Daddy’s Purple Heart

My Father got a Purple Heart twenty five years late. It was headlines in both the local papers, The Daily News Journal and The Weekly Courier “Man Gets Purple Heart 25 Years Late.” In the interview he said, “I got it for my children.” But what did two paper doll-playing, ballerina-twirling little girls care about a chunky old medal? “It’s ugly”, we thought.

My sister Gloria claimed she had seen Daddy’s wound. “It’s a huge scar” she leaned over and whispered “Inside his leg—way up high.”

When Father got up in the morning he always dressed in the bathroom. He would emerge completely dressed in starched white shirt and dapper tie, hair slicked back and and shoes polished to a shine. Once Gloria and I hid in the bathroom closet to watch him dress and see if we could see the wound. But when Gloiria pushed open the closet door to peep, it squeaked and we were discovered. Off came Father’s belt and stung our legs—the stiff leather abrasive on our tender skin. We scooted out of the bathroom and never tried that again.

Now I wonder sometimes what war was like to a seventeen year old farm boy who, with his brother, ran away from home to join the army and was immediately sent to France. I’ve heard they didn’t even have guns with which to train but used sticks and broom handles.

Father never talked about his war memories but I finally pieced together how he came to be wounded. It was a dark night. Company C was just across a ravine from the Germans. Coming unexpectedly upon this enemy division, word had to be sent back to headquarters. Daddy was chosen to be the courier. In a situation that I can’t even picture there was a wire Daddy could follow in the dark that would lead him to the Headquarter tent. It was a moonless night and Daddy apparently stealthily gripped the wire and started toward headquarters. He was about half-way there when the shot rang out. That’s all I ever heard about the wounding. Who rescued him? Did Daddy recuperate in a battlefield hospital? Was he sent home immediately? I’ve never known.

When Daddy was 93 he suffered a stroke and my sister and I looked after him at first. Although it was our task to bathe and dress him we, respecting his privacy, never looked at his wound.