I wonder why my husband’s father did
not speak of World War II. He flew a plane,
B25 by name. The Air Force hid
something. Aleutian Islands wielded pain
with cold and secrets he would never share.
You’d see a dignified and quiet man
when meeting him. War memories weather? Fair.
Or maybe, since we do not know, he’d scan
the skies of what he’d had to do. This caused
the swallowing of words that would describe
this past part of his life. Silenced and paused,
he kept tight to himself his wartime tribe.
After he died we found a little book
with names of buddies. Some the World War took.
October 31, 2012 at 5:48 pm
Nicely done.
My dad flew Wellington Bombers. Never really talked about it unless it was to tell of the joke-y bits. Think he was a bit bonkers: photos of him shot down in olive groves and vineyards, sitting on wings of planes with a big grin and a cigarette. But thunderstorms terrified him because they reminded him of bombs.
I don’t know many of that generation that were prepared to tell what went on.