I have two French dueling guns that I set out each Memorial Day and on July Fourth as a reminder of the high cost of freedom. It is an odd seasonal decoration. It is especially odd since I don’t like guns and we don’t have any in our home. The guns were taken from an Italian museum, after armistice had been declared, as my father hitchhiked from his minesweeper to find a larger boat to return to America.
An icon is a physical metaphor of a story that is not to be forgotten. As I took the guns out this year I asked myself a question that I have never addressed: Of all my father’s possessions why did I take these?
My father was first stationed on a Destroyer in the Atlantic and then with special sonar training he spent the rest of his naval service on mine sweepers. He was part of five invasions in North Africa and the Mediterranean. He, along with most fathers I knew when I was growing up, never talked about the war. By the time I was born in the early 1950’s our country had moved on to prosperity and their trauma had been neatly boxed up and shelved. There were a couple of “G” rated bedtime stories my dad would tell when putting me to bed. The one I remember best is of his ship being bombed and how he saved the radio by jumping off the boat with his arms high in the air to keep the radio from being destroyed. Movies like McHale’s Navy and television shows like Hogan’s Heroes were my childhood understanding of World War II.
It was odd to come of age at the time of 2001: Space Odyssey, Kent State killings, SDS (Students for Democratic Society) and “The Pill”. My father was angry at my generation’s disdain for war. I was on a different side in this cultural conflict and it put my father and I at odds. I was no longer aligned with him and I lost an important ally.
Soon after college I married and our discussions never returned to war until I returned home the summer before my dad died. He walked into the kitchen and exclaimed, “Hey, Beck, I’ve got something to show you. Look at this, it’s my diary I kept during the war.” I had never heard of it before and was intrigued when he told me that it was illegal to have had a diary during the war. He talked about how he had to keep it hidden and had to write secretly. He then said that when the war ended his diary was carried home to the U.S. by a friend and then mailed to his dad in Columbus, Ohio with strict instructions to not show it to anyone. Sure enough, that is exactly what was written on the sixty-year old note to his dad on the first page. We sat down for what seemed to be just a few minutes together before my kids wanted to go to a water park with their cousins. As quick visits go, time gets away and we never sat down to read it again.
A few years back, I went home to help clear out my parents’ home so we could sell it. Since they had been children during the Great Depression many things had carefully been saved. My heart skipped a beat when I opened a drawer and found my dad’s diary. This time I had “extravagant time” to read my father’s reflections in his beautiful cursive. Each page seemed to be in “techno-color “ and the bombs that streaked the sky lit up like fireworks and booms pierced my ears as I read his description of maritime battles. I had no idea that a young twenty year old could enable me to smell the sulfur and hear the screams of young men jumping off mine sweepers to their deaths. Page after page became a treasure hunt to his heart.
What I now know of trauma after doing a course called Trauma and Abuse through The Allender Center is that unresolved trauma re-surfaces. My father would sometimes rage. He was sometimes extremely opinionated and seldom tolerated any opposing view. As much as I loved him, I knew he could quickly be at war with me. I now know that his hair-trigger anger was likely connected to things no young man ought to ever observe let alone experience.
I don’t know why my father took the guns. When the war ended many soldiers were told to get home however they could. My father mentioned “hitch-hiking” through Italy to France and then getting a ride on a ship back to the U.S. He told of a bombed museum in Italy and how he grabbed two guns and put them in his duffel. These guns were never displayed in our home when I was growing up. They stayed in the back of a shelf in our family room. When I chose what to keep from my parents’ home the guns were part of my booty.
With Memorial Day approaching I realized that these guns, which I thought conveyed a picture of freedom, hold much more than that. They are the prize of a young man who survived and needed an icon to remember the terror, death, and victory of his 5-years of hell. They were proof that he had lived through what he did and made it home alive.
I will hold and display those guns until I die because I don’t want my father’s sacrifice or suffering forgotten—nor his resolve and stealth to take those icons. He fought and suffered and as a warrior in a spiritual realm I do too. I not only need a reminder of his service, I need one as well.
My father is with Jesus. He knows far more than I do now that the war is not over and the cost is still as high as it was during his fight. Every time I display those guns I stand against all powers of darkness that wish to take life and instead I proclaim it is my privilege to live well and to remember.
Becky Allender lives on Bainbridge Island with her loving, wild husband of 36 years. A mother and grandmother, she is quite fond of sunshine, yoga, Hawaiian quilting and creating 17th Century reproduction samplers. A community of praying women, loving Jesus, and the art of gratitude fill her life with goodness. She wonders what she got herself into with Red Tent Living!
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It’s amazing what our fathers lived through, but rarely spoke of. This story is wonderful, Becky, and I love your reasoning in displaying the guns as tokens of the battle we face, and that faced by our proud fathers. Again your writing is clear and crisp….can I encourage you to write that book we spoke of? Your brave, trusting heart is such an encouragement.
Dear Kelli, it IS amazing what our fathers (and mothers) lived through. I wish our fathers had had the chance to have spoken with people who had understanding of trauma and the healing process that conversation and caring and being heard allows. Then their daughters would have also received new understanding to our dads. Thanks for you kind and encouraging words.
Aunt Becky, I loved your article on the guns Granddad used to own and the story behind them. I liked hearing how he told you, Aunt Judy, and Dad stories about the war. I could picture this happening back at their old house. I thought you beautifully tied in how you are a spiritual warrior in battle. This rings true for all Christians. Great picture of Granddad!
