I know

I know the taste of tears, after twenty seven years the salt of my pain too familiar. Most days I am happy, but there are some when my heart sighs and a hushed memory escapes and releases the genesis of my sorrow. For a time, because of others, I cloaked my heartache and restricted them to private pages. The last time we spoke, you made me promise to never hide what I was feeling, to always be honest, no matter how afraid I might be.  In honor of you, I share.

I know regret. Time wasted, the past that can never be changed. 1:11 a.m., the sweetest gift, an unexpected hello. Words hung in the air, left unspoken. A borrowed record, Billy Joel's She's Got a Way quietly played in the background, a promise when you returned I would hear the words I longed for. You wanted to hold me, look in my eyes; the first time they are said should always be special. You reminded me of the feeling, the kismet of the first time we gazed into each other's eyes. Until your reassurance, I was afraid of the depth of what I felt. We were young, we shared dreams, and we had forever. The fourth Monday in March 1987, my innocence ended, the future shattered. A helicopter crash on a riverbank in the Philippines is where you left this earth, left me.

I know one phone call can change the world, change my life. Your voice, shared laughter, a plan and a promise for the future made my heart sing. A few weeks later, your name and two words, Bobby's dead, dropped me to my knees. The pain swallowed me as my life rushed out.

I know how it feels to inhale but not be able to breathe. My first panic attack, the moment my denial ended and the reality you were never coming home dropped like a guillotine on my soul.  Fear flooded my body, suffocated my heart, the loneliness in the room spun me until I collapsed broken on my bed. It is a desolation I will never be able to describe.

I know the torment of a restless night.  The unanswered why that haunts me, denies me sleep. The solitude of the darkness magnifies the void you left. The emptiness next to me, a reminder of what might have been, should have been.

I know the sheaths of the seasons. In the fall the leaves gently cascade from the trees, dance where you rest, before they settle in the recesses between the grass and the bronze. Winter arrives, its storms blanket you in snow. The rains of spring wash away the coldness and give root to the soft green covers of summer. Your seasonal quilt is not the same as the one you wrapped around us in Pensacola. It does not matter, I will always lie next to you. It is the closest I can get until I hold you again in Heaven.

I know the sensation of forty one characters. My fingers run along your inscription while my heart retraces the memory of you. Remembrances of your touch awaken my soul. Pools of my heartache fall on your rank, embrace your name.

I know how fickle the weather can be on your birthday. The March sun can be warm or the winds can blow hard and cold. The ground can be covered in snow, soft and muddy from rain or covered in fresh grass. The climate will not stop me, I will always visit. The silence of the solemn garden broken as I sing Happy Birthday, make a wish, blow out your candle and then share a cupcake. This past year, the hardest of anniversaries; you have been gone longer than you were here.

I know what it is like to love another. I did as you would want, over time I let go. My heart was conflicted over the wonder and the guilt the first time I shared my bed. After, I cried in the shower, tears of admission, acceptance that your arms would never hold me again.

I know what it is to fear time. Seasons fade my memory. I can hear your voice in my heart, but some days I can no longer remember what it sounds like. I close my eyes and some nights you are vivid, wonderfully alive as we dance. Others, only fragments of you appear in my dreams. I am afraid age will steal the clarity, the wonder of you. Scared, memories will be eclipsed by the darkness of time.

I know the cost of freedom. My heart knows it all too well.

Lessons From Memorial Hall

I was eighteen the first time I entered her halls. 1981 was the beginning of my growth. I was struggling between being a teenager and becoming an adult. I had recently graduated from high school, and was in my first semester of college. Many life lessons started that evening, lessons I had not begun to realize. Men who would have a profound effect on me, change who I was, walked the corridors of Bancroft Hall in October of 1981; I had not yet met them.

He was my first real boyfriend, a 3rd class midshipman in 7th company from outside of Buffalo, New York. I loved the way he spoke; the pronunciations of certain words, beer, car, park, etc. were almost an infatuation to me. For a silly 18-year-old girl, his accent, his uniform, everything about him seemed so mature. I loved having a boyfriend and I wanted to keep him around for a while so I worked hard trying to impress him, let him know I liked him.

From the time I first sat in the kitchen splitting green beans with my grandmother I was taught a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.  My afternoon class was was canceled so I decided with my added free time I would make chocolate chip cookies and surprise my mid.  With my baking complete, I bagged the cookies and headed to the Academy.

I had never surprised anyone before, and wondered as I parked my car if this was such a brilliant idea. Brushing aside my anxiety, I headed across the yard. I climbed the imposing steps to the entrance of Bancroft Hall. I marveled at the massive size of the foyer, the towering dome, and arches that adorned the ceiling. In front of me stood numerous flags, beyond them lay another massive staircase leading to a larger door with some type of strange seal of armor above it. Turning in a small circle I was in awe at the visual magnificence that surrounded me.

A sign directed me to turn left for the visitor’s reception area. At the window I informed the midshipmen on duty the company and name of whom I wished to visit. He called his company and relayed the message he had a visitor. I was
directed down the hall to the visitor's lounge and told my boyfriend would be there shortly.

The lounge was crowded with midshipmen and their girlfriends. Leather couches were taken up by couples mesmerized with each other’s presence. Trying not to stare at the various scenes playing out in front of me, I stood awkwardly in the corner and waited. Within a few minutes my boyfriend entered the room. Noticing how uncomfortable I was he invited me for a walk. Happily I agreed.

We exited the lounge and headed toward the entrance. Instead of turning right to go out the doors, he paused, then told me to follow him. We headed up the staircase I had been confronted by earlier. Ascending the steps I ran my hand along the wide banister. The room that stood above us commanded my attention. The breadth and prominence of the entrance overpowered every other feature in the building. I couldn't explain why but it took my breath away with it's overpowering silence.

