Watching these old, frail men, I think about my
childhood, when the World War I veterans were the old, old men. And it seems
incredible to me that those World War I veterans were once the elders of this now
rapidly vanishing World War II generation. These men, as we see them today,
stooped and slight, are the elders. How
could anyone come before these men?
My grandfather, who served in Japan, would have turned
ninety-six today, except like most World War II veterans, he didn’t live to see
this century. And he never marched in a parade or went to veterans’ reunions or
made much of his time in the Army. And it seems incredible to me now, but not
once did I ask him about his service in World War II. Not once. It was, I
believed, a distant, unimportant part of his life. It was the past.
Today I showed my children his photograph, and I told
them that their great-grandfather fought in a war, just like the other veterans
in the parade. Maybe my son will remember that once, as a very young boy, he
saw World War II veterans. Maybe as an adult my daughter will remember that she
marched with them in a Memorial Day Parade long ago.
I think of my grandfather when he was a young, young
child like my son, and Civil War veterans were still alive. They were the old, old
men. Maybe he once saw them in a parade like this one. Maybe he stood with a
flag, saluting his elders.
For years, on and off, I’ve been working on a vast,
sprawling historical novel that spans more than four decades and opens during
World War II. Part of the book tells the story of an American G.I. fighting in
Europe. I have read countless books and seen countless documentaries and films
about the war; I know about D-Day and the layout of Omaha, Utah, Juno, Gold,
and Sword beaches and the paratroopers at Sainte Mère-Église and the Battle of
the Bulge and Christmas in the Ardennes and the liberation of Paris. I know all
of this, but still I don’t know enough.
Seeing these delicate, elderly men with their bird bones,
their quaking hands held up in greeting, I try to imagine their stories. Seeing
these human beings who were once younger than I, who were thrown into a war
when they were barely past childhood, I realize how deep into my imagination I
must reach, and I wonder if I am up to the task. I wonder if I can do them
justice.