Welcome - a seasonal gift to my family

Welcome to this blog about my family, centered on the theme of my father's war experience.  For now.

About fifteen years ago I took a writers' workshop with author Tim Cahill.  He and I visited over lunch every so often for years afterward.  Part of his workshop contract was to review a paper.  I was overwhelmed on the subject of my father.  Lots of good writing but no unity.  Voice was slippery .  Tim assured me that real writing would begin only once I grasped the subject of my Dad.

Why so hard?  What most briefly can be described as his utterly bizarre warfare training.  More aptly described as his nine months as a POW of his own country's military medical system.  The VA stonewalled me for ten years in my quest to learn what happened.

Why so long?  Dad opened a compensation/pension claim two weeks before he died when he learned that his disability status would keep Mom from receiving DIC (death and indemnity compensation).  She would lose many medical benefits.  When his claim was denied post-mortem ("prove your father's death was connected to military service"), Mom's inquiries were thwarted with red herring about Dad's records no longer existing due to the 1973 fire at the archives.  Over several years VA representatives continued maintaining that ruse.

The emotionally-charged subject seemed hopeless.  My early inquiries to FOIA assistance personnel dissolved into incoherent tears.  When this year I resolved to do the research it took months to hone a monotonous recitation of the issues.  In July I filed my first FOIA with Military Personnel Records at the National Archives (NARA). With stupendously alacrity, an inch-thick packet of my father's "lost" records came back in under three weeks.  The packet included a full transcript of his 1945 Army Retirement Medical Board hearing.  All medical personnel and previous casualty reports were unanimous:  my father suffered an "incident" on September 9, 1944 which permanently disabled him.  In the line of duty.  100% service-connected.

Why the lies, the dissimulation?  That is the developing story.  Since August two more thick packets have been fetched from archives.  Total findings of those "lost" records now equal the thickness of the New York City telephone book.

From here the story develops around my parents - fantastic people of good will - and their bizarre wartime experience.  Our lives were scarred, transmogrified at moments as a result of official mendacity about the nature of my father's service to his country.  My parents both died not knowing the truth

It is probably better that they remained unaware.  If in their prime they had known what I know now, their lives never would have permitted the peace, prosperity and focus they enjoyed.  At least during intervals when my father wasn't busy testing his sanity on the toothsome politics of 1960s' Livingston, Montana.  The town's locomotive repair center was a strategic national asset. It was the focus of the question of the legality of the merger of the Northern  Pacific, Great Northern and Burlington railroads.  When that issue fell to the Montana State Legislature, Livingston's name was forming on the collective lips of the nation's working class as a curse.  During those times the nation's working class feared the proposed merger would winnow the labor basis of the national economy.  Which it eventually did in spades.  Long before movie stars and "the owners" adorned the social periphery of that unique, feisty town, Livingston was already famous over railroad issues.  In those days, working together with Senator Mike Mansfield and Warren McGee, my father, Mom and the Park County Democrats indeed got great things done.  On their watch, a railroad merger of national importance was sidelined with a seven year moratorium

Now my father's medical history waxes relevant to the US public whether they recognize it or not.  His was a foretaste of what now gives the most heft to the national economy: military spending.  Most modern warfare consists of  something Army websites openly express - "unconventional warfare."  Contrary to what most people I've asked supposed, the 'unconventional" aspect does not refer to weapons manufacture.  It refers to training humans.  Specifically humans who are not citizens of their employer's nation.  The Army admits that the majority of modern military conflict efforts fall under the category of unconventional warfare.

My father trod on Dante's inferno in service to his country.  There is no exaggerating the impact this had on every aspect of our family life.  In his lifetime he was not acknowledged or properly rewarded for his military service.  The latter part of his military service was one of those dirty little "national security" secrets.  Entirely against his will  That secrecy cost his widow her pension.  Ultimately it cost our estate to pay for her care when the VA denied his case existed.

His story now lives on to teach contemporary readers.  Thanks for joining us.

Spitting image

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During Dad's late-life presidential campaign, I gave him my painting of Geronimo for his birthday  The discussion I expected never happened.  He understood exactly why.  Beaming, he centered it on the fireplace mantle.  He beheld his own reflection:  a furious, constant battle against corruption.

The Geronimo aspect was not always there.  During rigorous training for Army Air Force Cadets during WWII, such an attitude would have washed him out.  Only the best of recruits became pilots.  No insubordination allowed.

A post-mortem conversation with Dad's older brother described a different man than I knew all my life.  My father came back from war with brain damage - something I would have to wait until last year to understand when VA files "lost in the fire of 1973" finally turned up in response to my FOIA requests.  Although my father manifested consummate intelligence, his brother said he was a mere shadow of the man he had been.  The wit, the humor, the deft turn of metaphor.  Also the more temperate disposition.  A highly charismatic man, he mastered every art he touched - aviation, architecture, carpentry, described by others as a mechanical genius, farming, even once having a Harley Davidson.  He continued that post-war.  His disability concerned human interaction.  Especially in late life.  He would become intense.  Lacking in self-control whenever emotional.  Like an oncoming locomotive.  A furious man.  He would look at you just like Geronimo.

After his death I came to understand that his "war injuries" had damaged his brain.  Any emotion caused his brain to suffer hypoxia.  Electroshock therapy had cauterized the circulation between his heart and brain.  Any adrenaline compromised blood flow to his amygdala, rendering his emotional centers disabled.

Two months before he died I met my father.  He had gone on oxygen.  Evidently the zones of the brain designated for emotion finally functioned as before.  The brain damage was somewhat undone.  He instantly developed patience. Those concentric rings of fury framing his eyes softened, disappeared.  Light penetrated his eyes, rendering a color of blue I never saw before.  His gaze sparkled with nuance, curiosity.  We had fluid conversations.   He would ask questions, pause, wait for my answer.  For the first time in my life, he could wait, listen carefully.  He reflected on my words before he replied.  I was so fortunate as to finally have a conversation with my father.