On the landing outside the entrance, my boyfriend laid the bag of cookies by the wall. He brushed and straightened his uniform. He checked his posture and seemed to grow an inch or two taller before me. My confused look at his uniform checks told him I had never been inside the hall. He asked if I knew the significance of the Memorial Hall, I shook my head.

He explained as a plebe he had to wait for the upper classmen to disclose all the hall represented. What it meant to the midshipmen and alumni of the Academy.  Every midshipman had to earn the right to enter her chambers.  To him Memorial Hall needed no further explanation. If one listened; her walls, her chambers spoke for themselves. In time they would disclose their meaning to all who sought it.

The large hall at the top of the stairs, located across from the entrance to Bancroft Hall is not just any room, she is like no other. Memorial Hall sits at the heart of Mother B; the nickname affectionately given Bancroft Hall by the midshipmen.
Memorial Hall is the quintessence of the Academy. Everything the Academy represents, the values it teaches are all embodied within her walls. She holds the lessons of the past that will lead midshipmen forward; teach them to become better men and women, outstanding leaders.

From the moment I stepped within her walls I was overwhelmed. The massive hall was quiet, peaceful. The sounds of my shoes hitting her floors echoed through her towering architecture. A solemn silence resonated through the air. The mammoth columns seem to be guarding the memories of the Academy’s shipmates. Her walls divulged the stories of the Navy’s heroes, their struggles, their battles, their victories, disclosed through powerful images and baroque memorials.

Walking along her walls my boyfriend pointed out the heroes that stood out to him, officers he had studied or would study. I stood in the middle of the main room, stared upward through the large skylight, looking to the Heavens where her gallant men were surely residing.  Valor and honor surrounded me.

Memorial Hall was beautiful, magnificent in her glory. An indescribable sadness came over me as I stood silent. I was new to the Annapolis; I had not yet developed ties to the Naval Academy, her midshipmen and graduates. I did not understand the strange sensation the hall gave me. I would not fully comprehend what I was feeling, the sacrifices that lay within her walls and alcoves until many years later.

I did not enter the walls of Memorial Hall again for twenty some odd years. In my forties, no longer a naïve teenager.  I had gotten off work early and headed to Annapolis Mall to do some Christmas shopping. The gifts would have to wait, the sign at the end of Route 2 for the Naval Academy beckoned me. Memorial Hall was summoning me.

 Awhile back I had read a feature  about the re-dedication ceremony of Memorial Hall. She had undergone years of renovation. The article noted that her walls now contained panels listing former midshipmen who had been killed while serving in the military. Her alcoves made more hallow by the more than 2500 lost shipmates chronicled upon them. The ghosts and memories of the young men that once lived within the walls of Mother B. were now enshrined for all to see.

I convinced the guard to allow me to park at Preble Hall. I sat for a moment staring at the Academy grounds that I once roamed. I smiled, remembering all the friends I had made; the laughter, love and friendship I found within the Academy’s gates. I walked by the Chapel, down the path to Stribling Walk. Beyond Tecumseh lay Bancroft Hall, the cannon along the walls sitting silent vigil, announcing to all who enter Tecumseh’s court they are entering the home of American’s past, present and future leaders and heroes.

I climbed the massive stairs of Bancroft. The only facet time seemed to change was me. I stood under the rotunda at the entrance staring at the steps that once again lay in front me; my passage way to Memorial Hall. As I had done many years before I placed my hand on the banister, feeling every inch of her marble under my fingertips. My eyes fixed above on the sweeping letters that spelled “Don’t Give Up the Ship”. The memorial was flanked on one side by an American Flag and on the other a Naval Academy Flag. As I neared the top of the staircase, the more powerful the image became.

Standing at her entrance, I wondered why I had come back. Part of me wanted to see the new memorials, most of me paralyzed with fear by the emotions I knew awaited me. Two midshipmen exited the hall, nodded, acknowledging me as they passed by. The hall was now empty, safe to enter. I no longer had to worry about strangers witnessing my reaction when I first looked upon the memorial for the class of 1983.

As I had done many years before I looked up through the beautiful skylight above, this time saying a prayer for strength. Immediately I was drawn to the right side of the hall. It was as if my heart knew exactly where he was, the place where his name had been inscribed for all eternity.

I entered the alcove, walked to the corner. Before me hung a large set of marble panels, four across and eight down. Every two panels designated for an Academy class, the bottom two his class. I read, Class of Nineteen Hundred Eighty-Three; underneath the wording was the class crest. The fourth name down from the top, Lt. Robert T. Bianchi, USN. I reached out to touch him.

Tears began to roll down my cheeks as I ran my fingers over his inscription. I was taken back to the morning my phone rang and heard the words that forever changed my life, “Bobby is dead.”   That day I lost my innocence.  

There is something utterly wrong at seeing the name of a man whose arms once held me, whose hands wiped away my tears. The man to whom I had entrusted my secrets and dreams, a man taken from me when he was twenty-six and I was not quite twenty-four. At one time our bodies were one, joined as we made love. I remember the warmth of his skin and the tenderness of his voice the last time he touched me.

Now the pain of unexplainable separation, the years of want and hurt, streamed from my heart as tears. A river of crushed dreams played through my mind as I looked out the window. Closing my eyes, I imagined Bobby walking through the halls of Mother B, playing lacrosse on the Academy fields. I saw him smiling at me, his eyes lighting up when he first saw me standing next to the gate at the turf field. In that instant I knew he was happy to see me.

