An American Hero

Last October I took a writing class. One assignment was to write eight hundreds about An American Hero. This was my story.

AN AMERICAN HERO

I had the good fortune to meet Norman Schwarzkopf. I was moved by his love of this country and dedication to his men. I was pleasantly surprised and thoroughly enjoyed his quick wit and sense of humor. After all, this was a four star general. But he is not the American hero I want to write about. Instead, a high school dropout who earned the highest rank of private attainable. After the attack on Pearl Harbor, at the age of nineteen he enlisted in the Army and headed off to Europe. When he returned, he had accumulated several commendations and medals, including two purple hearts and a bronze star. Thankfully, he did come back from the war, otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. This man is my father.

He stood up for me and pushed me to be better. You see, my parents were told I would have to repeat the eighth grade because I had a reading level of a second grader. My father made it clear that was not acceptable. His daughter had fallen through the cracks of their system; she wasn’t going to pay for it. Instead, I went to summer school, learned how to read and entered the ninth grade on schedule. Also, at this time I was terribly shy. He made me take a speech class. The thought of it almost gave me a nervous breakdown. As always, he was right and it was just what I needed. Now I can stand in front of a group, reading and reading words I wrote.

I can’t begin to tell you the positive impact he had on my life in eight hundred words. I also think that would be unfair and unjust to speak of his heroism in such a limited arena. His heroism stretched across the sea and touched so many.

Last May at the age of eighty-two, he and thirty of his army buddies went back to Italy. They had all been back there for the fiftieth anniversary of Normandy. But this was different. More personal and private. They wanted to see the small villages where they lived, fought and saw their fellow soldiers die. In one of these small villages my father and two other men hired a driver to take them around. When they had all piled in the car, the driver asked where they wanted to go. They gave the location of a huge hole left by a bomb. The driver almost broke his neck turning so fast to look them in the eye. With a puzzled and bewildered look on his face, he asked why they wanted to go there. They told him of the two weeks they spent laying in that muddy hole, fighting off the Germans. The driver then looked at them with teary eyes and a huge smile on his face. In his broken English he told them, no charge for the ride. It would be his honor and privilege. He knew this location. It's where his father had built their home. When they arrived at the destination there was no evidence of the bombed out hole they lived in. Instead a beautiful home with children playing in the yard. Being Italian, the driver and his wife invited them for lunch. This couple couldn’t do enough for these three men. If it hadn’t been for their bravery their home would not exist. When my father called to tell me about his trip his voice was full of excitement and pride. Then his voice changed. I knew what he was about to say was emotional and serious. He explained that as they traveled around Italy from small town to small town, one out of every ten people came up to them, gave them a hug and said, “Thank you for giving us our country back.”

These men have a special bond and camaraderie. A special connection only they can share. They saw and endured such horrors I can’t even imagine and don’t want to. The war ended long ago, but their commitment to each other lives on. As a member of the Veterans of Foreign Wars, my father attends an average of two funerals a week. I would find this very depressing. He and the others who attend don’t feel that way at all. They also don’t see it as a duty they must carry out, but an honor. Standing in a cemetery providing a military send off, three fellow soldiers fire their rifles into the quiet, crisp air. They provide the last salute to bravery.

There are thousands of men just like my father. Their heroism is unknown to the millions who have benefited. No one knows their names or what they did. But isn’t that a true sign of a real hero.