The Biggest Event: Part II

For over ten years as an adult I pestered my father about his experiences in the Army during WWII. My grandmother often spoke of how he left the Army and never “got his medals.” We knew he received his Purple Heart after he was wounded; but, she was referring to his campaign ribbons and the like which he never bothered to pursue. It became my mission to see him get some recognition for his service, and to learn for myself, and for his grandchildren about his wartime experiences as part of our family history.

This was a difficult task as he wouldn’t tell me anything about it. For many years, he refused to say what division he was in, let alone where he fought, when he served, or how long he served for. The only information I had was that he was in North Africa and then in Italy. Dad was wounded in Italy as we found out when we were children, but he wouldn’t budge on any of the other details.

In the late 1990’s I scoured the internet and tried to come up with information about battles the Army fought in Italy. He let it slip that he enlisted in the Army when he was eighteen years old. That meant in 1943 he signed up for the Army. Dad lost his father when he was a young boy, aged thirteen, and he was largely responsible for working and paying some of the bills. He graduated high school and immediately went to the recruitment station, only to be told to come back when he turned eighteen a few weeks later. Joining the Army meant a steady income of roughly thirty six dollars a month; enough to help his mom and his siblings.

On September 2, 2001, dad suffered a massive heart attack. Mom was very sick at the time with Lupus, and my father walked around for three days with chest pains, alerting no one to his condition because he was duty bound to care for his wife. Such was the hardened war veteran, one of the “Greatest Generation,” to stubbornly resist asking for help as he was busy nursing the mother of his children. So instilled him in him was sense of loyalty, honor, and faithfulness to his ailing bride, that he went without medical assistance until the pain was too unbearable for him and he finally got help. He did what any reasonable person wouldn't do: he sneaked over to the neighbor’s house across the street and asked if one of them could give him a ride to the hospital to “get checked out.” Also, he insisted that they use his car so he the neighbor wouldn’t waste his own gas.

My parents had six children, five of them living on Long Island with him, two of them only minutes away. Any one of us could have hopped in a car and been there within a half hour to take him to the hospital. Yet, he didn't want to bother us. He simply told mom that he wasn’t feeling well and went across the street to the neighbors. When I heard this, I thought of him as an eighteen year old teenager, lying in the hot Italian sun, clinging to life with two bullet wounds in his body. Maybe he thought that if he could live through that, he could handle anything.

When he returned home from the hospital days later, he sat on his bed with my then two year old son clinging to his grandpa’s side. I asked him again for his discharge papers because I wanted to get him his medals. His response could be heard around the block as he replied “I didn’t get anything for valor. Those are just because I served.” After that outburst, I decided to wait a bit longer.

About a year later, I saw a program on TV about a project where children and grandchildren of war veterans were using video cameras to record the experiences of the parents and grandparents during the war. World War Two vets are dying at an alarming rate and I wanted to record dad's story as well because it was a part of our families' history. One part of me wanted to simply know where he fought and other particulars such as what unit he was in, etc. However, with the same morbid curiosity that one has when we peek at the scene of an accident as we drive past, I had to find out about the battle in which he was wounded.

I actually brought my video camera to the house one day, but I chickened out. Dad was in a foul mood, and since the second Iraq War began, he was even more reluctant to talk about combat as his heart went out to all of those young men and women suddenly thrust into battle. Once again, I needed to wait. Mom's health was deteriorating, and dad and the rest of us dedicated most of our time tending to her health concerns. It seemed I would never find out what happened to my father over six decades earlier. I had to live with the few scraps of details which were handed down to us from my grandmother and from my mother. It wasn't as if dad poured his heart out to them, but he pacified their curiosity over the years with a few anecdotes from his time in the Army.

One story I enjoyed which I often told my friends involved his experiences in basic training. Since my father was a city boy, raised in Brooklyn, New York, the guys in his platoon who were from the south and other remote regions of the country would often tease him about his inability to build a fire or use a rifle. Dad laughed at them, saying that he "knew something that they didn't know" and soon he would be the one laughing. Many of the men he went through basic training with were shipped to the Pacific Theater; but, the few who remained with my father learned in a very unpleasant way about payback.

