How My Father Fought

Dad fought for the right to go to war.

As a rambunctious five year-old, he had fallen off a water tower on his uncle's farm, practically shattering his left elbow. Orthopedic medicine was still pretty primitive in 1925, so it was sheer luck and skill that the surgery did not include the amputation my grandmother feared it would. A lefty, Dad had to not only work to regain any use of his arm, but had to learn how to do everything with his right hand. The nuns at his school must have loved this, for they would not have to tie his “devilish” left arm to his side when it came time to write.

I doubt there was much in the way of physical or occupational therapy in the first quarter of the 20th century. According to my dad, my grandfather got creative. Grandfather had been a boxer before he became a drunk steelworker. Using his years of experience preparing for the ring, my grandfather developed his own set of physical therapies. My dad told us often of the exercises his father would put him through to build strength and range of motion. If my grandfather were alive today, he could have been a brilliant physical therapist. Thanks to his father's encouragement and determination, my dad not only could use his arm, but could use it normally. You could not tell there had been any sort of injury to his arm unless he had to straighten his arm. He would never be able to completely straighten it after that fall off the tower.

Dad was 21 when the US entered World War II. He had been a truck driver with the Oakland shipyards for about a year at that point, so was not immediately called for the draft as his job was classified as necessary for the war effort. But Dad wanted to serve. He felt it was necessary and right to go to war against the Axis Powers. He was also a young man, itching for some adventure. He watched as former classmates went off to boot camp and then to Europe or Asia. One of his best friends went into the Army Air Corps to fly bombers over the Himalayas. Another close friend went into Military Intelligence in England. And Dad was driving a truck around the San Francisco Bay. I can't imagine what he felt as more and more men of his generation left, and he was having to constantly explain to strangers why he was not in uniform.

Finally, the “Greetings” letter from the draft board arrived. Dad was scheduled to work the day of his physical. Luckily, the location of the exam was not far from the shipyards, so he could stop by and get the physical done while on his way to deliver the acetylene canisters he was hauling.

It was a good plan, until he got a flat tire.

He was only about fifteen minutes late to the exam, but “full-bird” colonel who was examining him threatened to call the MPs for attempting to dodge the draft (purposely missing a draft physical could result in arrest and imprisonment). When Dad asked what this doctor meant, the doctor sat back, took a puff of his cigarette, and said he knew Dad was lying about being late. In his professional opinion as a doctor of medicine, there was no way possible that Dad could have been late for changing a truck tire.

“You're crippled,” he apparently smirked.

I often wonder if that officer had any idea that he had said the absolute wrong thing to the wrong person. No one ever called Dad “crippled.”

My father was a big man. He had inches to spare over six feet and was all muscle at that time. The “pipsqueak, pencil-necked, cotton-picking idiot” was probably not quite so big. But even if he was he was a good match for my father, Dad was mad enough to be able to grab this colonel by the scruff of the neck, drag him out of the exam room and down the stairs, and dump him on the curb next to the truck.

“Sit,” Dad commanded the ashen man. While the frightened officer shook in his uniform and lab coat, Dad proceeded to change not one, not two, but all four tires on the truck.

When he was finished, he turned to the the colonel and said, “How's that for crippled, you stupid sonofabitch?”

That Dad didn't end up in the stockade for that stunt was a miracle. But it was to be the only miracle associated with that day. He was listed unfit for military service because of that elbow and a slight case of asthma. All four branches of the military turned him down. He hated the label of “crippled.”

Dad went back to driving truck for a while. About this time, more and more merchant ships were coming into the shipyard for refitting and repairs. Dad got to know some of the Merchant Marines, or Merchies as they were known, and learned that they were considered part of the military effort. Sure, they never fought on the beaches or in the fields, but they had the vital job of getting all of the troops, equipment, and supplies needed to fight and win the war over enemy-infested seas. He also saw that many of the Navy men deeply respected the service of these sailors. Dad grew up in sight of the San Francisco Bay and loved the water. To go out into open sea was a siren call for him as a young man. It seemed like the perfect solution.

What really clinched the deal for Dad was the “physical” he had to pass to be considered full for duty in the Merchant Marines: All he had to make it was to walk into the door to sign up. Dad always joked that the Merchant Marines always had their offices on the second floors of buildings, so that they could cull out those who would not be able to climb the stairs. He also joked that lot of those buildings had elevators.

Dad served in the Merchant Marines in the Pacific Theater from 1943 to early 1945. He started off in the Engine Department, but his baritone voice, clear diction, and quick learning at electronics gave him the opening to move into Radio. He saw battle several times, was torpedoed once (“It was a dud”), and helped “liberate” the Philippines with a couple of buddies well after the actual battle to free the islands (it involved a “borrowed” Jeep, a machine gun with no ammo, and lots of beers). He also developed a life-long aversion to bologna, lamb, and curry, thanks to the paltry rations they were left after dropping off one shipment of supplies.

When telling of his service, Dad always impressed his listeners that the Merchant Marines were in some of the most dangerous positions out on the ocean. Their ships were rarely armed, were often loaded with all manner of explosive materials, and prone to break down. Most of the ships the Merchant Marines used were refitted old cargo ships that were designed to stay close to land, not to go days and weeks out on the open seas. If one ship in a convoy broke down, the rest of the convoy would leave it, defenseless. Many merchant ships were destroyed under those circumstances.

Dad's last tour had been a nasty one. The Liberty ship he was on had no refrigeration units, so all the food came from cans so was served spoiled. They had engine trouble, and the crew were “a nasty bit of work” according to Dad. After dropping off their cargo in Guam, they made port in Hawaii, hauling one seaman off in shackles. When they got to Los Angeles, two more crew members were taken off in chains. Dad was due to reenlist after this tour, but he choose not to. Whatever had happened among the crew had been enough for him.

Despite this one bad experience, after his service Dad continued to fight for rights, his own and he brothers' in arms. In the late 1980s, a number of Merchies needed help with medical issues, some of which were related to their service during the War. (asbestos exposure was the main concern). Dad joined in the movement to get the Merchant Marines full veterans' status, and was proud of the day the Merchies were recognized for their contributions during the War. The first Memorial Day after he received his own VA card, Dad was asked to participate in a ceremony in our hometown honoring those killed in action. I don't think any other invitation gave him as much pride as that.

Dad died ten years ago. At his funeral, the local Coast Guard post performed the military rites for dead, including the solemn folding and presenting of our National Emblem. We sang the Navy hymn, “Eternal Father, Strong to Save” after the playing of Taps. Dad's ashes were later scattered at sea near his beloved San Francisco Bay.

In the city where I live now, we have an all-veterans' memorial in our main park. Every time I visit the park, I walk over to the Memorial, and read the words inscribed on the granite obelisk for the Merchant Marines. The last lines read:

We ask you
To just remember us

I do not need a monument to remember my father, a man who loved his country enough to risk imprisonment to get the chance to fight for its citizens. Nor will I ever forget the service of his fellow seamen, many of whom were like him – considered “unfit for duty” but still willing to serve. Because of his struggle to serve his country, I am proud to say that my father was a Merchant Marine.

Text from the City of Santa Clara's All Veterans' Memorial: http://santaclaraveteransmemorial.com/Military%20Pages/MerchantMarines/MERCHANT%...

Word Count: 1658 (including citation)