It is amazing how a simple object can bridge the gap between story and reality. As I sat at the kitchen table, I looked across the assortment of objects spread out in front of me. There was a U.S. Marine issue Ka-Bar fighting knife, alongside a double-edge bayonet. Although aged, both still held their menacing sharp edges. Farther down the line were objects of a more sinister origin. Here was a Japanese dress sword and a curve-bladed brush knife. Then an original Japanese Military flag, still showing unmistakable signs of past conflict.
The last stories we heard from World War II were from "Warren," a Monroe native who joined the Marines, destined for battle in the Pacific campaign against the Japanese Imperial Military. Sadly, my friend "Warren" has recently passed away. His real name was William C. Grinnell, and his family graciously invited me to share in some of the stories - and objects - he left behind.
The most striking and immediately noticeable quality of "Uncle Bill" was his smile and sense of humor. His wit was a product of growing up in harsh times, when needs were simple and resources could be scarce - people learned how to live without and to make due with what they had. When I spoke to Bill, he could still see the rows and rows of canned goods his mother put up in the basement. As a testament to how different the times were, consider this story from Bill's childhood:
Bill grew up on the very edge of Monroe. Still, the family raised chickens, which proved to be a nuisance to the neighbors. One day, long before Bill would wear the uniform of a U.S. Marine, a police officer showed up at the door with a complaint of excessive chicken noise. Bill's mother became irate and chased the policeman away with her shotgun.
In another instance, Bill decided to "get back" at his neighbors (maybe for complaining about the chickens?). They had a longhaired dog, like a Collie or St. Bernard. Bill shaved it. In his words, "That dog was BALD!" Again, the police showed up, but when asked how the dog had lost its hair, Bill simply shrugged, pulling his head down and putting up his hands with a simple, "Hmmm!"
His sense of humor was carried all the way to the Marines, and Bill's signature smile even got him into hot water. His platoon picture featured rows of ramrod-straight, dead-serious Marines. This was wartime, and all faces were tough and severe, save one. Right there, in stark contrast to the solemnity surrounding it, was a grin. Bill peeled potatoes for two months for his originality.
In the times that I spoke with Bill, and in the stories relayed to me by his family, I could sense a touch of humility tucked beneath his smile and jokes. One afternoon he pointed out a picture on his wall. In it, a young Marine was standing next to a truck, loaded with four Japanese prisoners. Bill explained:
We went by this (prisoner camp) to free the prisoners. (As we approached), the Japs cut loose on us - it was just a shooting gallery. Look at that picture there, with the truck. We baaaaaacked that truck up, and smashed the damn door open, right through the double gate (of the POW camp). There were 293 or 294 prisoners in there, some of them had already died - all Americans. They all were American prisoners. Most of them had starved to death.
I asked Bill, what about the Japanese on the truck? He smiled, "Oooh, I wasn't going to save those SOBs, not after seeing the Americans (in the camp). They took a happy ride." His smile instantly faded as he looked down, toward his feet. Then, uncharacteristically, he shook his head and replied, in a rather harsh tone:
"Boy, I'll tell you something - you look back, even though he's an enemy, you take a big-ass gun, put it up to a man's head and watch his brains fly all over the damn (place). You gotta be a mean SOB."
We sat in silence for several moments before Bill spoke again, "You know, I like to get that off my chest once in awhile."
As I spoke with Bill's family, I couldn't help but notice a set of keys among the items he left. They were tied neatly together with brown twine, complete with a wooden keychain adorned with Japanese characters. There also, was the aforementioned photograph of Bill, with the captured Japanese soldiers. One soldier was wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses - which I now held delicately in my hands. They look like a child's glasses.
I was grateful to have had the chance to meet Bill's family, and to talk with them about a man I scarcely knew. Certainly, his experiences during World War II troubled him, judging by his desire to "get that off my chest." But, above all, his smile, kindness and sense of humor are the most profound memories he left behind - he certainly was not interested in sympathy, according to his niece Roxy "pretty girl," her husband Tim, and their "rascals" Josh and Luke.
Bill witnessed horrors on overseas battle, described how American Marines would fall through bamboo traps set by the Japanese, and how beaches were strewn with broken glass and rubble - anything to slow down an offensive. In the end, there is one quote that sticks in my mind about Bill:
"You know what I would really like? One cigar - I just love a good cigar. I haven't had a good cigar in so (darn) long."
