In the late fifties when I became more aware of what my mother and father was telling their children and into the early sixties, they told us of a man. In those days, I suppose many parents felt a need to explain what us youngsters might see and wonder about—things they worried might cause us to be confused. One early explanation I recall was that of a lone figure who walked (forced marched) up and down the winding road to Lookout Mountain in Gadsden, Alabama.
He was in his world. He was not in ours that we could tell. Passing him by going down or traveling up toward home, we would see him regularly in those days and at nine or ten years old, one feels sorry that he was doing that. I felt sorry that he was alone. I worried that he was marching on the narrow shoulder of three-lane asphalt, the third lane alternating up and down, depending on the curve for traffic to pass slower vehicles either way. There he was and he was calling commands. Commands none of us could hear from inside the family’s station wagon, but I knew what they were. I had watched many war films and somehow knew what he was doing and asked my mother about him.
She explained he had been a Major in the war and that he thought he was still there. He was still in war—somewhere in Europe, leading other men to fight across the fields and through the towns, that was France and Germany. He had returned from the battles intact physically. I remember him being stocky and balding—or he kept his hair cut to his scalp. He appeared thick, strong and every bit a leader. He marched alone and carried no weapon.
Mother told us that he was shell-shocked. I’m sure she tried to explain who he was and why he was doing such a strange thing in as gentle way as she could. He lost his mind in a battle or perhaps over the course of several battles. He was a Major in the United States Army. He became trained, hardened and able to fight the enemies of America—the enemies of a peace-loving world. He put himself into the horror to stop Hitler’s designs. He did all he could as a man and stood tall in those days as a warrior for right and led other men to fight for the same right. Thank you, Major. God I trust you are in your right mind now and have had every beautiful sensation return to you, as I know you are looking down on us from Heaven.
I think about the Major. I think how sad it is that I—we—forget about him as we go about life. He would want us too. He expected Americans to go about and live life. He gave his mind for us to be free and live in peace. He must be happy that his country finished the job during those years—the years of his prime that were the forties. He must be proud that Europe has a good life free from Nazism. That’s the kind of man he was, of that I’m certain. So when I remember him from time to time I feel sad for him. Something went horribly wrong inside his mind and he couldn’t enjoy more what he deserved—that consciousness of happiness in America. He was still carrying the fight to the enemy twenty years after VE day.
I can see him marching alongside of that mountain road and calling orders without a flinch, without a hesitation, and sure. I watch him, his head is down often, I suppose to watch his step along the road toward Bastogne or Berlin itself perhaps,—I don’t know where he was while we carefully passed him each time. Other drivers gave him room too and slowed as they came on him. It seemed everyone who lived on that mountain knew of him in those days and respected him enough to make sure he was safe. What most of us never knew was more about the Major to appreciate his story. That is sad. I wonder what he would think of us today. I hope he is proud of the people he stepped up to do the fighting for instead of others and not disappointed in us.
Major, I toast you. I toast to your courage and grit, your heart and strength—that you put everything you had and everything you would ever have on the line for truth and freedom. Thank you, sir. I am honored to know you were American and that I saw you in those days. I am happy to be an ordinary American—that much gives us some inkling of kinship and of that, we all can be proud.
T’anks—i have known several good men like the Major. I knew some while I was still an Army Medic. And I think of “Wimp”
who was not a wimp-But Wimbush had survived what Hollywood would know only as Hamburger Hill.He was a rifleman then-but was a Medical Maintenance man and alcoholic when we were roommates,in Panama. And there are others I’ve known since
that like everyone I have known were alive but are now dead.
they are all dead—gone to ground -or moved on-or dead-and the night is no longer my enemy.