Heroes

Charlie was one of the lucky ones. I think he realized that more than most people, having survived the tough slog from Normandy to the heart of the Third Reich itself. As a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne he had jumped into Normandy on D-Day and later into Holland during Operation Market Garden, attached to the British 1st Airborne Divison.  Wounded at Bastogne during the Battle of the Bulge he had left more than his share of buddies buried in shallow graves along the way. So many close calls, punctuated by that ever present gut wrenching fear and the sleepless nights.  The horrific images of combat seared into one"s brain never go away, even with the passing of the years, yet he seldom talked about his experiences in the war. In 1945, Charlie's unit liberated Berchesgaten, the location of Hitler's mountain retreat known as the Eagle's Nest. It was there that the young battle hardened soldier who had come such a long way, would sit in Hitler's chair and rest his weary feet on the oak table around which Hitler's henchmen plotted so much mayhem. 

The son of Greek immigrants, Charlie had grown up during hard times in the great depression, in a small mill town in rural Maine.  At a time when he should have been looking forward to starting out in life, he was forced by events beyond his control, to join the Army and go off to war. Yes, he was one of the lucky ones, he came back and in one piece, always with the nagging thought, why me?  Like many others of his generation, justifiably called the "greatest generation,"  he came back to live out his civilian life with honor and dignity. He worked hard, married his sweetheart, started a buisiness and raised a family. 

I always looked up to Charlie as this larger than life heroic figure. Even in his nineties, his body succumbing to the years, he was an imposing figure in my eyes. He would bellow in church, making heads turn, because his hearing was all but gone, smiling from ear to ear and acknowledging even those that he did not know well. He no longer resembled the young, hard charging paratrooper in the old photo I had once seen, though his enthusiasm and zest for life had never faded. These days we look in all the wrong places for our heroes, missing completely the one's in our very midst. The guys like Charlie, who never shirk from their duty. They love their wives and their children, their church, community, and country. They go to work day in and day out, supporting their families, raising their kids as best they can. They join fraternal organizations like AHEPA and the American Legion, they vote and are good stewards of their communities, they obey the laws of the land and most importantly they set the example for the rest of us. They are the silent bedrock on which our society is built. Seldom recognized nor seeking recognition.

The beautiful sunny fall day Charlie was buried, his flag draped coffin was surrounded by a large crowd who mourned his passing. I stood their thinking about how we leave this world with not much more than what we enter it with. Except for his obituary, Charlie's death was hardly noticed by the world at large. He was not well known outside of his small community, nor did he have any claim to everlasting fame. Charlie however left behind a beautiful legacy, a life well lived, a wife, children and grandchildren who loved him dearly, and a community that will remember him fondly.  Amidst the falling leaves, the burial detail folded the American flag in twelve precise movements handing it to the Sargeant in charge. Ramrod straight in his crisp uniform the soldier gently placed it in the waiting arms of Charlie's widow, Antonia, leaning over, whispering an expression of a country's collective gratitude and sorrow: " On behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, may I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation."

God speed Charlie, may the soil covering your grave rest lightly upon you.

Vera Lynn - Well Meet Again