As a boy, my grandfather often took my father and my uncles deep sea fishing. That meant that dad developed his "sea legs" long before he showed up to the army camp. It was an eleven day voyage to North Africa where he was first shipped off to. All that time, the guys in his platoon suffered with violent nausea due to sea sickness. At one point, so many men were leaning over one side of the ship, the boat was listing. Dad wasn't sea sick at all. In fact, he used that opportunity to stick it to the guys who teased him about his unfamiliarity with the great outdoors during basic training by eating his meals in front of them and asking if they wanted anything to snack on. According to dad, they all quickly apologized, in between dry heaves.

It was that story, and maybe one or two others which whetted my appetite to learn more. Finally, in 2005, I decided that enough was enough. I badgered my father about his service ribbons and medals saying that he should have them because they are part of his past. This time, dad gave up some crucial information, saying that he wanted the medals "If doing it would make me happy." Quickly, he told me that he was in the Texas 36Th Division, 141st Regiment, Company L. As far as where his discharge papers were, he "didn't know." Armed with more data than I had in my entire life, I booted up my computer and found a ton of information on the Internet. It turns out that was a single, handy resource where I found out nearly everything I needed to know: "The Texas 36Th Division Museum" website. From there and the related links, I pieced together where and when he served and the actions he was involved in.

But, missing in all of this was his personal account of the events. I wanted to hear him tell me about what he saw, where he landed, the people he met. With all of the satisfaction I had reading about his Division's history, I still felt left out. There was nothing else I could do. I resigned myself to the fact that he was never going to come around. In reality, it was none of my business what he experienced "over there." Maybe I was being selfish, probing, and too harsh on him. Obviously, his time overseas was too painful to recall, and a good son would let his father alone to keep his secrets to himself. Yes, they were secrets, those awful memories. I was reminded of something an old time cop I worked with told me when I was a young rookie working up in Harlem in the very late 1980's. He said :"There are things you tell your priest, things you tell your wife, and there are some things that will die with just you and your partner." Man, was he right about that. As I likened my own relatively benign history to my father's, I backed off for good.

In early November of 2005, my wife and I took the kids to my parents house for our usual Friday night visit with my folks. After dinner, my father discussed with me his views on the war in Iraq. In one breath he was talking about how to run an effective military convoy, in the next he began describing landing with his regiment in Salerno in 1944. He rattled off grisly details about being surrounded by Germans and men he fought with being killed as if it happened yesterday. He told me about how he and his buddies spent about two or three days in the home of an extended family in the country side. Being from Brooklyn, he spoke Italian and was able to communicate effectively with them to the amazement of his Italian-American GI buddies. When it came to combat, his retelling was personal, private, and not to be mentioned in this space. Still, he never talked about when he was wounded.

After about an hour, I felt exhausted. Dad stood up, walked into his bedroom, and emerged moments later with his discharge papers. He knew where they were all along. "Here," he said "get me those medals. They're for my grandchildren. Please, for my grand kids, while I'm still here." I took this document, which he denied having for years, and made it my mission to get him those medals.