I had been lost in the memories of Bobby when I heard footsteps enter the hall. Not wanting anyone to witness my heartache I rushed down the stairs and took refuge in the bathroom.  I sat in the stall wiping my tears and reprimanding myself.  Bobby had been gone almost twenty years; I had made a promise long ago, no more tears, only smiles when I remembered him.

My brain had made a promise my heart could not keep. No amount of scolding would stop my tears. For years I had avoided all reminders of Bobby. I had cut ties to everyone and anything that might cause me to remember how much was lost when he died. Yet here I was standing in the institution that made him a man, the Academy he loved so much.

The core of Lt. Robert T. Bianchi enveloped me. Time seemed to fly backwards.  Once again I was twenty three and lost. I had to make a decision.  I could fight what I was feeling or embrace his memory and all the emotions that accompanied it.  I washed the tears from my face and looked in the mirror.  My eyes reflected the sorrow still within me. I took a deep breath, headed out the door and back up the steps. More valiant men deserved my respects.

I realized I could never go back to the first time I stepped within Memorial Hall. I was no longer naïve and had long given up the notion that people we love will grow old with us. I reentered the hall and faced the reality of life’s cruelty. I was gazing upon the sacrifices of the few, for the many.

I started on the left side of the hall, began reading the names of men who had died long before I was born.  As I progressed through the panels, comprehending the ranks of the men listed, I became cognizant that the young die in the military. Survivors retire. I stopped to pay special tribute to the men who had been awarded the Medal of Honor. Once again I looked up through the massive skylight to Heaven, prayed for control as I reentered the alcove memorializing the most recent graduating classes.  I purposely skipped the first row, Bobby’s class and started with the second.

Class of Nineteen Hundred Eighty-Four, the bottom name, Cdr. Peter G. Oswald, USN. I smiled, remembering the first time I was introduced to Pete after a football game. When I asked him what position he played he answered, offensive line. His job was to protect Nap (McCallum) and to open holes for him to run through.  Pete was a force to be reckoned with on the field, and I discovered a sweet caring soul outside of the game.

I will always cherish the conversation Pete and I had at Fran O’Brian’s. He gently explained my two biggest character flaws: First, I put distance between me and the men who tried to love me. Second, I refused to see all that was beautiful within me. Until I changed I would never be happy. In 1984 I thought his remarks were callous, now I understood he was giving me much needed guidance. He cared enough to be honest.

Class of Nineteen Hundred Eighty-Five, the bottom name, Cdr. Kevin A. Bianchi, USN.  Bobby’s brother. Like Pete he had died a few years before. Kevin always greeted me with a huge smile and arms spread wide for a hug. Usually the long strong embrace was followed by playful teasing, gentle ribbing. His way of trying to get me to let go of my fears and re-connect with his brother. His constant question, "What's the deal?"

Kevin was genuine. No matter what someone had done, a mistake that they had made, hurt they had inflicted, I never heard Kevin utter a bad word about anyone. He practiced and understood the importance of forgiveness. He had incredible faith in the goodness of people.

Bobby and Kevin were cut from the same cloth, they were honest, had unbelievable character, undeniable faith and courage; they were born leaders. They were extraordinary men who changed everyone who met them.  I was blessed; I knew both Bobby and Kevin; even if it was for only a short amount of time.

I continued down the wall, until the stones were void of any class insignia, barren of any memories. Knowing one day these untouched stones would be transformed into memorials, inscribed with names of unknown boys and girls, children now playing in the backyards across this country, I said a prayer.  I asked God for the impossible; that these stones forever remain vacant. I asked that he be gentle on the souls already enshrined within Memorial Hall.

Before leaving I went back to memorial for the class of 1983. I rested my hand on Bobby's name. My palm centered on his middle initial, almost hoping to feel his heartbeat one more time. I leaned in, whispered how much I loved him and he was missed by many. I told Bobby it was his turn to shepherd the future leaders of the military. The world was crazy, the men and women studying at the Academy needed guidance. I turned my hand over and gently caressed his name. I wiped my tears and as I had done numerous times before at his grave, I kissed my fingers, then lovingly placed them on his name before leaving.

Fearful I would break down; I quickly descended the stairs, passed under the rotunda and stepped out the front door.  I walked across the yard then stopped and turned back toward Bancroft Hall. Suddenly I realized Mother B had spoken to me. I felt her soul; I understood what Memorial Hall is to me.

Memorial Hall is not simply a place of heroes; the men and women we read about in text books, she embodies more. She silently teaches the future leaders of the Naval Academy from the experiences of her fallen. She defines the fearless determination, the gallantry, character and courage of the officers that graduate from the halls of Bancroft.

She enshrines within her walls the legacy of the everyday officers who three-hundred-sixty-five days a year put their safety, well -being, future, and dreams on the line with no questions asked for our freedom. Her fallen shipmates did not seek to be heroic, they were simply doing what they had been taught at the Academy; to lead, to protect, to “Never Give Up the Ship”.  Families, friends and shipmates will forever grieve the officers whose names adorn the chambers within Memorial Hall. They will always hold dear the pride the fallen carried in their hearts serving our country.

Memorial Hall, she cradles our tears, embraces our loved ones memories, honors their valor, carries their courage, instills the Academy’s values on all who pass through her chambers.  She is a constant reminder the cost of freedom is immeasurable. Memorial Hall holds the past of the Academy as well as her future not yet realized. She is simply the heart and soul of every Officer that graduates from the United States Naval Academy.

A Debt We All Owe

I saw a photo on facebook of a young man, Sgt. Micheal P. Scusa. He was killed in Kamdesh, Afghanistan on October 3, 2009. His photo was posted by his father in honor of the sacrifice he and seven of his brothers in arms made in service to our country. He was only twenty three years old at the time of his death. His photo, his posting lead me to another site, Freedom Remembered. There I found a story on Micheal, on the side of his page a link to recent causalities, Spc. Omar Soltero, Spc. Joshua R. Campbell, Spc Shawn A. Muhr, Sgt. 1st Class Anthony Venetz, Jr. and Tech Sgt. Leslie D. Wilson. All of them have died in the past month in the line of duty.

