Happy Birthday, Dad!

My father, Lt. Col. Frank R. Foery, would have been ninety-eight years old today. I thought of him a lot last night as I finished re-watching The War, Ken Burns’ amazingly compelling documentary on World War II. Every time I watch a WWII piece I stop and think of the bravery, dedication, hard work and sacrifice that my Dad and his generation, the rightly called “Greatest Generation,” exhibited in the 1940s. And I think, but not for long, about whether my generation, or any of the three to come after me, could have done as well.

Not for long, I say, for the answer is pretty clear. We today are far too cowardly, lazy and dedicated only to ourselves to do what they did. Had it been up to us then, we’d be saluting the rising sun today, I am sure.

My Dad was tough in that quiet way of many of the World War II heroes. He wasn’t good with emotions and he wasted no time at all on complaints. He laid down rules and was actually surprised if they were disobeyed. He taught me to be hard working, demanding of myself and always honest. Things were to be done right the first time and pride was to be taken in everything I did, both large and small.

I miss him very much. I wasn’t quite fifty years old when he died – far too young to lose a man who had so many more things to teach me.

In his last years we had begun to really talk; had he lived longer I have no doubt we would have deepened those conversations and pursued new and challenging topics. Maybe I would have come to learn more about his service to our country; like many vets, he was reticent on the subject. Maybe I would have learned the details of how he won the Bronze Star (photo above).

Eugene B. Sledge, writing in With the Old Breed about his return home after the war, said “Civilian life seemed so strange. People rushed around in a hurry about seemingly insignificant things. Few seemed to realize how blessed they were to be free and untouched by the horrors of war.”

I realize how lucky I am, but only in a detached, intellectual kind of way. I wasn’t at Monte Cassino or Anzio or Omaha Beach. I didn’t experience the horror that was Tarawa or Peleliu, Saipan or Iwo Jima, Luzon or Okinawa. I can only read about them or watch films about them.

But I can thank the men and women, my father included, who went to war to preserve my right to read and watch what I want.