A Tribute to My Father

Yesterday was Veteran's Day and I thought a lot about my father - Elmer Clayton Stewart. He died in 1994, at the age of 71. He grew up poor through the Great Depression. His mother died from tuberculosis when he was only 12-years-old, something which devastated him. Two years later, his brother - who was his best friend - died of the same disease. And he fought in World War 2, Army Infantry, 99th Division, 395th Battalion, Company L - he saw hard battle, especially during the Battle of the Bulge.

If you know anything about the Battle of the Bulge, it was a hard fought battle during the winter of 1944 primarily in the Ardennes Mountains of Germany. When the Allied forces won this battle, it was a turning point in ending World War 2. Now, I'm not an advocate of war, but I'm not a pure pacifist, either. I mostly ascribe to the Just War Theory. (To read more about Just War Theory - check this link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Just_war).

I'd never say I'm in favor of war. But I'm very proud of my father's service to his country. I'm proud that my father selflessly sacrificed much to protect the world from a very clear and present danger. My father enlisted as a 19-year-old. He married my mother when he was 20 (she was 18) - 2 teenagers (basically) who started life apart for most of the first 3 years of their marriage. They were married on May 18, 1943. By the time he shipped out for Europe, my mother was pregnant with my sister. He left her behind not knowing if he'd ever see her again or ever see his unborn child. And unlike today, there were no emails to stay in touch with families.

My mother went for nearly 2 years not hearing much from my father - not knowing if he was dead or alive. He was in the battlefield, enduring one of the bloodiest battles of World War 2 - wounded twice and spending time in an England Hospital before returning home - mostly for battle fatigue. It was called shell shock in World War 1 and now called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. In World War 2 there was little treatment - just R & R -- Rest and Relaxation in a hospital ward while supposedly with time his mind and emotions healed.

My father never spoke much of his service - partly because he was a private man and partly because he couldn't bear the pain he had buried. Besides the horrors on the battlefield, part of the duty of his unit was to liberate P.O.W. camps - a horrendous task, considering how badly these prisoners of war had been tortured and starved. My father sacrificed much for the safety of the world. It changed who he was - I am firmly convinced that my father suffered for the rest of his life from that war. He wasn't diagnosed, but I suspect he struggled with depression. He drank too much - I think to numb the pain.

And while he suffered from what he had endured, I never heard my father whine or complain about what he had endured. He didn't blame the president or the government or even the Germans. He did what he felt was necessary at a time when the world was under attack. He flew the American flag in our front yard. I'm proud of my father.

I don't know if I ever told him, though. I don't remember ever thanking him for being brave. It wasn't easy to talk to about things like that with my dad. He would have thought that was too "mushy." He only said, "I love you," to me one time - but I knew always that he did love me. I only saw him cry one time - when he thought my mother was dying from peritonitis. I was 12-years-old at the time - the same age he was when his mother died. He never said so, but now I wonder if that was going through his mind - but he would never say.

I miss my father very much. And while I don't think I could have expressed to him my pride in his service to his country or thank him for being brave or struggling to keep it together for his family - I hope now he knows. And by the way - Tom Brokaw is right - they are the Greatest Generation.

By God's Grace,
Michelle