Mrs. Rouse was my third grade teacher at Gaston Point Elementary. Probably in her mid to late fifties by the time I landed in her class back in the late 70's, she was part of the generation that lived through WWII. Thirty rambunctious kids were in her classroom, but order and discipline was never a problem. This woman who had lived through a World War rarely raised her voice. A look or a raised eyebrow was usually enough to get us to simmer down.
Now and then she'd stop the ongoing lesson plan and just talk to the class. She'd tell us some of the close calls her husband had when he was deployed overseas. During one assault he felt an impact to his side. It spun him around, and he dropped to the ground frantically trying to assess his injuries. Luckily he'd been zig zagging just right. A bullet passed directly between his canteen and utility belt. A few inches over would have been a nasty wound.
One night he was in a foxhole making a meal of whatever C-rats were available to him. It came with a candy bar that he didn't want so he offered it to his buddy in another foxhole several yards over. His buddy crawled over and just flopped in when they came under fire. When the smoke cleared, they both crawled out to check the damage. That's when they saw his buddy's old foxhole had taken a direct hit from a mortar shell. Saved by a candy bar.
Nearly ten years later I was in high school and having a conversation with a teacher. She was telling a story about a trunk they'd found in her father's attic after his death. When the trunk was opened, it was filled with mementos from his life as a soldier during WWII - photographs, uniforms, field equipment, and, surprising everybody, live ammunition.
An ordinance disposal team from nearby Keesler Air Force Base was called out to render the munitions safe. They inspected the rest of the chest's contents to ensure nothing was missed and came across some navigational charts. Curious, the team spread them out on a table and froze. I can imagine the chills that went down their spines as they saw place names on the charts: Utah, Omaha, Juno, Gold, Sword.
"Ma'am, this belongs in a museum," whispered the disposal technician. Unfortunately the story of those charts and the role her father played on that day died with him.
Looking back I wonder what other stories were never told or couldn't be told. I likely walked among WWII combat veterans without realizing it. The somber old guys who always huddled together during Seabee base picnics, the crotchety old guy who lived next door, even my junior high principal were all part of this revered fraternity. They answered the call when the world went crazy. Starting out as a bunch of scared kids, forging bonds unique to the battlefield, and coming out the other side as the Greatest Generation. It certainly wasn't the life they would have chosen, but the results of their actions still echo today. I hope people continue to tell their stories.
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