The Biggest Event: Part I

My dad never spoke about the war. Like most soldiers who saw combat he was tight lipped about his experiences under fire. We knew he was wounded as he had only a few teeth in his mouth and had limited mobility in his right arm. But he kept his pain and discomfort quiet for so long, his injuries almost became rumors.
It was especially uncomfortable for my father during the holidays. My uncles would arrive at our home and inevitably bring up their own experiences in World War II which consisted of peace time occupation duties in Europe. The way they acted though, talking as they did about those “damn Nazis”, you’d think they won the war themselves. As dad was quick to point out when he was especially frustrated with them “They never saw a shot fired in anger in their lives.”
When I said dad never spoke about the war, I meant he didn’t talk about combat. He often read entire books about the WWII and watched countless documentaries. My mother once said that maybe he was looking for old friends in those grainy, black and white reels. Perhaps instead he was trying to make sense of it all. One particular Sunday night in my youth stands out in my mind like a vignette because it was the closest he ever came to revealing what happened to him when he was wounded. I know it was a Sunday because we just finished watching “The Wonderful World of Disney” and the telltale fireworks over Sleeping Beauty’s Castle in Disneyland in California were cut short when dad ordered me to change the channel and put on “The World at War” on Channel Thirteen.
Mom hated when he watched this with us kids around. Dead bodies were shown everywhere. Horrifying scenes of death camps, bombings, and soldiers running into battle flickered in front of our young eyes with the full knowledge that our dad had seen much of that. I often marveled at what a giant my father was, and how brave he must have been to scamper across the battlefield with his rifle in his hand and dodge explosions and machine gun fire. Most impressive was that he made it out—with a bullet fragment still lodged in the base of his skull—and was still able to work two jobs and throw a ball to us in the backyard.
That particular Sunday night, my brothers and sisters and I stared at the TV screen, disappointed that we weren’t allowed to watch “Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom” which followed Disney, and instead had to watch another war documentary. And then, something amazing happened. My father was silent, staring intently at the screen. I remember this episode showing Adolf Hitler speaking in Rome from a balcony in pre-war Italy. There was a throng of people saluting obediently below as he spewed his vile hate speech.
“Do you see that building there?” said dad as he jabbed his finger at the screen. We all flinched as we were startled by his action. “Right there", he continued “that was a university before the war.” None of us said anything, including Mom as she looked up from her crocheting.
“And there was a market, and that building was an elementary school.” Dad watched the screen, his mouth agape, as if he spotted something magnificent.
“How do you know all of this, dad?” my older brother asked.
“Because they made the grammar a school a hospital during the war.” He said as he looked around the room at all of us. “That’s where they took me after I was wounded”.
After he was wounded he said; so much information, from one tiny memory shown on a little RCA television.
I don’t remember if any of us said anything after that. In my young mind my father, the soldier, had come to life. Before that, I fantasized about him being just like John Wayne or Lee Marvin in all of those war movies running around with a sub-machine gun, cigar clenched between his teeth, and tossing grenades at the “Krauts" as that pejorative was used in those films. In a single utterance, dad become a vulnerable human; someone who experienced pain.

Technorati Tags:WWII, Veterans, Congressman Peter King, medals, Purple Heart, Italy, Rome, Army, Italian Campaign, Texas 36th Division

A Child's Eye on September 11th

It's difficult to imagine that it was already six years ago when the world changed on September 11th, 2001. Like today, September 11, 2001 was a Tuesday. A clear, sunny day it was with the kids back to school and summer a mere memory as the sunlight faded a bit earlier every evening. My son was just shy of two years old and my daughter was six back then. With the oldest one in school, I had the day with my boy as he was in preschool three days a week. I was off from work, and had to drag my young son with me to the car dealer to get the Chevy serviced when the news hit the wires about a plane hitting the World Trade Center.

There's no need to recount the events of that day. Everything is neatly cataloged in the minds of those affected directly or even indirectly by this cowardly act of violence. But, I'll never forget sitting in a restaurant with my wife and children Friday, September 14th. My son was watching a flat screen TV which was on a wall opposite from where we were sitting. Images from Ground Zero were constant and regular programming for most stations was canceled with coverage of the rescue and recovery efforts, as well as the socio-political commentary on the subject twenty four hours a day. We were seated in a booth, and suddenly my boy stood and began to rant.

"There's danger, danger..." he said. ”Everywhere...hurt." This went on as he pointed to the television screen, acutely aware that something was tremendously wrong in the world, and he was expressing in his own limited way the fear he felt watching the events unfolding around him.

My wife and I tried to calm him down, and others in the restaurant politely turned away as they understood that this wasn’t a typical temper tantrum thrown by a kid. There was urgency in his voice, and it was obvious what he was trying to tell us. No one rolled their eyes at the parents who couldn’t control their son or remarked at the misbehaving brat at the next table. He too was affected by the images shown over and over again on television of the towers crumbling before our eyes with very brave souls trapped within, dying as we all gasped in collective horror.

On Long Island where I live, the roads were closed on 9/11 and only emergency traffic and those cleared by the police were allowed on major highways into New York City. All the air traffic across the entire country was suspended, and the local airport near our home was silent. Noisy military helicopters and jet fighters patrolled Long Island's airspace and people were flying flags, holding candlelight vigils in public places, and given to erecting signs and hasty memorials to the victims. All of this fell on my toddler's eyes and ears and was difficult to digest. He heard all of this and reacted the only way he knew how: by warning his family that there was danger.

