Everyday heroism followed the heroics of war

When we attended family parties with all the relatives—what I refer to as the Meeting of the Irish Clans—all the men exuded a similar aura. World War II veterans all, even the gay guy, they shared a certain quiet confidence and swagger, as if at a cellular level they knew they had done their duty and done it well. They stood together, shoulder to shoulder with ever-present drinks in their hands. Often in the summer, they rolled their sleeves up to reveal fading tattoos of anchors or military slogans on their still-muscled arms, especially the sailors.

We thought they were the strongest, bravest men ever to walk the face of the earth. They had fought the Good War, returning home victorious and whole, at least on the outside. We enjoyed freedom because of them. It never had to be said out loud. It was simply a fact of life.

If we had ever suggested that any of them suffered from PTSD, we would have been knocked into the middle of next week for our insolence. These men? Look at them! No battle fatigue cases here. They’re the greatest generation. They’re fine.

But one clue existed, two if you count the amount of alcohol they could consume. They could tackle any number of topics during those parties—politics, sports, bar food—but one topic never came up. The war.

They had saved the world from tyranny, but they could not talk about it.

My father was one of them.

“What did you do in the war, Daddy?” I asked my father several times. Young as I was, I was hoping for some dramatic battle reenactments or tales of romantic heroism.

The smoke would drift from his pipe as he took his time to answer, obscuring his face with its acrid billows.

“I was a radar operator, and I never left the ship,” he said. His tone indicated there would be no further details.

That was his answer, and he stuck to it.

We knew he was a Marine who served in the Pacific Theater, but that was the sum total of our knowledge. He never told us any islands he was on or ships he sailed or battles he fought.

For decades, I watched documentaries about the war, curious about his service. I scanned the faces of the nameless Marines in the background, hoping to spot a glimpse of that thin, pale visage amongst the warriors, hungering to know where he was and what he did.

We could only accept my dad’s version of events, slim as the details were. Then the genealogy bug bit me. And, let me tell you, that is a serious affliction. Ask anyone who knows me. I will regale them with obscure details about my family history at the drop of a hat.

That’s where I learned I could request my father’s service record from the National Archives.

Jackpot! Eighty-four pages of minutia about James P. Dempsey in the war, from his pay to his travel record to the beneficiary for his life insurance (mother, of course).

What did I learn? He was a radar operator and spent most of his time on the ship.

After making the rank of sergeant in the junior ROTC in high school, he enlisted after his 18^th birthday in 1943 and was inducted into the Marines in September, all 135 pounds of him. Following basic training he was sent to Camp Lejeune in North Carolina for radar training, then shipped off to the Pacific. He must have spent lots of time bobbing about in the ocean waiting for real action. Sent first to New Caledonia, he arrived at Guadalcanal after that island had been secured.

He disembarked at Peleliu for the last two weeks of that bloody battle. The war moved on, but he remained on that hellhole. American troops dealt with an inhospitable climate and terrain while fighting off sporadic, terrifying assaults from the Japanese troops still ensconced on the island. One survivor was quoted as saying, “I brought my ass outta there, Swabbie. That’s my souvenir from Peleliu.” Dad’s duty roster mentions only that he “participated in the defense of Peleliu” and then was assigned to mess duty. He remained there until October 1945, then was sent back to San Diego, where he was discharged in March of 1946.

The most interesting part of his service record is the disciplinary action taken in January of 1946. He was fined $26 but no specifics are listed. I like to think he and his fellow Marines got into a bar brawl with some sailors to let off steam. In my imagination, the Marines kicked ass.

The file confirms his story. Not the most exciting war record, but an authentic one. He enlisted. He was there. He fought the fascist dictator of Japan and lived to tell about it. Except he didn’t tell about it.

When he returned to civilian life, he joined the elevator union, probably with help from his father. He worked every day I can remember, right up until I was a sophomore in college and his health started to decline. Years of smoking tobacco and drinking alcohol took their toll.

Every workday he donned his uniform, no longer the proud green and khaki of the Marines but a dark green shirt with the name Otis embroidered on it and dark trousers. Black work shoes replaced combat boots. Even after laundering, his clothes always smelled slightly of hydraulic oil, pipe smoke, and a trace of beer. Instead of a sidearm, he hung a 14-inch screwdriver on his belt, his only weapon in the face of danger in the housing projects of Chicago. Duly attired, he braved reality. Every day. Without fail.

Sometimes I think his real courage surfaced after the war. The courage to switch from being a lean, mean, fighting machine saving the world to being a peaceful, responsible adult in a repetitive and thankless job, providing for his family without any medals or fanfare.

PTSD was not discussed in those days, but I believed he suffered from it. His drinking was a big hint, although he had suffered traumatic events in his childhood that might have contributed. The fact that he never traveled anywhere was another. He had seen enough of the world while sailing the Pacific with an M1 and sand in his boots.

The other veterans in the family were the same. On the surface, all looked well. They had families, they held jobs, they were law-abiding citizens. But a deeper look suggests PTSD lurked underneath the calm facade. The one relative who became a Skid Row bum is an easy call as well as the one with the thousand-yard stare who rarely made it to the parties. There was also one who may have been a drug user. I personally think one turned to religion instead of drugs to keep the demons at bay. Those are the ones I know about.

What I don’t know, and what I will never know, is what happened to them during the war to cause such inner harm. Each probably has a unique story that remained untold through the years.

I can still picture all of them, clustered together, the ice clinking in their cocktails, the glass bottles of beer sweating in the summer sun, laughing and talking about everything but the pain inside. How many other veterans were like them, their wounds hidden, but affecting all the family and friends who wondered why they flew off the handle or drank too much or sat in the dark until the wee hours of the morning while their cigarettes burnt to the tip?

What saddens me today is that they suffered silently and alone through their pain. They had no resources to combat the battles they faced after combat.

I never thought to thank any of them for their service. They had a job to do, and they did it. No fuss, no muss. They would have shrugged off such appreciation anyway. And they would have denied any link to PTSD. Some of their descendants may even be angry I am bringing it up now.

So, why am I? Because I believe even a good war is toxic to those who fight it.

Today I remain proud of my father’s service and that of so many other relatives. I thank them, not only for their heroism during the war, but for the everyday heroism that followed. Demonstrating to us how to show up everyday to do our best despite the pain.

Those men are all gone now. Hopefully, the cocktails in heaven are strong, the ice flows freely, and those veterans know we appreciate the sacrifice they made of their youth, even if we took them for granted while they were alive and didn’t understand what it would cost those who survived.

For others interested in their ancestor’s military service, please go to the National Archives website and request the information. I suggest asking for the Official Military Personnel File (OMPF). The DD14 form only provides separation details. The information is free and provides a fascinating snapshot of a moment in time that might otherwise be lost forever.

If anyone is looking for a good classic movie to watch in honor of our veterans, I recommend The Best Years of Our Lives featuring Fredric March, Myrna Loy, Dana Andrews, and the unforgettable Harold Russell.