I was directed to the guardhouse where a complete record of all names and locations is kept. Within a few minutes I had walked to and found my brother's grave. I thought after thirty-two years, I could handle this emotional moment, but I sat on the ground near his grave and wept. I thank God I made that trip. If you have ever seen such cemeteries, you know how beautiful and well-maintained they are. I knew the family had made the right choice in leaving Alfred with his fallen comrades-in-arms.
One of the few good things that has come out of the recent conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan is that more people seem more appreciative of the sacrifices our military has undergone and are lauding the veterans of those conflicts. I think we have a collective guilty conscience about the way we treated veterans after Vietnam. God knows, I was against that war---but you don't spit on and scorn the men who served. Take it out on the politicians, not the poor souls who fought their wars.
I'm one of those oldies now who can still vividly remember World War II. I just missed it,as the war ended in August of 1945, and I turned eighteen in November of that year. With Alfred's death and Henry (my eldest brother) shot down but surviving, it was a vivid and traumatic experience for my family and many others.
In my lifetime I have been around for too many conflicts.
Take time to remember those who served and those we lost and, if inclined, say a prayer. I have.