This morning, I woke up to put my daughter on the school bus and let my son sleep a bit longer. After she left for her busy day, one in which she was chosen by the school librarian to read a special poem over the P.A. system to commemorate September 11th, I got ready for work as my little boy wandered into my room still drowsy from sleep. He looked at the television, the news anchors were seated at Ground Zero and talking in somber tones about the various memorial services going on around the city. I watched him as he stood there, perhaps remembering his own reaction as a two year old six years earlier, and maybe he experienced a small amount of fear.

"Do you know what today is?" I asked him. He nodded with his eyes still fixed on the TV screen. "It's the day the World Trade Center fell down." He said. Then he paused and looked at me. "Dad, why don't they build those buildings again?"
"Who would want to work in them?" I said, perhaps a bit too sharply.

He shrugged and sat down on the bed. It was then that I needed to sit with him, hold him tight and make sure that he knew he was safe, even though there is still danger out there. There's a war raging in Iraq, Afghanistan, and images of 9/11 rolling around in our heads, even in the minds of eight year olds. Maybe I told him too much, or maybe not enough. But, young or old, understanding danger, remembering 9/11, and preparing for life in a violent world is something we have to do no matter what. Like the two year old who stood in a restaurant, pointed at the TV, and told his sister and his daddy and mommy about the danger that is everywhere, I had to make sure he knew, and remembered, that this day affects all of us. The victims live in the hearts and minds of their families, and the images and ripple effects of war and more and more American deaths in foreign lands remain. The world has changed forever because of 9/11, and a two year old can see that.

September 11th World Trade Center Ground Zero Twin Towers Long Island

Mr. Grudge Returns

Hello Readers:
After a long hiatus to work on other writing projects, Mr. Grudge has returned and will be changing his format from all baseball/Yankees to more of a standard writer's blog. This was the intent all along with this blog, however, one baseball post turned into another, and then...well..I couldn't help myself.

There will still be an occasional baseball post, but it will not be the focus of this space as Mr. Grudge will post mainly topics about writing, and will most likely post some brief works, and ask for submissions from readers. Thanks for reading Mr. Grudge, and I look forward to a long reading and writing relationship with all of you.

~Mr. Grudge~

Don't Say That

It's been a while since I've posted; but it's the summer and there's plenty to do, including watching baseball. Writing about baseball takes time and is not a very enticing activity when the sun is shining outside and the beach is beckoning. The only time Mr. Grudge gets to enter anything into this space is at work...oops, I mean at night.

Speaking of Mr. Grudge's tentative employment at this current company, one of my favorite baseball associates came in to the office where I work discuss the events of the weekend when the Yankees put up football sized scores against the minor-major league Tampa Bay Devil Rays. This writer joked that the explosive offense displayed by the Yanks over the weekend was all of the production for the rest of July and for all of August spent in one spot over a few days, and that no one needs to worry about them getting a hit for the rest of the season. A young man was waiting for assistance nearby, and he scoffed at my mildy amusing little quip.

After that, my baseball buddy and I discussed the relative futility of the Yankees offensive efforts as they have to win better than 85% of their games for a run at a wild card berth (maybe not that much, but close, un-scientifically speaking). One may or may not agree with that statement, but realistically, unless Cleveland sputters and falls completely, the Yankees have to turn it up two notches, not just one, and keep the heat on for the rest of this very short season to have a chance at the wildcard.

The man waiting in our office, whom both me and my buddy were ignoring at that point, reacted to our conversation by saying "Don't say that, don't say that. They're going all the way." Talk about denial. I told him to pull the bill of his Yankees cap back up so he can see better and look at the standings. This team plays sporadically between fairly good and just plain awful. Their upcoming schedule may look soft for a couple of weeks, but that is no guarantee of success. This team hasn't put together enough wins in a row all season to stay above .500 consistently, let alone making a run at the playoffs. The best they can hope for is to become spoilers.

Call me crazy, cynical, uninformed, or whatever else you feel like. But that's writer's opinion, and I'm sticking to it.

Get Rid Of Them All: A Frustrated Fan Rants

Scott Proctor is either very good, or very bad. He's one of those pitchers who Joe Torre can rely upon. That means he gets to trot to the mound every day and throw the ball until his arm breaks off. That does not mean that he gets off the hook for walking in the game winning run against the Baltimore Orioles Tuesday night.

