A Tribute to my Father
This is a tribute that to my father who passed away in 1987. Recently, I have been thinking about him a lot; in particular, about one time when I did not honor him as I should have. Because of this, I am now trying to show him honor, coming up on 25 years since his passing, by attending as many military ceremonies as I possibly can. This is also my reason for writing about him now.
My father was military. He was born in New York City. His father was from New Jersey and his mother was from Limerick City, Ireland. When he was two years of age, his father died; so, his mother sent him to Limerick to be raised by his grandmother. There, he lived in poverty in a country that was in its own battle with England. When he was approximately 16 years old, he returned to the States. Of course, he was a citizen because he was born here and never became a British citizen while living in Ireland (there were no Irish citizens in those days). Upon returning here, he found out that his mother had had another son, but never wrote to tell him that he had a brother. This was a total shock to him. In short, my father had a very hard life growing up.
After returning here, he got a job with the Interboro Rapid Transit (the IRT). This, of course, was later incorporated into the New York City Subway, and is still referred to by the name the IRT line. He then decided to join the Army National Guard; in particular, the 69th Regiment. He wound up joining the 71st Regiment because he walked into the wrong Armory. Once he realized that he joined the wrong one, he shifted his loyalties to the regiment he had joined and never looked back. He was proud to be a member of the 71st. He fought in WWII with the 342nd in Europe. He came home with what we now know is PTSD, in those days called “Battle Fatigue.” He also suffered from survivor guilt because of an incident where a sniper on a rooftop in Italy shot and killed the soldier standing next to my father, but he didn’t even have a scratch on him. He always broke down when he spoke of this, and always asked the question ‘Why am I alive and why was he killed.’ He was the First Sgt., he felt responsible for his men.
He rarely spoke of the war; in fact, the only time I ever remember hearing him speak of the War was when he was drinking. And he drank a lot, but he didn’t speak of the war every time he drank. And, for some reason, I was the one he would speak to about the war. I don’t know why. I am the youngest of four children. Maybe it was because I was the closest to him. Maybe because I was the last child left after my older sisters moved out and my brother died. (He died at age nine in a drowning accident. I was eight at the time.) Whatever the reason, I was the one he confided in most.
So, how does all of this relate to my not honoring him as I should have while he was living? Well, I’ll tell you. About a year after he left the Army National Guard, he got a letter from the Dept. of the Army asking him why he had not claimed his benefits since he spent about 35 years in service, maybe even a little more. So, he, my mother and I (I was probably 12 then) went to Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn to get the paperwork and the I.D. cards so we could enter any military base. At age 12, I thought this was stupid, I didn’t want to do it, you do it, I’m not doing it, I’m sick of military stuff. He made me go anyway. Then, a few years later, my cousins' mother (I am related to them through their father, a deadbeat) married a Naval Officer who was stationed at Floyd Bennett Field which was also in Brooklyn at the time; it is long closed now. Oh, great, I thought, more military in the family.
In about 1973, there was an Inspection at Fort Tilden (also closed now) in Rockaway Beach (actually, Roxbury). We lived in Rockaway, so the fort was close. My father asked me if I would go to the Inspection with him, and I said no. Then, he asked me two more times, and both times I said no. He went alone. My mother even came up to me and said “You can’t let him go to that inspection alone, he’s expecting you to accompany him.” And I, being a bratty teenager, shrugged it off. I wanted to do other things. When he came home, he said that my cousins were there with their step-father and they all asked why I wasn’t there. I still shrugged it off. Sometime later we were at the house of the Naval Officer that my cousins' mother married for some party, I don’t remember what. There were a lot of Officers there. At one point he pulled me aside and said “Your father was very hurt that you didn’t go to that inspection with him.” I still shrugged it off. Eventually, I forgot about it, until now. Recently, I have been thinking about it a lot and, quite frankly, crying about it. If I could travel back in time, I would go with my father. But I can’t. It’s as if my father is not really at rest. So, I am trying to honor him now, any way I can. That’s why I have begun to attend as many Military Ceremonies as possible.
