Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz-
The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?
Do you remember the rats; and the stench
Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench-
And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
Do you ever stop and ask, ‘Is it all going to happen again?’
Do you remember that hour of din before the attack-
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With dying eyes and lolling heads-those ashen-grey
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
Have you forgotten yet?…
Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you’ll never forget.
From Aftermath (1919) by Siegfried Sassoon
My father never complained about the snow and cold of a Maine winter, a vow he made to himself during World War II when he was sick with malaria in a 105° Burmese jungle. Like many in his generation, he was eager to serve after the Pearl Harbor attack, so he joined the Army Air Corps and became a navigator, stationed in Burma. When I was growing up, he shared some stories of the war, but only as I got older, and usually just when I asked him. Perhaps he had made another private vow: If he survived, he would avoid talking about the experience. I suppose that many events, while acutely remembered, can be revealed only with time.
My parents bought their first house in a Portland neighborhood off Ocean Avenue in the 1950s. Neighbors became friends, in particular a family whose father, Carl, was also a World War II veteran. Our families took ski trips together, shared dinners, and rode sleds in winter down the hill at Payson Park. Carl and his wife remained good friend with my parents.
Carl died a few years ago, almost a decade after my father. At his memorial service, the minister chose to read some of what Carl had written about his war experience, of which I knew little.
Carl was born with a heart defect that disqualified him for service. Despite that, he took a military physical and begged the doctor in charge to pass him, which he did. Carl joined the Army, shipped off to Europe, and was captured by the enemy at the Battle of the Bulge. On that day, as the Germans gathered the GIs in the middle of a snowy field, he expected to be killed. But, as he wrote, “even the Germans must have been sick of all the killing,” and he and the other captives were sent to a POW camp.
Conditions were wretched, since it was the end of the war and even the Germans had scarce supplies of food and medicine. The Allies looked after their own with what little they had. Carl volunteered as an assistant to a dentist in the camp, another POW, who had to administer care without anesthetics. But the dentist was also a gifted vocalist. As he treated a soldier he would sing, soothingly, to distract the patient from the pain. Carl remarked how strange it would have been, for someone passing by and unfamiliar with the circumstances, to hear such an ethereal voice rising out of such a terrible place.
— Scott