WRideout
05-26-2012, 07:02 PM
I thought this would be appropriate for Memorial Day. I first published this in the newsletter of Grace@Calvary Lutheran Church, Butler PA
Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends
John 15:13
In the days following the terrorist attacks of 2001, there was a resurgence of patriotic expression, generally seen as the flying of American flags at homes and on automobiles. One day, on the way home from work, I found one of these flags lying beside the road, obviously having fallen off a passing vehicle, and in danger of being desecrated by car tires. I took it home, went in the back yard, cut the blue field from the red and white stripes, and burned the pieces as I was taught in the Boy Scouts many years ago. As I stood watching our nation’s symbol being consumed, I thought about my uncle, Francis Randall, whom I never knew.
Uncle Francis, my mother’s brother, had joined an artillery regiment of the California Army National Guard in the late 1930’s. During World War II, his unit was mobilized to Europe, along with many others. He was killed in 1945, shortly after the D-day invasion when his gun position was hit by an enemy shell. I was born about seven years later. By then Uncle Francis’s story had become part of our family folklore, but the only real evidence I ever saw was his Purple Heart medal which my Aunt Bessie kept in a wooden box. My mother told me that he was buried in Margraten cemetery in Holland, with a marker bearing his name, shaped like a cross.
I too, became a soldier, and although I never served in war, I spent twenty years in uniform. While I was a student in Officer Candidate School, quite some time ago, I served as editor of the cadet company newsletter, for which I wrote a monthly editorial. For the November Veteran’s Day issue, I penned an essay about my uncle Francis. I extolled his virtues and self-sacrifice, spoke about how he was a just and honorable man who wanted to give us a better world. Afterward, I began to have second thoughts. After all, I had never met him, and my knowledge of his life was sketchy, at best. How did I know about his character? Was he actually that good, or did he have vices and flaws I just didn’t know about? The thought ate at me that I may have just written a nice propaganda piece, not based on reality.
By 2004 I was serving as a Fire Support Officer in the Pennsylvania Army National Guard, 28th Division. At one weekend drill in Hershey, I picked up a copy of the Army’s Soldier magazine I found lying on a table in the armory. I immediately noticed the headline at the bottom of the cover “Remembrance Day at Margraten”. The article described an annual memorial held by the Dutch, who revere the fallen American soldiers as liberators of their country from Nazi oppression. While some survivors of that time still attend, many of their children and grandchildren also come, out of a sense of sacred duty.
I copied the article and my essay, and sent them to my mother who looked up some old veterans back home, who had known Uncle Francis during the war. They appreciated knowing that the dead are not forgotten, and confirmed that her brother was the kind of man I imagined him to be. I finally understood that Uncle Francis gave his life nobly for people he did not know, in a country where he did not live. In his memory, I give my life daily in service to others, and still have more to give. I only hope that I am doing right by you, Uncle Francis.
Wayne
Greater love has no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends
John 15:13
In the days following the terrorist attacks of 2001, there was a resurgence of patriotic expression, generally seen as the flying of American flags at homes and on automobiles. One day, on the way home from work, I found one of these flags lying beside the road, obviously having fallen off a passing vehicle, and in danger of being desecrated by car tires. I took it home, went in the back yard, cut the blue field from the red and white stripes, and burned the pieces as I was taught in the Boy Scouts many years ago. As I stood watching our nation’s symbol being consumed, I thought about my uncle, Francis Randall, whom I never knew.
Uncle Francis, my mother’s brother, had joined an artillery regiment of the California Army National Guard in the late 1930’s. During World War II, his unit was mobilized to Europe, along with many others. He was killed in 1945, shortly after the D-day invasion when his gun position was hit by an enemy shell. I was born about seven years later. By then Uncle Francis’s story had become part of our family folklore, but the only real evidence I ever saw was his Purple Heart medal which my Aunt Bessie kept in a wooden box. My mother told me that he was buried in Margraten cemetery in Holland, with a marker bearing his name, shaped like a cross.
I too, became a soldier, and although I never served in war, I spent twenty years in uniform. While I was a student in Officer Candidate School, quite some time ago, I served as editor of the cadet company newsletter, for which I wrote a monthly editorial. For the November Veteran’s Day issue, I penned an essay about my uncle Francis. I extolled his virtues and self-sacrifice, spoke about how he was a just and honorable man who wanted to give us a better world. Afterward, I began to have second thoughts. After all, I had never met him, and my knowledge of his life was sketchy, at best. How did I know about his character? Was he actually that good, or did he have vices and flaws I just didn’t know about? The thought ate at me that I may have just written a nice propaganda piece, not based on reality.
By 2004 I was serving as a Fire Support Officer in the Pennsylvania Army National Guard, 28th Division. At one weekend drill in Hershey, I picked up a copy of the Army’s Soldier magazine I found lying on a table in the armory. I immediately noticed the headline at the bottom of the cover “Remembrance Day at Margraten”. The article described an annual memorial held by the Dutch, who revere the fallen American soldiers as liberators of their country from Nazi oppression. While some survivors of that time still attend, many of their children and grandchildren also come, out of a sense of sacred duty.
I copied the article and my essay, and sent them to my mother who looked up some old veterans back home, who had known Uncle Francis during the war. They appreciated knowing that the dead are not forgotten, and confirmed that her brother was the kind of man I imagined him to be. I finally understood that Uncle Francis gave his life nobly for people he did not know, in a country where he did not live. In his memory, I give my life daily in service to others, and still have more to give. I only hope that I am doing right by you, Uncle Francis.
Wayne