An Unexpected Treasure

Ten years ago, I was twenty-five years old.  Sam and I were neck-deep in a bathroom remodel we were desperately trying to finish before the arrival of our third child.  We'd arrive home from our jobs, inhale a quick dinner (maybe), and work for hours doing all the things that come along with an extensive remodeling project.  One morning, I woke up and groggily walked out to the coffeepot,\ as I do every single day.  In my half-awake state I heard an unfamiliar whooshing sound coming from the hallway across the house.  I walked that way and about halfway across the living room, my foot squished into the rug, which should most definitely not have been wet.  The water on the floor got deeper, and the noise got louder as I approached the bathroom.  A cap had blown off a pipe and was shooting water onto the wall and floor with the force of a fire hose.  I did what I do in all emergency situations.  I yelled for Sam.  We got the water turned off in the yard, called out of work, and spent the day remediating the water damage.  To this day, ten years later, I get anxious when I hear water, whether it's a drizzle outside I didn't know it was supposed to rain, or the dishwasher whirring that I didn't know someone had started, or even someone washing their hands in the bathroom.

A few years after that, once again in a half-awoken state (a common theme in my life, it seems), I heard the door to our garage lower as Sam left for work.  Moments later, I heard the strange sound of what I thought might be a lawnmower outside of my bedroom window in our backyard.  "That's interesting," I thought. "Maybe someone is pity-mowing our yard for us."  I stumbled, once again, toward the coffeepot before even glancing out back because my priorities are, admittedly, not in perfect order.  When I reached the kitchen, I was able to see straight out the big windows that give an almost-panoramic view of our backyard and witnessed no fewer than half a dozen policemen with guns drawn, and a police helicopter flying so low that its skids were hovering just a few feet above where the treetops would have been, had they not been bowing towards the ground from the force of the wind.  As I looked on, a policeman ripped the sheet off a blanket fort my kids had made on our back porch the day before.  I did what I do and called Sam on his cell phone.  No answer.  I called my dad 700 miles away and cried with fear.  I would soon find out that a robbery had occurred a few miles south at a convenience store and the fugitive burglar was hiding (and subsequently apprehended because WRPD and Houston County Sheriff's Office don't play) in the stormwater detention area behind our fence.  Even now, years later, when I hear the unexpected sound of a nearby motor, I peek out of my blinds half expecting another invasion by police forces in relentless pursuit of a criminal.

I tell these stories to highlight the fact that I have experienced very little trauma in my life.  I do not say this from a position of bragging, but most humbly and by God's grace.  Prone to fear, I get a little knot in my stomach when I can't quickly place unexpected sounds, particularly water and engine noises.  It's almost laughable.  Hold that thought.

Last week, as Ben pulled a notebook from a pile in our office, some very-yellowed newspaper clippings fluttered to the floor.  Not exactly sure of their origins, I was curious enough to peek at them.  The first two were of little note about distant family members, but the third one took my breath away.  Both of my grandfathers served in the Pacific in World War II.  My dad's dad was in the Army and fought in both Okinawa and the Philippines.  Occasionally, he would talk about his time there and in our conversations what I noted the most was how much compassion and love he felt for the  Philippine people.  Although I knew my mom's dad served in the Navy on the San Francisco and New Orleans, he did not talk about his time in the war.  In fact, we really just knew not to bring it up.  Having lost a brother after the war as a result of the devastation of what we now know is PTSD, my grandfather coped with his experiences by shutting them away as many men and women of that great generation did in order to carry on with post-war civilian life.  I can hardly blame them.  Based on his dates of service, my dad has been able to track the movements of the ships my grandfather was on and figured out some of the battles in which he fought.  These puzzle pieces are all we have had as a tribute to his time in the service.

Until the newspaper clipping fell to the floor.

I will let the words speak for themselves.

(In case it can't be read, some quotes)

Young McGrath, home on furlough after approximately eighteen months of active duty in which his ship took part in practically every engagement that the navy has encountered during his stay there, is rated as an Electrician's Mate, 2/C, but had to transform himself into a gunner when the gunner whose place he filled for the remainder of the voyage was scalped by a Jap bullet during one of the engagements.

My ship once had more than a hundred feet blown off during a battle.  That was a big hunk out of a ship, but we got it repaired.  I thought my time had come, however, not then by the time a Jap plane plummeted to our deck, sprayed the whole section with high-test gas, and then burst into flames.  It looked bad for awhile, but we came through finally.

Young McGrath helped to rescue the line Marine who remained on Guam for twenty-one months.  He was operating one of the search lights when the Marine swam out to a lifeboat. 

The Electrician's Mate-Gunner will report back to the San Francisco later this month.  He has already signed for more sea duty. (emphasis mine) 

It was surreal to come across this piece of history one day in the midst of our normal routine.  No one in our family had every seen this article or knew these details about his time in the Navy. We lost my grandfather nearly 19 years ago, and with each passing day there are fewer of these brave men and women left to tell their stories.  When I stop to consider how weak and cowardly I am when contrasted to the bravery and fortitude of the young people of the greatest generation who not only witnessed, but ran towards and fought against the unspeakable horrors of war, what I feel is gratitude.  We cannot thank you enough for your example and your courage.  And, on a personal note, thank you, Grandpop, for coping with trauma in the best way you could, for being one of the bravest men I knew even before I had an inkling of your war experiences, and for loving and living with passion and a smile for the rest of your days.