- Dan Wegmueller is a columnist for The Monroe Times. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
The last stories we heard from World War II were from "Warren," a Monroe native who joined the Marines, destined for battle in the Pacific campaign against the Japanese Imperial Military. Sadly, my friend "Warren" has recently passed away. His real name was William C. Grinnell, and his family graciously invited me to share in some of the stories - and objects - he left behind.
The most striking and immediately noticeable quality of "Uncle Bill" was his smile and sense of humor. His wit was a product of growing up in harsh times, when needs were simple and resources could be scarce - people learned how to live without and to make due with what they had. When I spoke to Bill, he could still see the rows and rows of canned goods his mother put up in the basement. As a testament to how different the times were, consider this story from Bill's childhood:
Bill grew up on the very edge of Monroe. Still, the family raised chickens, which proved to be a nuisance to the neighbors. One day, long before Bill would wear the uniform of a U.S. Marine, a police officer showed up at the door with a complaint of excessive chicken noise. Bill's mother became irate and chased the policeman away with her shotgun.
In another instance, Bill decided to "get back" at his neighbors (maybe for complaining about the chickens?). They had a longhaired dog, like a Collie or St. Bernard. Bill shaved it. In his words, "That dog was BALD!" Again, the police showed up, but when asked how the dog had lost its hair, Bill simply shrugged, pulling his head down and putting up his hands with a simple, "Hmmm!"
His sense of humor was carried all the way to the Marines, and Bill's signature smile even got him into hot water. His platoon picture featured rows of ramrod-straight, dead-serious Marines. This was wartime, and all faces were tough and severe, save one. Right there, in stark contrast to the solemnity surrounding it, was a grin. Bill peeled potatoes for two months for his originality.
In the times that I spoke with Bill, and in the stories relayed to me by his family, I could sense a touch of humility tucked beneath his smile and jokes. One afternoon he pointed out a picture on his wall. In it, a young Marine was standing next to a truck, loaded with four Japanese prisoners. Bill explained:
We went by this (prisoner camp) to free the prisoners. (As we approached), the Japs cut loose on us - it was just a shooting gallery. Look at that picture there, with the truck. We baaaaaacked that truck up, and smashed the damn door open, right through the double gate (of the POW camp). There were 293 or 294 prisoners in there, some of them had already died - all Americans. They all were American prisoners. Most of them had starved to death.
I asked Bill, what about the Japanese on the truck? He smiled, "Oooh, I wasn't going to save those SOBs, not after seeing the Americans (in the camp). They took a happy ride." His smile instantly faded as he looked down, toward his feet. Then, uncharacteristically, he shook his head and replied, in a rather harsh tone:
"Boy, I'll tell you something - you look back, even though he's an enemy, you take a big-ass gun, put it up to a man's head and watch his brains fly all over the damn (place). You gotta be a mean SOB."
We sat in silence for several moments before Bill spoke again, "You know, I like to get that off my chest once in awhile."
As I spoke with Bill's family, I couldn't help but notice a set of keys among the items he left. They were tied neatly together with brown twine, complete with a wooden keychain adorned with Japanese characters. There also, was the aforementioned photograph of Bill, with the captured Japanese soldiers. One soldier was wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses - which I now held delicately in my hands. They look like a child's glasses.
I was grateful to have had the chance to meet Bill's family, and to talk with them about a man I scarcely knew. Certainly, his experiences during World War II troubled him, judging by his desire to "get that off my chest." But, above all, his smile, kindness and sense of humor are the most profound memories he left behind - he certainly was not interested in sympathy, according to his niece Roxy "pretty girl," her husband Tim, and their "rascals" Josh and Luke.
Bill witnessed horrors on overseas battle, described how American Marines would fall through bamboo traps set by the Japanese, and how beaches were strewn with broken glass and rubble - anything to slow down an offensive. In the end, there is one quote that sticks in my mind about Bill:
"You know what I would really like? One cigar - I just love a good cigar. I haven't had a good cigar in so (darn) long."
- Dan Wegmueller is a columnist for The Monroe Times. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
