Regarding the Dec. 7 letters package “I found out my father was a war hero — at his funeral decades later,” about “secret war heroes” who downplayed their personal history:
My best friend from high school, who remained close for more than 60 years, served in Vietnam. He never talked about his time there. I did not know, until his funeral last year, that he had been awarded a Bronze Star. I was stunned. I miss him.
Dave Metzger, Venice, Florida
My father left me some old family letters to safeguard before his death in 2008. Two of them turned out to be not from a family member but from a person I’d never heard of, a private in World War I. The first was a copy of a letter to the War Department about my father’s brother-in-law, Clyde Elliott: “On Oct. 10, 1918, at about 5 o’clock P.M. my company got an order to go over the top. To do this, we had to cross an open field about two miles wide. The enemy artillery was situated in such a position they could see us and when we emerged from the woods into the open field they began pouring the best they had at us immediately. We kept going. For a while I thought we were all going to be killed. Fortunately, I got to within a hundred fifty yards of the woods on the far side of the field when suddenly a shell hit nearby, causing me to go down. I spent a miserable sixteen hours in a shell hole, during which time I begged and pleaded with several different men to carry me to the woods. I met with no success until about 9 a.m. of October 11. On that particular morning the machine guns of the Germans were playing in that particular locality to a finish. … This man … was located in a hole just inside the woods. He saw me down there in the shell hole. In fact I was hollering for help. He ran to me, put me on his shoulders, and trotted to the woods with me. I was of the opinion we would be killed before reaching the woods the way the machine guns were firing at us but he landed me safely. I was told that [Clyde] was gassed badly the night before.”
The second letter was addressed directly to Uncle Clyde: “I could hardly help crying when I recalled the time when you carried me to safety. … For hours and hours while I was lying in that shell-hole I thought I had only a short time to live. The wound I got there was six and a half months healing up. I was taken from there to Base Hospital at Orleans, France. Was there for four months and ten days after which I was shipped back to the States. I was discharged April 18, 1919. … I shall never forget you. It seems like a real miracle. … I know I will never be able to repay you.”
I knew Uncle Clyde was an orphan from Carterville, Illinois, but did not know him personally because he died of lingering damage from mustard gas when I was a baby. I do have one picture of him, handsome in his “doughboy” jodhpurs and puttees, with wavy hair like F. Scott Fitzgerald. My father wanted me to seek a posthumous medal for him honoring his courage, but all I have are the letters and a picture.
Rebecca Stevens, Soddy-Daisy, Tennessee
I don’t know if my dad would be called a war hero, but he definitely was one of the many who didn’t talk about things. So I was in college before I learned that he, a bomber pilot in the Pacific, was forced to ditch his plane in the sea when a typhoon forced it to run out of fuel. His six-man crew got out of the plane but lost one life raft. The men huddled in a four-man raft and paddled furiously away from a nearby island because it was Japanese-held. Luckily, a Navy rescue seaplane saw them after my dad’s co-pilot fired his gun. The seaplane was damaged when it landed and was forced to proceed as a boat. It took 24 hours to reach the seaplane’s base. An AP stringer was there when they arrived. The story went out nationally as “the longest taxi ever.”
Teresa Ogden, New Orleans
My father spent most of World War II on the Aleutian Islands. Other than mentioning Kodiak bears and mud and mosquitoes, he never talked about his service. I never asked because I thought he might be ashamed, as his four brothers served in Europe and the Pacific. My cousin found an article from our parents’ hometown about the five brothers in World War II. It stated that my father, Joseph Golembeski, was engaged in combat. I knew very little about the Japanese incursions into the Aleutians and nothing of my father’s role there. He simply never spoke of it. Perhaps he’s not a hero in the strictest sense, but to me, my quiet and strong father defines a hero.
Anne Golembeski, Cheyenne, Wyoming
Cleaning out my grandmother’s house, I discovered my dad’s World War II footlocker. Inside was a Bronze Star. I asked Dad what it was for, and he replied, “They gave those to everyone.” After his death years later, I found the citation and learned Dad, an unarmed Army ambulance driver, evacuated Italian civilians under fire and saved their lives. Dad was a hero but never spoke about his service. They truly were the Greatest Generation.
Nancy McDonald, Green Valley, Arizona
My favorite uncle, Jim “Mustache” Carnahan, a 130-pound Cajun from Lake Charles, Louisiana, won a Bronze Star at the age of 17 for combat in the Philippines during World War II. The family found this out after my aunt Elene asked me to go through his personal effects following his death. Though he was an accomplished raconteur, Jim never mentioned it. He was also a crop-duster pilot and, after throwing a propeller from his Piper Cub, chose to take a nosedive rather than attempt a landing near an elementary school playground. After six months in the hospital and multiple surgeries, he passed his aviation physical and continued to fly until his retirement.
Stephen Sauls, St. Augustine, Florida
Our family knew my grandfather served with the Ontario Regiment of the Canadian Armoured Brigade in Europe during World War II. He was the head of a small unit that recovered broken-down tanks. We were also aware that he had received the Military Cross for his team’s actions to clear more than 20 tanks from a muddy river crossing, thereby allowing the nearby village to be cleared of the enemy. These facts certainly constituted heroism in the mind of a wide-eyed 10-year-old grandson.
The unknown heroism came 45 years later, when a recording from a series of Royal Canadian Legion interviews was found. In the recording, a 60-something Grandpa talks about being asked, not ordered, to see whether his team could get the “bogged” tanks free. He assigned one man to listen for incoming fire and scream at the recovery crews to take cover as needed. The crews could not hear incoming rounds over the roar of the tank engines.
While he and his sergeant discussed the situation, he noticed tall grass near them falling in their direction. The noise from the surrounding machines had blotted out the source of the grass cutter. It was a machine gun sweeping toward them. His voice never even changed pitch during that recollection. Twenty-nine years old when he was almost cut down and cool as cucumber recounting it 40 years later. He had never given an account like that to family.
His unit of about 30 men lost just one man in four years of battlefield recoveries: Bert Paige.
We will remember them. Heroes all.
Gavin Thomson, Rio Verde, Arizona
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