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2 "BID. in mini" The AmericanMilitary Cemetery at Margraten, The Netherlands August 2000 More than fifty-five years after Mom received that second telegram, here I stand. Across acres of grass, white marble crosses fan out in curved rows, looking from above like so many gull wings arcing silently over the sea. In the center of these 8,302 crosses stands one. I turn into Plot J, step deliberately to the middle ofRow 3, stop and peer intently at Grave 8. It hits hard now. Trembling, I look through tears—and through the {6} "DAD, IT'S BENNY" {7 } memory of a gold star, of mothballs, and of parentheses —to a single cross: Dad's. EWING R. MC CLELLAND iLT 589 FA BN106 DIV PENNSYLVANIA DEC 23 1944. Finally, with this pilgrimage, I am here, face-to-face with the fact of my dad's death. Even at age fifty-six, I feel like the child he left so long ago. In my mind Isay, "Dad, it's Benny." I can now count myself among those for whom he died. But what circuitous journey of half a century has brought me to this point, to this place of understanding ? How has growing up without him—and with awar hero ghost, instead—affected who I am? In what ways has his death—and the waymy family treated it—influenced my identity? ...

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