Dear Amy, thank you for your kind words. I remember the day so well when Granddaddy told me of his diary. You and your brother, Andrew and Amanda were all downstairs in my old bedroom. Thank you for your affirming words of stories and our own battles in the spiritual realm. Hugs to you across the many miles.
Love those dueling pistols and the incredible story behind them.
We should read the diary together sometime. There are incredible scenes that need conversation and just not solo reading!
Dear Becky, I’ve been committed to looking for stories of mine framed with barbed wire that I can reframe with God’s goodness and grace. You offered me one with this poignant story. Your description of your father could fit my father as well. He has a war story that he committed to taking to his grave and he succeeded. Though I don’t have the story, I have insight through your words of your own father. Thank you friend. I am beginning to unravel the barbed wire around some of my story that involves my father. Your story is a gift in so many ways. We are spiritual warriors in the battle for the hearts of others and for our own hearts.
Dear Valerie, I ditto what I wrote “Catalenakel” on the first comment. Our dads would have benefited with skilled trauma caregivers. There didn’t seem to be the care and understanding that is available today. I am grateful that you are beginning to unravel the barbed wire around stories that involve your father. Bless you for your good fight to love and unearth beauty. Valerie, I love how you battle on behalf of others and their hearts.
Grandad never talked much about the war when I was growing up other than a few stories here and there so it was nice to learn a little bit more about his perspective and your perspective for that matter. Thanks for sharing!
Thanks, Jay. I recall that Granddad went to your school for a Veteran’s Day assembly before he died. I am grateful our schools began to honor vets and glad he had an opportunity to go to your school. I wish he’d told us more stories. Do you have a copy of the diary?
I love this remembrance of your dad and those pistols are a treasure. Thank you for sharing him here, especially through the eyes of your heart!
Thank you Mary Jane for taking the time to read and comment. I surely did love him.
Oh, dear Becky, how your writing touches me. Thoughts of riding to school in the VW bug—me with my violin and the jokes your Dad always told. I also remember the spanking he gave us both when we were climbing in a tree and broke a branch. He was wonderful! Although my Dad was older than yours at the time they serviced in the war I can identify with your story. At Pop’s funeral I read a letter that he wrote to Mom on New Years Eve 1944 while stationed in Paris. I have the scrapbook that Mom kept thought out the time he was gone, and towards the end of his life we would sit together and read everything. His job was to repair telephones, string the lines and escort prisoners to jail. He was so very lucky that he was never under fire. Pop carried a .22 gun and when he returned he made a beautiful box for it that sat on top of his dresser. At a very young age I was showed it and told never to touch it. I never did. He gave that gun to me when he moved out of the Stratford Drive house. It sits in my closet and I look at it every day. I target practice with it and it is in great shape. I also have and wear his dog tags at times. They were both great men. Thank you for sharing your story. I’m proud to call you my friend.
Dear Paula, my dad really liked taking us to school and you are right, he did tell jokes in the car. I had forgotten about the tree incident! Guess that would never happen today! Thank you for telling about your dad during the war. I remembered that he was stationed in France. Now that we are sixty-three it makes me wish that we could have had our dad’s come to Windermere and tell what they learned from their time in the service. I wish that there had been a day that our dad’s came to our classes and that they were given time to reflect. I like to think that we would have really listened and would have been proud of our dads…how handsome they were and the wisdom they received because of their wartime service. And, you rock, girl! I love picturing doing target practice with your dad’s .22 gun. I’d love to see a picture of it. Oh, yes, they were great men. I’ll never forget the evening in our living room when your family came over to watch movies about skiing at Vail.
Dad’s diary was a treasure. I traced his journey on a map back an forth across the Meditrean sea. He put a positive spin on gun fire from planes in the night sky comparing the tracer fire to fireworks. The generation after the war came back went to school and achieved a lot. Beautifully written.
That is so cool that you traced his journey while reading the diary. I will have to do that. I am re-reading it now and am amazed the territory he traversed and the storms and battles fought. It’s incredible to think of the years that generation spent not knowing when the bullets and bombs would begin again.
What an honor and tribute to your father, Becky! So filled with mercy and compassion – to ‘suffer with’ your dad as you sought to understand him. Gorgeous writing – we have come to expect and relish your words and the deep well from which they are crafted.
Thank you Jan! I take that as a huge compliment from an amazing writer. So much to try and say in a thousand words! We just always miss our dads, don’t we? See you soon.
I love that you chose these and what a beautifully woven picture you shared here dear Becky. So much truth in light of the battlefield both physically and spiritually.
Thank you for your words. Oh, the cost of freedom is great and the memories that encompass them are heavy….
What a treasure, your fathers experiences written down in a journal for you to return to again and again. I loved everything about this story Becky. Thanks for sharing this with us.
Thank you, Tracy. I only wish I had captured more of his stories and that I had had the foresight to have asked him so many more questions about his life.
Beautifully written and very thought provoking. I am still chewing on it, Becky. Thank you for sharing the way your gift connects your heart with your pen….that can be a bit scary. You inspire me.
Dear Jenny, thank you. Writing is a mystery as when you start out you cannot foresee the path it will take you on. The bounty of the heart astounds me with writing and feeling and new awarenesses that weren’t there at the start. (If that makes sense).