A letter to my dad, the veteran

Dear Dad:

You were my very first hero.

Tall and handsome, confident and strong, moral and ethical, and yet so, so funny. To me, you are perfect.

When I was little, I was sure you could do anything. Remember when I was 4? I was sick and turned to you to solve the problem. I cried: “Dad, I don’t wanna throw up. Make me stop!” You said, “Hey, there’s nothing I can do to stop THAT!”

You shocked me. Until then, I hadn’t known that you couldn’t protect me from every single danger. I still don’t believe it entirely.

That summer, you balanced me on your hip while you waded in the surf at St. Simons Island. I told you I was afraid of the waves, that I didn’t want them to wash over my head. You strode out chest-deep, clutched me tighter, and let the big waves break over both of us.

You said, “See? You did it!” Well, really, YOU did it, but: You held me while I faced down that fear, and you never let me go.

Everybody says you joined the Army because Pearl Harbor was bombed: You knew we were going to war and you had always wanted to fly, so you beat the draft board and joined the Army Air Corps.

As the pilot of the B-26, you flew mission after mission. Italy and North Africa. You bombed the Liri River Dam. Your plane was hit by flak, lost the rudder cable, went into a spiral. You brought your plane and your crew home anyway.

It happened again. You did it again. You won medals. You never wore them.

I wouldn’t know any of this, of course, unless I had found the newspaper articles your sister saved.

Like all real military heroes, you never talked about The War. I’ve never heard you brag about what you did—and I’ve never heard you excuse your flaws by calling up any of the terrifying things you lived through.

Some nights, the bunk next to you would be empty where a buddy slept the night before. Back home, your mother stopped answering the door.

You never once said: “Hey, I did my part. My country owes me.”

You helped defeat the Nazis. You helped save the world. Thanks, Dad.

Very rarely, you would mention an interesting anecdote, but that’s it. Once, I was working on a school project about volcanoes, and you told me that you were flying a night bombing run when your instruments failed. You used the glow from Mt. Etna to guide you home.

Sixty years later, you had lived a long life that would have been honorable even if we don’t count your military service.

You were an old man. Your body was failing you, and you—always strong and invincible before—were fighting a war that nobody ever wins.

After weeks, months, of struggling, you looked up at me with clear eyes. You told me to leave the room because you had something that you needed to do, and you didn’t want me to be there while you did it.

You died on February 10, 2004.

Your country is grateful to you. Your family is grateful to you. I am grateful to you.

You see, whenever I am fighting my own little personal wars, you are there with me. Because of your example to me as a father and as a man, you never let me come home at night to face an empty space where you once were. You’re always in my heart, still, and like Mt. Etna, the light of the life that you lived and the man that you were is always there, guiding me safely back home.