 When my grandfather died in 1975, I had just moved to California. Next thing I knew, I was flying back to Florida for his funeral. It was a small service, just my grandmother—his wife, Minnie—my parents, brother, me and my closest childhood girlfriend. But my grandfather, Harry Cohen (no relationship to our publisher David Cohen), was a World War I veteran, an infantryman who had remained active in his local American Legion. On the day he was laid to rest, two fellow WWI vets, in full dress, also attended his funeral. They had come to say farewell to one of their own. I remember these older men walking up to his coffin and saluting him. Like my grandfather, they were in their 80s, perhaps a bit younger. These were men who had let time build character into their faces, wisdom into their sight and a bit of a hitch in their gait. I remember them as clearly today as I did back then, almost 30 years ago.
These men, who had witnessed more horror and hatred than most of us will experience in a lifetime, gracefully turned to my family and handed us a meticulously folded American flag—our country's way of thanking those who serve. It was a simple, heartfelt act, one that leaves the recipient feeling quite humble.
My grandfather wasn't an officer, although he did receive a plaque recognizing his service to our country from former President Jimmy Carter. My grandfather was just one of thousands of young men who had been drafted to serve in what became known as the "Great War."
The Army even thought he had died in combat, reporting this to my great-grandparents, until, as my mother says, "They must have been picking up bodies on the field when someone hollered out, 'We have a live one here.'"
Even after he returned home, my grandfather felt a strong tie to those who had served in WWI. He attended the local American Legion meetings, and he was generous financially when it came to helping the organization and war veterans. He was a real, true patriot, making sure his American flag flew high on Memorial Day, Veterans Day and the Fourth of July.
Yet he came home psychologically battered. Today we know it as posttraumatic stress disorder. There was no name for this condition in 1919. It wasn't uncommon for my grandfather to jump when a car backfired, as the sound threw his mind back into the battlefield. He also developed heart problems, which resulted in him having a pacemaker implanted. Yet our country was good to him. All his medical attention was free of charge, courtesy of the United States government. And it was the least our country could do for him.
So because of my grandfather, I have a real soft spot for war veterans. It doesn't matter what war they fought in—and whether we agreed with these wars—because every one of those men and women who served fulfilled an obligation to their country, some because they chose to, others because they were asked to. And all of them came home changed forever.
Finally on May 29, those who served in World War II were honored. The dedication of the National World War II Memorial in Washington, D.C., was long overdue. About 140,000 people made the trip to witness the official unveiling of this impressive and grand memorial. More would have come, but the years have taken them away.
One of the most striking parts of this monument is the wall of 4,000 gold stars—one for every 100 deaths. Four hundred thousand service personnel died in World War II. There is also a beautiful pond with a ring of fountains continuously spraying water, as magnificent archways and columns form a semicircle around the pond. The entire memorial appears symbolic of life, the tall pillars representing strength, the nonstop fountains a symbol of hope and the wall of stars a reminder of life's fragility.
And this year's WWII dedication is particularly timely, as we continue to do battle across the globe and read about too many soldiers dying on a daily basis. This memorial is a stark reminder of just how many lives have been lost throughout history. And how many battles have been fought since my grandfather put down his own weapons in 1919.
But I continue to hope that one day we will learn to harness the power of our weapons and discover the power of our words. I dream that that day is in my children's future and that monuments such as these will become a reminder of our distant past.
Until then, I salute my grandfather and all the men and women who put themselves in harm's way every day.
Moryt Milo is the editor of The Willow Glen Resident. She can be contacted at 400.200.1051 or mmilo@svcn.com.
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