My Annual Tribute -- One Fewer
One Fewer
I first saw him hobbling down the aisle of a small gun show. He was obviously of advanced age: white-haired, frail and walking with a pronounced limp, his bony left hand grasping one of those spiral thornwood canes that look like a kudu’s horn. It was that cane that caught my attention – without it, the man would have been invisible.
His pained but determined pace picked up when he neared a table only two away from mine. The table’s owner displayed military battle rifles. The old gent stopped there, but I became distracted by customers of my own and did not notice him again.
The promoter held two shows a year in that small town, and I became a regular vendor. After that first time, I started noticing the old gentleman at every show. He always carried that magnificently polished, deep brown cane. He always went steadfastly to that same dealer’s table. He always came on Sunday morning when the crowds were thin.
Clearly not well off financially, the old man’s clothes never varied. His shoes were of brown leather, the toes curled up from age, deep cracks at the toe bend and the heels worn to a smooth curve; but they were always carefully brushed to a soft luster. His slacks were khaki cotton, a semblance of a crease still showing down the front of each leg, with an irregular outline on one thigh that bespoke of a liquid stain long ago acquired. His sports jacket was dark brown wool, its herringbone pattern all but obliterated by age. Its pockets sagged as if he’d once limped home –in a driving rain- with oranges in them. The dulled and faded miniature of a military ribbon adorned the jacket’s left lapel. Under the jacket he always wore a white shirt so thin his sleeveless undershirt showed through. On his Western-style bolo tie, a walnut-sized, blood-red stone mirrored the man’s jutting Adam’s apple. Raising the stooped figure to perhaps five-feet six, a grey fedora hat rode. Now battered, sweat-stained and misshapen, the hat characterized him as much as the liver spots on his pallid, papery skin.
I was able to catalog such small details because of his laborious gait. He’d plant the tightly clutched cane, then half-shuffle, half-slide his crippled left leg forward, and finally his still-spry right: tap, drag, step; tap, drag, step. Just watching him brought a dull empathetic ache to my hips and knees.
Neither his appearance nor his habits ever varied: he’d hobble past my table, spend a few minutes in front of the rifle collector’s display, then leave, unnoticed.
And then, one time, he failed to appear.
Just before the show ended that Sunday afternoon, I ambled over to the rifle table. On one end were a few P-17 Enfields and Springfields, a couple SMLE’s, one or two ’98 Mausers and an Arisaka. At the other end were several .30 M-1 carbines, a Garand and even a rare Johnson rifle. It was interesting stuff, but I really wanted to ask about the old man.
“I heard he passed away last month,” the dealer said. “I’ll miss him.” He shook his head ruefully and looked down.
“You know anything about him? Your table was the only one he ever visited, as far as I saw.”
“Not much. But it wasn’t my table that he visited. It was this,” he said, pointing to the Garand.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s like this…the first few times he came by, I tried to wait on him. But he never spoke a word – like I wasn’t even there. He’d walk up, stand there a bit, and then he’d lightly touch the Garand. With just his fingertips, as though it was his lover or something, you know? Then one time I said, ‘You seem like you know that rifle. Carry one in the Army?’ He shook his head a little and kept right on caressing that rifle’s stock, but he said ‘Marines.’
“So then I looked at him a little closer. You know that little blue pin in his lapel? That’s the Navy Cross, and it’s the highest they give except for the Medal of Honor. And so I had to ask him where he got it, and he finally looked up at me. His eyes were brimming, as if some nightmare just came back to him, and he choked out one word: ‘Tarawa.’
“After that, I’d sell any rifle on the table, except that Garand. It would have killed him if I had. I never will sell it, now.” He stood silently for a second, then concluded, “Those two spoken words and that ribbon are all I know about that old man, but they’re all I need to know.”
As if drawn to it, I stroked the stock of the Garand and whispered, “Thank you.” I’m not sure if I said it to the dealer, or that rifle, or the hovering spirit of that departed hero. Maybe all three. But I meant it.
Author’s note: If I calculate correctly, the youngest man to enlist and fight in World War II would now be in his 90s. Almost all of them are gone. If you know or even meet a veteran from that conflict, thank them from the bottom of your heart…while you still can.
Printed in “The Big Show Journal” May/June 2005
Copyright 2005 Rocky Raab
Permission to reprint with full attribution granted.
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Reading this every year seems to raise a lot of dust in my den, causing my eyes to water. It never loses its impact. Thanks for posting it again. Bob
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Thanks, Rocky.
That never fails to choke me up a bit.
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Gets me every year . Sadly , there are very few left . Growing up ,almost all of the adult men in the area of my father age were WW2 vets . The last one I knew died about 3 months ago at age 96 .
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My Father in law is 95. Served in the Army. Doesn't talk about it.
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My Dad was WW11 vet, his tour of duty was in Europe. He died a few years ago, a week before his 95th birthday.
He went to a gun show one time with me, only weapon he commented on was "I carried one of those in battle". And you don't have guess which one it was.
He never talked about what he did or saw until a couple weeks before he passed and then only a sentence or two.
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My Dad only said he was a truck driver. Turns out, he drove a deuce and a half with the Big Red One in the Battle of the Bulge.
Mom was in Special Services, and always outranked Dad by one stripe. That's how they met - at Ft Benning.
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My FIL was in the army in WWII. He died in 1978 at 63, massive heart attack. A few years after he passed, we found a small box he had hidden under a dresser. I contained his ribbons and medals. My wife and I made a shadow box to display them. RIP, Luke, and thank you for your service.
Some time later my wife made a shadow box for my stuff, too. Both hang in our entry hall.
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Thanks Rocky, always the most enjoyable read, and does make a person"s eyes cloud up!
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Thanks for sharing. I have known a few. One served in the pacific , and later at the Nurenburge trials.
I was at a gun show with him, and seeing a M1 Garand stated, One of those was my best friend.
I miss him and the comversation we used to have.
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I was a couple of months shy of my 8th birthday when WWII ended and those guys were my heros (and still are!). Five years later, when I started high school, most all my teachers were veterans, some had been pretty badly wounded: Herm Speet had a badly damaged arm that had been put back together; Bob DeGuess was a Navy corpsman sent ashore with the Marines at Iwo Jima and himself wounded there; John Noe had terrible facial scars from having half his face shot away at Iwo Jima. And those were just the teachers stories I knew about. And when I went to work in a factory, I was in the company of many more veterans. Bob Williams, for instance, was on a destroyer escort that was hit 3 times by kamikasies at Siapan--that was all he'd say about it. Stanley Malanowski didn't know why they gave him a Silver Star: "The guy was just laying out there in the open and they were shooting at him! Somebody had to go and get him!" Sad that they're gone and we owe more than we could repay to men like them.
Most of the newer generations have little interest, "That all happened before I was born!", is what I often hear. But in church this morning the minister (64 years old) paid tribute to the lost servicemen and women and even asked those present that had served to stand for a moment.
And Rocky: Thank you for your annual tribute. But, had you been at that gun show, I am sure you would have recognized the Navy Cross, miniature or not!
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Rocky............I saw a really great documentary yesterday on PBS about the "Misty" FAC group................made me think of your books.
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Great read every time.
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