My father was military. He was born in New York City. His father was from New Jersey and his mother was from Limerick City, Ireland. When he was two years of age, his father died; so, his mother sent him to Limerick to be raised by his grandmother. There, he lived in poverty in a country that was in its own battle with England. When he was approximately 16 years old, he returned to the States. Of course, he was a citizen because he was born here and never became a British citizen while living in Ireland (there were no Irish citizens in those days). Upon returning here, he found out that his mother had had another son, but never wrote to tell him that he had a brother. This was a total shock to him. In short, my father had a very hard life growing up.
After returning here, he got a job with the Interboro Rapid Transit (the IRT). This, of course, was later incorporated into the New York City Subway, and is still referred to by the name the IRT line. He then decided to join the Army National Guard; in particular, the 69th Regiment. He wound up joining the 71st Regiment because he walked into the wrong Armory. Once he realized that he joined the wrong one, he shifted his loyalties to the regiment he had joined and never looked back. He was proud to be a member of the 71st. He fought in WWII with the 342nd in Europe. He came home with what we now know is PTSD, in those days called “Battle Fatigue.” He also suffered from survivor guilt because of an incident where a sniper on a rooftop in Italy shot and killed the soldier standing next to my father, but he didn’t even have a scratch on him. He always broke down when he spoke of this, and always asked the question ‘Why am I alive and why was he killed.’ He was the First Sgt., he felt responsible for his men.
He rarely spoke of the war; in fact, the only time I ever remember hearing him speak of the War was when he was drinking. And he drank a lot, but he didn’t speak of the war every time he drank. And, for some reason, I was the one he would speak to about the war. I don’t know why. I am the youngest of four children. Maybe it was because I was the closest to him. Maybe because I was the last child left after my older sisters moved out and my brother died. (He died at age nine in a drowning accident. I was eight at the time.) Whatever the reason, I was the one he confided in most.
So, how does all of this relate to my not honoring him as I should have while he was living? Well, I’ll tell you. About a year after he left the Army National Guard, he got a letter from the Dept. of the Army asking him why he had not claimed his benefits since he spent about 35 years in service, maybe even a little more. So, he, my mother and I (I was probably 12 then) went to Fort Hamilton in Brooklyn to get the paperwork and the I.D. cards so we could enter any military base. At age 12, I thought this was stupid, I didn’t want to do it, you do it, I’m not doing it, I’m sick of military stuff. He made me go anyway. Then, a few years later, my cousins' mother (I am related to them through their father, a deadbeat) married a Naval Officer who was stationed at Floyd Bennett Field which was also in Brooklyn at the time; it is long closed now. Oh, great, I thought, more military in the family.
In about 1973, there was an Inspection at Fort Tilden (also closed now) in Rockaway Beach (actually, Roxbury). We lived in Rockaway, so the fort was close. My father asked me if I would go to the Inspection with him, and I said no. Then, he asked me two more times, and both times I said no. He went alone. My mother even came up to me and said “You can’t let him go to that inspection alone, he’s expecting you to accompany him.” And I, being a bratty teenager, shrugged it off. I wanted to do other things. When he came home, he said that my cousins were there with their step-father and they all asked why I wasn’t there. I still shrugged it off. Sometime later we were at the house of the Naval Officer that my cousins' mother married for some party, I don’t remember what. There were a lot of Officers there. At one point he pulled me aside and said “Your father was very hurt that you didn’t go to that inspection with him.” I still shrugged it off. Eventually, I forgot about it, until now. Recently, I have been thinking about it a lot and, quite frankly, crying about it. If I could travel back in time, I would go with my father. But I can’t. It’s as if my father is not really at rest. So, I am trying to honor him now, any way I can. That’s why I have begun to attend as many Military Ceremonies as possible.
Beautiful, evocative writing about a beautiful gentleman (as I can attest from having known him). Thanks for your willingness to share these recollections. I'm sure your dad would be proud.
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