The website states over 5500 stories of soldiers, sailors, airmen are listed. You can search the site by branch of service, by state, by month, by country/battle. I decided to search my home state, Maryland. There are forty five soldiers and sailors stories told, listed on the site. I scanned down the page, it was in a way too hard to look. The realization too much. I went back to the main page, over 5500 men and women, 5500!

Another photo, another face, another soldier, too many to count on my own. All with their own tale but every man, every woman similar in several respects. They all died too soon. They all had loved ones left behind to mourn them. Many of the men and women photographs are in uniform, everyone looks ‘ten feet tall’. Their faces, their stance, their bodies, everything about them is emanating with pride. Proud to be serving our country, protecting us, accomplishing the mission set before them. They felt the calling, the obligation to serve our country, fight for freedom. On these pages officers and enlisted are side by side, no longer separated by rank. They have all been equalized by death. They all made the same sacrifice and have been laid to rest on hallowed ground.

They are a son, a daughter who will be forever young. Life will move on with out them. Children will be born and grow. Super Bowls, World Series, Stanley Cups, Belmont Stakes, the Larry O’Brien Trophy all will awarded year after year. Their favorite teams will continue to play, their voices, their cheers, their yells, their laughter, their cries will forever be silent. One less fan will sit on the sidelines, in the stands, watching television or listening by radio. One less parent will be at a child’s game. Holidays, birthdays, graduations and weddings will be celebrated without them. They will be the empty chair at the table on Thanksgiving. They will be the feeling someone is missing when families go on vacation. They will be the hug someone longs for one last time.

They are the photo that sits in a silent vigil on a loved one’s desk, a nightstand, the mantle in the living room. The person whose portrait is never replaced by an updated photograph. They will be the unspoken sorrow in a loved one’s life. They are the sons, daughters, husbands, wives, mothers and fathers with unfinished lives, unfinished dreams. We will never know what more they had to offer, what more they could have become for they gave us their all the day they laid down their life in the name of freedom.

I sadly have seen the cycle many times. At first they will be remembered, spoken of often. There will be birthday parties, get togethers in their honor. They will be the topic of conversation for the first few years after their death. Then slowly as time progresses, they are spoken of less and less. There are no longer toasts in their honor, stories are not told as often. They are not forgotten, they are simply no longer remembered as much. Their graves are no longer visited by friends as often as they once were. Their headstones will become lightly covered with dirt, no longer brushed away by a loving hand of a friend/lover. Flowers are no longer laid upon their graves as frequently as before. They lay in silence under the rising and setting sun day after day, year after year. They lay there alone for all eternity, for service and sacrifice made to all of us.

The price they paid is immeasurable. In return what do we owe them? Whose obligation is it to remember, the forever young? As time goes by who is responsible to remember the long forgotten? Is an inscription on a wall of honor, a monument, a web site, is that payment enough for their sacrifice? Should that really be considered acceptable? Payment in full? We celebrate Memorial day every May but is one day really adequate to honor those who have paid the last full measure of devotion? Or do we all have an obligation to tell their story, visit them, remember them as much as possible? Shouldn’t we at least try to remember them in our prayers at least once a week, or is that asking too much?

Individually we can not remember everyone. There are so many who have given their lives in service to this country it would be an impossible task. The debt we owe is to those we knew. Those who have traveled in our life, shared our memories, made us who we are today. No man or woman dies friendless or without a family. It is our individual responsibility to tell their stories, share the memories of our friends who have died way too young. If we as their friends remember them less and less, if we let a photo, a piece of inscribed granite be the only reminder, remembrance of our friends who have died, then we have not paid our debt. We can not expect a stranger to remember or honor our friends for they do not know them as we do. We are the ones who must carry their hopes, their dreams, their ambitions forward. It is our responsibility to share who are friends were with others. What they meant to us. How amazing and wonderful they were. We are in essence the legacy of our friends. We are the only ones who can adequately pay the debt the country owes. If we do not remember, reflect, tell their story, a nation of strangers will not as well. Our friends will be lost in time. They will become only a name on a headstone. We must shout as loud as we can, as often as we can, we can not let anyone drown us out. We must write, remember and respect our friends who have died. We must tell their stories over and over until their memory becomes a strong echo through the halls of life that can not be silenced. We can not let them be forgotten, for that is the debt we must pay!

My debt, who I owe
Lt. Robert T. Bianchi
23 March 1987 (age 26)
U.S.N.A. Class of 1983

Cdr Peter G. Oswald27 August 2002 (age 41)
U.S.N.A. Class of 1984

Cdr. Kevin A. Bianchi16 July 2003 (age 40)

U.S.N.A. Class of 1985

Eugene Arthur Gammon- World War II

There is a small memorial marker standing silent vigil at the Fort Logan National Cemetery in Denver, Colorado. There is no body buried beneath the marker. Sadly, this sailor was never brought home to his family. His mother was never able to lay her son to rest in the family cemetery. It is certain that Eugene A. Gammon died 24 October 1944 when the Arisan Maru (P.O.W. hell ship) was sunk off the coast of Formosa. Yet, Eugene Arthur Gammon is one of thousands still listed as Missing in Action from World War II.

