medals, memories and men

 On my bedroom wall are old memories and old medals. That was my thought the other day. In one corner I have my shadow box I received when retiring from the Navy, close by are my father's WW2 medals that I mounted. A couple of faded photographs accompany those. But there they are, nestled in the corner, a little dust on the frames, silent, their stories untold. I wonder what will become of them? I'm sure that one the grandkids will keep them, I don't believe they will be discarded, but the stories behind them will be lost. Something I have come to understand is only the "warrior" who earned those medals really knows the story. Others, when they see them, speculate about those medals. And, like the dead, they are treated with respect, nothing but kind words and thoughts. Almost a sense of grandeur.

 I have quite the collection of certificates, awards and commendations received over a twenty year career. The service is big on handing those things out. It's a way of saying thank you or good job. I have those stashed away somewhere, I'm not certain where at the moment. One day one of the kids or someone else will discover them and perhaps be interested in them. They are really no big deal to me, just papers collected for various things. If you don't know what they are, they may impress. I think sometimes that is their sole purpose. Something to show others. Those that weren't there. Like a good report to show Mom.  

 In working on my family tree I found many veterans. Starting in the revolutionary war and every conflict since, I have had ancestors fighting the battles. Well, the truth is, they were in the service at that time, as I said, speculation about their service is what people do afterward, when the story is lost. I had hoped to find a hero among all those men, I found none. As near as I can tell everyone in my family returned from the wars, no one wounded or disabled in glorious combat! Yes, I know everyone is a hero, everyone that served. Still, that isn't what I believe. I'm certainly no hero. My Dad flew in bombers over enemy territory, was attacked by fighter planes, but made it back to base safe and sound. A hero? In  my eyes certainly, but hardly heroic, as he said, just doing my job. 

 Dad had a scrapbook of his time in the Army Air Force. It was filled with pictures of airplanes and airmen. Airmen, that's what they are called. He seldom showed me that scrapbook, and talked about that time even less. That scrapbook has since been taken apart, the pictures of aircraft separated from the pictures of the airmen. I am responsible for that and have regrets about it today. But the aircraft pictures went to a good home, my sisters son is an Air Force man and I gave those pictures to him for safekeeping. The pictures of the airmen I kept for myself. The ones with Dad in them especially important to me. The ones with the other men, those unknown to me, I can't part with. I'm not certain what to do with them. I wish I could find their homes, but the chances are slim. 

 Memories, medals and old photographs. They serve as reminders to those that were there and a source of speculation to those that were not. It is important to remember that all of that took place when those men were young. Wars are fought by "boys" that become men. I was forty when I retired, "Father Time" is what I was called in my final years of service. It is even engraved on the plague in my shadow box. Forty, that was twenty eight years ago. I haven't given it much thought, not really, just in passing. Every ship I served on has since been retired as well. They became too old, their service life reached. But I have the "sea stories" and intimate knowledge of the medals, men and memories. The stories speculated are surely going to be far greater than what actually took place. Perhaps that is as it should be.