It was Christmas day in 1941 and the family had gathered at my grandparents' home in Pottsville, Pennsylvania. My most vivid memory of that day seventy years later was my aunts on a sofa next to their husbands, Uncles Lamar and Roy. However, instead of enjoying the holiday my aunts were crying. Several generations would pass before I understood the reason for their tears. They knew full well it was probably the last Christmas Roy and Lamar would be spending with family for a long time, maybe forever.
After the holidays Lamar turned in his civvies for army khaki while Roy chose the navy uniform of the day. They ended up in different theaters of operation. Uncle Lamar became an infantryman with the 3rd Armored Division fighting his way across France and Belgium, surviving the Battle of the Bulge unscratched only to be severely wounded a month later during a “routine” patrol. Uncle Roy was more fortunate in the Pacific. Although his carrier was hit by a kamikaze off the coast of Okinawa in 1945, he too survived the carnage unscratched and looked forward to future liberty passes as his ship limped back to the repair facility at Pearl Harbor. But, Surprise! In the bloodbath to take Okinawa skilled mechanics were needed ashore and Roy was a Machinist Mate so he was “volunteered” into the Sea Bees, sent ashore, and spent the last months of WWII toting a carbine as well as a wrench.
As the cab slowed down in front of our West Philadelphia row home in the spring of 1946, my mother rushed by my two brothers and me as we played on the front porch. I was stunned. This was my mother who was always a pillar of strength and control but on this occasion any pretense of calmness was missing as she ran to the curb to greet Uncle Lamar as he awkwardly emerged from the rear seat of the cab. Balance was obviously a problem for he still wore a brace on his right leg but he prevailed as he exited the cab unassisted. He was smaller than I remembered him on that Christmas day four years before but the thing that really galvanized my attention was the clean, starched uniform fitting so absolutely perfectly beneath a field cap rakishly tipped toward his wire rimmed glasses and clean shaven face. The chest of his uniform was filled with campaign ribbons topped by the Combat Infantryman Badge. My mother reached and embraced him in one clutching motion. He had spent the last fourteen months recuperating from his wounds in several VA hospitals. She was sobbing. The Schaeffer brothers were dumbfounded as he softly stroked her hair and and reassured her, “ It's O.K., Sis. Honest, it's O.K., Ruth. I'm home now.”
During the next sixty five years that scene or similar scenes would be repeated thousands of times across this nation. The three Schaeffer brothers a decade later would ride destroyers, tanks, and helicopters. More recently two more Schaeffer brothers, my sons, would participate in Gulf Wars I and II and, thank God, return unwounded.
When Lamar and Roy deployed, my aunts cried but I didn't understand. When Lefty, Pinky, and Vincie left for boot camp and basic training, Ruth shed a tear but I didn't understand. However when my sons deployed. I suddenly understood.
On Veterans Day let's all understand and pay tribute to all who wore the uniform in the past and those who wear it today.
Lefty Schaeffer is a retired consulting engineer and farmer who lives on Joe Hill.