Eugene was born 3 January 1915 in Ramah, a small town located about 38 miles from Colorado Springs, Colorado. He was the son of Eugene and Gertrude Dunning Gammon. His father was a proud cattle rancher. He was the oldest of two boys. Growing up the Gammon boys were taught to love their land and love their country. Since they had been “knee high” Eugene and his brother, James, were often told of their great great grandfather fighting in the Revolutionary War along side George Rogers Clark. Since before this country was founded the Gammons and Robinsons have been intertwined in her history. When called on, they have always served her needs.

Eugene was different from his younger brother. James wanted to spend his life on the family ranch in Ramah. Eugene, he loved Colorado but since visiting his cousin in California he longed to see the world, long to see what laid beyond the Pacific. Eugene enlisted in the United States Navy hoping this would allow him to see the world. In August 1940 he reported for duty on the U.S.S. Canopus stationed in Manila. In his letters home Eugene wrote about his life on the“Old Lady”, the beauty of the beaches and people, the unbearable heat compared to the gentle summers in Colorado. He wrote to his mom that his ship was called the “Mama-san” because the Canopus repaired and serviced the subs of the pacific. Eugene missed home but loved his new adventure. He was hoping soon he would be able to visit other exotic places.

Eugene’s dreams of seeing the world changed December 7, 1941. His horrific fate was sealed that Sunday in the Cavite Naval Yard. Hours after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, the Japanese began bombing Manila. Soon the men of the Canopus were working day and night repairing the ships that were damaged by the daily air raids. On Christmas day, as his family attended church praying for Eugene’s safe return, the Canopus sailed into Mariveles Bay at the tip of Bataan. All other ships were ordered out of Philippines, the U.S.S. Canopus would be serving alone. On December 27 the “Old Lady” took a direct hit, which penetrated all decks and exploded in the alley shaft killing 6 sailors and igniting her powder magazines. The Japanese were not successful in sinking her, the crew worked gallantly saving what seemed to be impossible. That night the first of her crew were buried at sea. Once again on January 6, the Canopus suffered a direct hit. Eugene wrote home he was not sure how much longer they would be able to hold on. They worked under the cover of darkness to repair their ship. At the same time the crew were converting her launches into gunboats to support the Marines off Corregidor. During her short service in World War II, the U.S.S. Canopus received only one battle star, but the battle lasted a long 4 months. Eugene and his fellow sailors fought heroically never giving up even in the face of overwhelming Japanese forces.

9 April 1942, starving, out of ammunition, and out of supplies, the crew was ordered to scuttle the U.S.S. Canopus. On 10 April 1942, her crew did what the Japanese had tried to do for four and a half months they laid the “Old Lady” to rest at bottom of Mariveles Bay with 13 of her crew. As she slowly disappeared into the bay, the reality of what laid ahead for Eugene and the rest of the crew must have been overwhelming. 11 April 1942 Eugene and the rest of the Canopus crew became part of the 4th Marine Division defending Corregidor.

Eugene A. Gammon, service number 96600 USN became a Prisoner of War. After the fall of Corregidor, his journey into hell began at the hands of the Japanese. For three weeks the prisoners were held in Corregidor they faced machine guns, random killings by the Japanese, starvation and disease. The United States Navy lists Eugene's capture after the fall of Corregidor, but in the Greeley Daily Tribune dated 28 February 1944 his mother stated that she clearly saw her son Eugene in some of the photos of the Bataan Death March which if true, meant he had been captured after the fall of Bataan almost a month earlier. She later wrote she fell to her knees crying when she first saw Eugene in the photos. Her handsome son who could wrangle a steer singularly had whittled away to mere skin and bones. For days his mother, Gertrude, could not sleep or eat, she was happy to see her son, yet horrified at how he appeared. Eugene is listed in Japanese records as a prisoner in Bilibid prison beginning in June of 1942. For the next three weeks, Eugene slept on concrete floors, lived on rice balls. The daily enemies at Bilibid were starvation, disease, abuse and boredom.

Eugene was transferred to Cabanatuan Prison in July of 1942. Cabanatuan was made famous by the 2005 film, “The Great Raid.” The story of the rangers rescuing the POWs before the Japanese tried to killed them. Sadly Eugene would never see rescue, never find freedom. For the next two and half years Eugene was a resident of camp 1, Cabanatuan. During the first 8 months Cabanatuan prison over 2,400 prisoners died from starvation or disease. Eugene was listed on burial detail. 30 to 50 prisoners were buried each day. July 1942 85 % of the men who died were under the age of 30. Several men attempted escape in the first few weeks of Cabanatuan, they were unsuccessful. To prevent further escapes the Japanese instituted groups of 10 named “Blood Brothers” or “Shooting Squads’. If anyone of the group escaped the other 9 would be executed. To protect the lives of all the prisoners, the American officers instituted a no escape policy. Men were made to sign an agreement not to attempt escape. They were told if they escaped and survived they would be court martialed after the war for the deaths of the other 9 in the group. It was a common practice by the japanese, before a man was executed he would be forced to dig his own grave as the other prisoners looked on. He would then most likely beheaded. There was later testimony at the War Crimes trial that on numerous instances, the guards would place the head of the decapitated POW on a pole and march it around the camp for all the prisoners to see. Food, water and sanitation were almost non-existent. Most of the food and water the prisoners received was smuggled in by brave civilians. Lugao, a thin watery soup became the main staple of every prisoner. Rice balls and worms were a luxurious dinner. Each morning the dying were removed from the barracks and taken to “zero ward”. Aptly named because those taken there had zero chance of surviving.

May 1943. almost a year after Eugene’s capture, the family received official notification from the Navy that their son, Eugene Arthur Gammon, was a prisoner of war at Cabanatuan. Eugene was promoted in absence to the rank of Boatswain, W.O. July 1943. For 2 years, 5 months Eugene would rot/waste away at the hands of the Japanese. During this time his mother would receive only two “form cards” from her son. When Gertrude died, she was buried with the cards, the last remaining items she had that her son’s hands had touched.