Without recounting the gory details, it was one of those scenarios where this writer, while watching the game with the sound on mute to help keep my blood pressure lower (it's difficult to listen to someone give a play by play of crappy baseball), knew that the Yankees would lose. It was especially infuriating to lose with Proctor walking in the winning run.

When the Yankees return to Yankee Stadium Friday to face the Oakland A's, stadium personnel should dispense with the organ music, and all of the other song clips and sound effects and merely play circus music for the entire game. That would not only make me feel good, it would be appropriate for the way the season is going.

Before the trade deadline, the Yankees not only should trade Proctor, they should donate him to a team in need of a mascot. They could give him a name like "Whizzo The Clown" to describe the hard throwing circus geek who can throw 96 MPH, but couldn't strike out Stephen Hawking at the plate with a bat on his lap. Kids could take turns spinning him in circles and watch him try to throw a ball at a barn-sized wall and miss to simulate the way he pitches during actual games.

I don't want to pick just on Scott Proctor. There's plenty of blame to go around this three ring circus of over-paid, complacent millionaires with visions of millions more of your dollars dancing in their heads. Next time you lay out a week's pay to take your family to Yankee Stadium for a game while sitting up in the nosebleed seats, take a gander at the 200+ million dollar team and see if you don't resent the fact that these clowns are the reason you're paying $12 for a hot dog.

This writer wouldn't mind seeing the whole team shipped off to other teams (where they'd flourish) and replace them all with minor leaguers. I'm thinking that some small market team might need guy who could go three for four with a walk in games where the team is winning 15-1, and go "0" for four in games where they're losing by one run. Can anyone say "Bobby Abreu?" The bullpen doesn't just need a rest, they need to be put to sleep, and brittle Johnny Damon should grow his long hair and beard back and stand in the dugout waving pom-poms because he's not good for much else. The guy has drive and plays hard. However, he's been injured ever since he became a Yankee and this writer doesn't care what else his problem is. Ever wonder why the Red Sox let him go? The reason is staring you right in the face: he's falling apart.

I could go on, but what's the point? There is no October, the team is toast, and it will take divine intervention for them to land a wild card berth let alone (ha ha ha) win the division. You can bet that Joe Torre will lose his Subway commercials with Willie Randolph along with his job as Skipper of the Yankees come October 1st when the Bronx Bombers scatter like school children sent home on the last day of school for the off season. Though, I can see him eventually doing commercials for life insurance for "seniors over the age of sixty five." By the way, notice how I didn't say "post season?" There is none, Yankee fans.

Looking Towards October

The division is out of reach for the Yankees this year it seems. However, the Wild Card may be the most attainable goal for the Bronx Bombers. With the way they're playing, nothing seems possible, though. One of my baseball colleagues at my job observed that the Yankees pulled Joe Girardi from Tuesday night's broadcast in Baltimore. Most likely, it was because the Yankees didn't want Girardi to have to discuss why he turned down the managerial job with the Orioles. Also, the Yes Network didn't want the Girardi story to become a distraction to the game. As my friend quipped, "The way they're playing, they can use all the distractions that come their way."

He's right. The only thing as a Yankees fan this writer has to look forward to is the All Star Game. After that, it's the long slide until the end of the season and my interest then focuses on football and whichever of the "New Jersey" teams are doing well. You just know that there are hunting and fishing magazines laying around the Yankee's clubhouse.

I'm a dedicated and fervent baseball fan, and a fair weather football fan. It's sad, that at this point in the season, I'm already looking for my Jets and Giants tee shirts in the closet. I can't wait to see the commercials during the Super Bowl.

New Image Of Mr. Grudge

Special thanks to Stephen Ingram for the painting of Mr. Grudge. This image has developed over time, and he's captured Mr. Grudge in a good mood. You can view Stephen's Blog, and his terrific drawings and paintings here: http://www.stepheningram.blogspot.com/. Please visit his blog and enjoy!

Mr. Grudge Goes Fishing

Have a great weekend all. Even though this is baseball season, I do my best baseball writing in the off-season. Just kidding. It's V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N time. Go Yankees, I think. Oh, hell. I should care about the lives of millionaires?