Glider Infantryman: Behind Enemy Lines in World War II

Prologue

“Went pretty well today,” Don says to himself, referring to the Memorial Day ceremonies put on by the local American Legion. For sixtyone years he has joined in honoring those who served in the US armed forces and are no longer living. Getting into his car, he backs out of the driveway and heads to Central Park to pick up the flags decorating the memorial markers.These markers are special.The soldiers whose names are on them died while serving their country. At the park, Don bends over and picks up a flag from a World War II marker dated 1945, Eddie Mathieu’s. Eddie was older than Don, tall, stocky, well built, with brown hair, a marine who died on a Pacific island. Don recalls his dad telling him about the time Eddie stopped by to visit when Don was in training. Eddie was a little cocky but very friendly.“We jump out of airplanes and don’t bother to use parachutes!” Eddie remarked as a gung-ho marine,trying to show how tough marines were.“Dad got a good chuckle out of that one.” Next in line are the markers for Thomas Buodewns, Benne Ricks, and Walter Manning.“Can’t remember much about these guys.Knew who they were,but can’t picture them.I’m slipping,I guess,”the eighty-four-year-old murmurs. “Harold Allred, . . . I knew him. Body was found in between two ships in a harbor. Cause of his death was never said.” “Orlon Wyse, . . . Mennonite, . . . four or so years older than me. Made quite a ruckus flying over town in his B-17 bomber. Last anyone ever heard from him.Tall, lanky, dark brown hair, . . . handsome and winsome. Didn’t even have to go, due to his religious beliefs. Parents objected, too. Family didn’t even have a funeral.” Don stares at the markers for a few seconds.“So many . . . so many. . . .” Don looks at his watch. He wants to get all the flags put away before dark. Six cemeteries need flags picked up. He pulls into the Sugar Creek Prologue Memorial Day 2007 prologue 2 Mennonite Church cemetery. A gloomy, empty feeling of depression fills him as he navigates the gravel path. “Get out!”Don hears a voice.“Get out!”He hears it again.“Get out and pray. . . .” Don is confused.“Must be my meds,” he thinks as he gets back into his truck and drives home. Don has been suffering from depressionlike symptoms for decades.Posttraumatic stress disorder from the war is what doctors call it.The Veterans Administration doesn’t even recognize it for World War II vets. He tells his wife Mary what happened, then turns and goes out the door and back to the cemetery. He can’t get the words out of his mind. At the cemetery, with tears running down his face, he gets out of the truck, takes a few steps, goes down to his knees, then lies face down on the ground. He is sobbing quietly. Half praying, half in anger, he repeats over and over,“So many . . . so many . . . !” Don loses track of time. It’s getting quite dark. As he lies prostrate, his mind focuses back six decades ago to a young soldier who lies out in front of a fallen tree that is protecting Don and others in the squad from German bullets. No one can get to him.The defeated enemy is getting revenge by letting the young soldier die in agony, slowly. “Rich, stay put! That’s an order!” Don can’t stand it anymore.“Medic! Medic!” Coming over to Don, the sergeant speaks.“Can’t risk a medic.We don’t have enough if they kill him.” The young soldier’s agony continues for hours.Through the evening he gasps for breath.The gasps turn to gurgling sounds.The sounds get softer and softer until there is silence before nightfall. “If only some of them would have at least volunteered for medic duty!” Don agonizes with God. He has been holding a grudge against those who did not serve in the war. He looks around and realizes the truth, as if for the first time he is seeing the names on the markers.Those who didn’t have to serve, because of their beliefs, but did anyway: Elmer Wagler, Eddie Ebner, Dan Good, Robert Reschly. . . . Don thinks back to his high school teacher, Mr. Gingerich, who argued with him about being a conscientious objector. Don remembers that Mr...