Late summer of 1944 the Japanese were aware of the approaching American forces. In August 1944 the Japanese issued a “Kill All” Policy. The Americans were not to find the prisoners. As MacArthur prepared to attack Leyte, Eugene and 1784 other prisoners of Cabanatuan were loaded on the Arisan Maru for transport to Japan. They were crammed like sardines into dark black hulls. . Later in war records these hulls were named hold 1 and 2. There was no sanitation, no fresh air to breath in the holds. The stench and heat were unbearable. The ship was part of a merchant convoy and was not marked as a POW transport ship. For two weeks the men in the holds suffered from heat and continued starvation. It was just before dinner on October 24 when two torpedoes struck the Arisan Maru. The ship stopped instantly and began taking on water. The Japanese issued abandoned ship orders. Before evacuating the ship, the Japanese cut the rope ladder leading to hold 1 and closed the hatches on hold one and two. Trapping the POWs below, guaranteed to cause certain death.. Gathered from surviving testimony, men in hold two though they suffered years of starvation, their will to live prevailed, they escaped their hold and lowered a rope down to the men in hold one. The prisoners jumped from the Arisan Maru and swam to the other Japanese ships who were part of the merchant convoy only to be beaten away, left to drown in the Pacific. Eugene and the other prisoners watched as the merchant ships left them floating in waves of salt water. The men grabbed onto anything that floated, wreckage left by the Arisan Maru. Some men drown quickly, others lasted for hours, days waiting for rescue. As they languished in the pacific they could hear the cries and prayers of those around them. The men watched in agony as their fellow POWs slipped into the depths of the ocean, knowing that eventually that would be their fate. They prayed for a miracle, a ship to find them, but the sub who sank the Arisan Maru was unaware the ship carried prisoners. It went about its mission patrolling the pacific. Out of the 1795 prisoners on the Arisan Maru, only 7 survived, Eugene was not one of them. The Pacific Ocean whom Eugene had fallen in love with on his trip to California, swallowed his body, took Eugene to his watery grave.

Several years after the war ended a fellow POW from camp 1 at Cabanatuan visited the Gammon family in Colorado. He tried his best to answer Eugene's mother’s questions, fill in the blanks of the last part of Eugene’s life. Although beaten and starved Eugene never lost his faith, he prayed every night. During the blistering heat of the Philippines he often told of the soft first snowfalls of Colorado. Before the war, he longed to see the world, at Cabanatuan all he dreamed about was his home in Colorado. Eugene often told his fellow prisoners after the war, they had to visit Colorado, it was the most beautiful place on earth. To cheer men up Eugene would often tell stories of chasing lost cattle in the pass between the mountains. He told of his childhood adventures in Colorado. Eugene often spoke of his mother. He worried most about her, on more than one occasion he said the pain his mother was feeling had to be much worse than what he was going through. He wished/prayed he could hug his mom just once, tell her he was okay. He was coming home one day.

The sinking of the Arisan Maru is the worst Naval disaster in U.S. history. 1780 POWs lost their life after suffering for years at the hands of the Japanese.

There is no definitive answer on when Eugene Arthur Gammon died. Did he die within hours of the sinking of the Arisan Maru or did he linger for days praying for a miracle? I have often wondered, before his death as he closed his eyes was he able to see one last time his home nestled in the foothills of the Rockies?

On Corregidor there sits a memorial to all those who died in the Pacific during World War II. The inscription along the rim of the alter reads;

Sleep, my sons,
Your destiny done,
For freedom’s light has come;
Sleep in the depths of the sea,
Or in your hallow sod,
Until you hear at dawn,
The low reveille of God

Rest in Peace Eugene Arthur Gammon and all those who died serving in the Pacific.

Don't Let Them Be Forgotten!

As Memorial Day approaches I find myself reflecting back to my last month as a Girl Scout, May 1978.  My final community service project, our troop volunteered to work with the Boy Scouts at various cemeteries placing American Flags next to the headstone of all who served. 

Upon our arrival we were broken into small groups, shown how to insert the flag and informed of cemetery protocol.  After orientation I was handed a bundle of flags, a map of the cemetery and a list containing the section, row numbers and the names of the men and women I was responsible for honoring.

Walking across the lush green lawns I marveled at how many headstones there were, how large the cemetery was.  With my section located I began to walk down the rows, inserting my flags at the base of each headstone. As I pushed each flag into the ground, I found myself reading the rank, the birth day, death date, branch of service and the war served on each headstone.

Before moving to the next headstone I would say a short prayer, “Dear God, please be with…inserting their name.” As the morning wore on, my brain began to calculate the age of the person at the time of their death. I marveled at how old some of the veterans were when they passed.  With my first section complete I headed back to the check-in table for my new assignment.  

With more flags I bounded back across the cemetery in search of my new assignment. In my first section, the majority of birth years were before the 1930s.   The wars cited on the headstones were World War I, World War II and Korea. I was not prepared for the new conflict I would encounter inscribed on the stones.

As I rounded the walkway the word “Vietnam” seem to scream at me from her rows of silent memorials.  It was a country, a war I was familiar with.  Growing up after dinner we would watch the evening news, the nightly broadcasts from the war front as well as the peace protests on the home front. I remember the sounds of my mom’s frequent sobs while my dad was deployed and her tears of joy when the President announced the war was over.

In sixth grade I had a wonderful teacher, Mr. Hopper. Every morning after taking roll he would read a few pages from the book, “In the Presence of Mine Enemies.”  The story of Capt. Howard Rutledge, his years as a POW at Hanoi Hilton and the struggles of his family back home while he was a prisoner. Cognizant of the times we lived in, he often said, he wanted his students to be thankful and not hateful of the men and women who served.  He hoped through Capt. Rutledge’s words/story we would better understand the sacrifices made to ensure our freedom.

