My Uncle Roy Kriens By Barbara Schneider The maple-stained wood on the scrapbook cover looks new, only a small scrape mars the wood below a metal hinge. Inside is a different story. The pages--really paper envelopes, intended to hold souvenirs and memories of joy-filled days--are turning brown around the edge. Their flaps so fragile to the touch small flakes fall off whenever the book is opened. It’s a small book, only a few of its envelopes are filled, holding the few remaining tangible souvenirs of the man—teenager really-- they were intended to honor: PFC. Roy Kriens, a 19-year-old casualty of World War II. The book has been lovingly guarded, wrapped in a silk scarf and stored unopened in a bureau drawer, for more than sixty year. My mother bought the book shortly after her brother, my Uncle Roy, was drafted He graduated from Hasbrouck Height High School, in New Jersey, in June 1943, loved to write, and hoped to go to college and study journalism. Two months later he was drafted. The US Army decided he was leadership material and sent him to officer training school. After a few weeks, when the Army needed more men on the Italian front the trainees were shipped out, including Uncle Roy. He served in the Third Army under Clark. Roy left home when I was a toddler and never came back. My memories of him are limited: A fading brown portrait on my mother’s dresser for as long as I can remember; a vivid, childhood memory of my mother crying uncontrollably after two men in uniform came to our house on a rainy, grey morning in May. The war had ended days before and my mother was so relieved that her beloved younger brother would be coming home. She couldn’t believe fate would be so cruel to snatch his life so close to the war’s end. His body is buried in Italy, only a handful of personal trinkets made it home to his family. The loss of a handsome young brother, whose young life had once promised so much until death cut it short, was too painful for memories and casual conversation. On a recent trip to visit my mother in Florida, our talk rambled into memories of those we’d lost. And, how sad it is to realize how details of those we loved grow fuzzy over time and disappear. She stood up and walked across the room to a bureau, pulled out the old scrapbook and gently opened the envelopes. With reverence, she unfolded small grey sheets of paper and passed them to me one at a time. During the brief time he served in World War II, roughly 18 months, Roy sent home his reflections and impressions of the scenes around him in poems and short articles. In honor of Memorial Day and all the valiant souls who were lost, we dedicate this poem, “The Battle,” written by Roy Kriens shortly before a gunshot wound in the Po Valley cost him his life on April 14, 1945. The Battle By Roy Kriens Deeply scarred, torn and charred, The field of battle lay. The trees were burned, The stones upturned, The sky was cold and grey. A dismal view, Which battle drew, The picture of dismay. And ‘çross this field An icy dark creek Ran wide and swift and deep, On its bed of sand and clay. And there on the bank, Where footsteps sank, An empty, upturned helmet lay Here’s where men were taught, That life was next to naught; ‘Twas here that soldiers fought On many a heartless day. And these men that fought, These men that were taught, Were filled with courage and zeal They came to fight with truth and might, For they knew their cause was real, But then the battle was done, Someone had won The fighting and screaming was ended. Much was lost, Great the cost, And many a life expended. But these that survived And came back alive Cast warfare and sadness away. They hold their tears, And hide their fears And try to be joyous and gay. And though they laugh again, And sing and play, They forget not the men who fell Where the empty, upturned helmet lay. Here where the world is quiet* Beauteous sights all around Here where the world is resting Here’s where peace can be found. Come and rejoice with heaven, Come and rejoice with mankind Come fill your soul with this joy, Come know the peace you can find. *This brief poem was written just below The Battle.