I spent many Saturday nights watching old war movies with Dad, most were on World War II but numerous took place in Vietnam; “The Green Berets” and “Go Tell the Spartans” to name two.  A few weeks before my Dad had taken me to see “The Boys of Company C” at the Fort Meade Movie theaters. Hollywood had introduced me to the more sanitized version of war. I believed I understood the price of war, the cost of serving our country.

Nothing hits the heart stronger than seeing the reality of war carved in stone.  One headstone would illustrate the absoluteness of the “fallen” more than any other previous lesson.  It would demonstrate war does not adhere to boundaries; it will take the young more than the old.

Half way down the row my soul awakened as my heart stopped. Sadly time has erased the name inscribed on his headstone from my memory but not the dates I read. I remember the sadness that overwhelmed me, the instant ‘bond’ I felt when I read his birthdate, July 11, 1952. We were born on the same day. He was only twenty years old when he died, a few years older than I was at the time.  Tears cascaded down my cheeks as I read the words, “Only Son” inscribed and worn below his name.

My mind seems to ponder things more than most. My brain began to spin, fill with questions as I stared at his headstone.  Filled with sadness I sat and tried to come up with some logical explanation to the question that will never be adequately be answered, why? Not understanding then what I know now, why is the most difficult question that we may never have answered. The one question that will constantly tear at the heart.

Most of the graves before his I could tell someone had cleaned their headstones. Many had flowers on them, coins, small tokens, a sign someone cared, someone remembered them. His lay bare, his headstone covered with a light coat of dirt from the wind. Sadness seemed to encompass his headstone.

I wondered if his parents were they still alive. If they lived nearby why didn’t they clean his grave? Did he have a girlfriend, someone who loved him when he died? Why didn't someone care him enough to visit, take care of his headstone?  He was only twenty, I was positive he had no children. 

As I sat at the foot of his grave, my tears flowed and the questions continued. Who would remember him years from now? Who would bring him flowers on his birthday? Who would cry on the anniversary of his death? Did anyone remember him? Did his high school friends still talk about him, share their memories. Was it possible for a grave to be lonely? If so he was.

My tears brought the realization, he would never coach his son and never walk his daughter down the aisle. There were no more football games, Saturday night parties or summer days at the beach. He ceased to be and without children time would eventually erase all memories of him. The only thing left to carry on his name was his headstone.

Trying to comfort myself, I pulled my bundle of flags close to my heart. Noticing my tears and the fact I was sitting, Mrs. Cislo, our girl scout leader, came over and sat beside me. I wiped the tears from my eyes and cried, “We share a birthday. He was only twenty. He was a kid. That’s not fair."

She wrapped her arm around me and answered. “War is not fair. It takes a toll, more on the young than the old, Vietnam especially.”

She patted me on the shoulder, told me it was time to get moving. There were soldiers who needed a flag placed as a tribute to their service. As I stood I asked her the question that haunted me the most. “If they have no children, if they never married, who’s going to remember them twenty years from now?”

Her answer was simple and direct, “Hopefully after today, Denise, you will. If I taught you well, you will teach your children to remember the forgotten. And the lessons will continue to pass down.”

I brushed the grass off my shorts and grabbed my list of names from the ground. I started to walk away but couldn't. I paused, stepped back so I was standing in front of his grave once again. I kissed my fingers then placed them on the top of his headstone, and said, “Rest in Peace.”

That afternoon as I placed American flags on the soldiers graves, my prayer changed; “God please be with…. let them be remembered, please don’t ever let them be forgotten.”

I think this Memorial day I will travel back to the cemetery and see if I can find the boy who shares my birthday, let him know I may have forgotten his name but not his sacrifice. He has always stayed in my heart and always will.

My prayer this weekend will be the same as it was 32 years ago, this time I hope you will join me…
“Dear God, please don’t let them be forgotten.”

Love Enough

While searching my parent's basement for an old chest of mine I came across a box tucked in the corner labeled 152 Weidman Street.  I was ten years old the last time I visited the magnificent gray duplex built on the edge of the Bethlehem Steel Mill in Lebanon, Pennsylvania. Thirty plus years could not erase the memories made in my Nana Kay's home. Even now, when the moon  steals the sky and the silence is broken by a train whistle in the distance I am back in that old house.  Once again I am a small child sitting on the balcony watching the fire blaze brightly through the night from the factory. How I loved falling asleep to the melody of the mill; the clanking metal, the release of steam, the train wheels on the tracks, and the lonely nostalgic whistle. So many memories.

The old maple tree where Penny, her beloved dog, is buried, the side yard framed in bursts of color by the azaleas and hydrangeas, the porch where the rocking chair made the floor boards squeal and me giggle, the staircase my sister and I rousingly ran up and down; images all rushed forward from the recesses of my brain simply by seeing her address. 

I had just turned ten when my Nana Kay died. We didn't share enough years together, but the time we had I cherish. It was impossible as a child to understand the battle my Nana Kay was fighting against cancer. I have often wished instead of rushing outside to play tag with the neighborhood kids I spent more time with her, paid more attention when she shared her memories. When she spoke of my grandfather, the love of her life.  In my eyes everyone was invincible and everything would last forever. August 22, 1973 I learned everything has an end, in life it's death. My Nana Kay was gone. 

Staring at the box I debated whether I should open it, discover its contents or leave it alone; allow it to harbor its secrets for a bit longer. I ran my fingers across the address several times before I finally removed the tape. On top sat an old shoe box labeled Marlin. It was a name I had almost forgotten, my grandfather's.

Gently I lifted the lid revealing several silver 8mm film canisters. They were labeled, Guadalcanal 1943, Tower City, Homecoming Parade 1945, To Babe, and Scrap Metal Drive Montana. Many times I had seen in my Dad's workshop an old  film projector. "Please work," the prayer I repeated to myself as I rushed to retrieve it.

Through a maze of dials, slots, and wheels I threaded the narrow film. Half afraid I would blow something up I held my breath and turned the projector on. Burned holes of brown and bright white circles flashed across the walls, the reels whirled until the ghosts gave way to living color and I sat mesmerized by the man on the screen.

Lt. Col. Marlin Robert Kopp, my grandfather, stood before me in uniform, smiling and waving. Before I only knew him as an army photograph, two dimensions of black and white, now he was staring back at me, wonderfully alive.  He was taller than I imagined, his uniform was khaki, his glasses were gold, his hair curly auburn, and his eyes were blue like my mom and sister's.

Through the magic of film my grandfather took me on a tour of Guadalcanal. A small Japanese sub sunk on the beach, the barracks with thatched roofs, munitions shops, and his office with plywood walls; I shared it all with him. Images of men stopping to wave like comical characters in an old silent movie filled the room with my laughter. The backdrop for my celluloid feature, a peaceful sky brushed in turquoise blue with hints of bright green. The tropical beauty masking the war that loomed behind the images on the curtain.

The finale of my wonderful journey; my grandfather holding a piece of paper that read, "I love you Babe" as he stood next to a palm tree waving goodbye. It may seem strange but for the first time my grandfather was real. He walked, he smiled and he waved at me. I could see my daughter's smile in his.


When the wall was blank, his image no longer, I paused for a moment to absorb it all. Not yet ready to say goodbye to my grandfather I reached for another film to watch. I noticed sitting next to the canisters was a brown plastic soap container, inside a chain of metal and small seashells. The links untangled themselves as I lifted and watched its secret unfurl; it was my Grandfather's dog tags. Bent and slightly dilapidated it was the most beautiful necklace I had ever seen. I placed the dog tags around my neck, pressed it close to my heart and started the next film, "For Babe."

The poster read, "Happy Anniversary." The camera panned back, my Grandfather once again next to a palm tree.  He laid down the sign, walked onto the beach and positioned his arms as if he was dancing with an imaginary partner. A romantic waltz. His feet moved gracefully, with each turn gently pushing the sand away creating a private dance floor. As he slowly turned I noticed he was singing. I moved closer to the screen trying to read his lips. Tears began to stream down my cheeks, it was Gershwin's "Someone to Watch Over Me."

Now it made sense; my Nana Kay would sing and dance to the lyrics as she cleaned. One rainy summer afternoon I sat watching her and asked why she always sang the same song. She tickled me with the feather duster and scooped me off the couch. We twirled over to the end table where my Grandfather's picture sat. She grabbed it, held it between us and explained it was the first song they ever danced to. It was her love song to Marlin.

Watching him dance I felt his love for my Nana Kay envelop me. His anniversary film for my Nana Kay ended as he waved goodbye and mouthed the words, "I love you Babe."  Love at times unexplainable, was clearly visible and illustrated on 8mm film. My Grandfather was a Lt. Colonel in the army, the commanding officer, yet he loved my Nana Kay so much, he danced a waltz 'with her' on the beaches of Guadalcanal.

Watching the film I suddenly recalled pieces of stories told to me by my Nana Kay. Tales of long ago dances at the Officers' Club before he left for war.  My Grandfather was a talented dancer and was in high demand by the other wives.
He knew how to cha cha, tango, waltz and do the lindy. She was never jealous of the requests, she knew he loved only her. My Grandfather made a promise to my Nana Kay no matter where they were, they would always share the last dance together.

The rest of the afternoon I spent leaned against the wall of the basement reading the love letters from my Grandfather to my Nana Kay. He was her Darling, she was his Babe. The beginning of the war my Grandfather's Quartermaster unit traveled the country collecting scrap metal for the 'cause'. From Montana he confessed he fell in love with her the first time he saw her. It took him weeks to 'muster' up the courage to say hello. He knew God had put him on this earth to be with her. He discovered after they began courting her true beauty was her loving heart; it kept him warm on the loneliest days. He admitted at times life could be taxing but one look at her photograph and he was head over heels in love again. Nothing else mattered, she was his world.

His letters from the Pacific were small microfilmed like postcards intermixed with V-Mail. No matter the size of the correspondence they all started the same, Hello Babe, and always signed; Love your Darling. There were letters reminding Nana Kay to replace the tires, how to store the coal and other mundane household chores. Most of his letters were filled with his love for her.

Upon his arrival at Guadalcanal her wrote he was not afraid to die, he was afraid to lose her. The hardest part of leaving was letting her go, uncertain if he would ever hold her again. War had a way of making a man realize where his heart truly belonged and his was at home in hers.

My Grandfather returned stateside in 1944 to attend General Command School. They were still separated, he was in Kansas, she was at home in Pennsylvania taking care of my mom and Uncle Bill. One of his first letters from Fort Leavenworth, "I am lucky so many men died so far away from home. I am stateside, within a thousand miles of my love. I would be selfish wanting more time than was granted us. I will be on leave and home to you shortly. My heart is already with you. Keep it safely for me until I hold you again."

The war continued to explode in the Pacific after he returned to Guadalcanal. March 1945, "Hello Babe, I won't worry you with the circumstances here. I pray if anything happens to me I have loved you enough to last a lifetime. You have given me more love than I could want. I am luckier than most, I found a gal that makes my heart skip and I get to call her my Babe. Your love is my strength when hell surrounds me. I pray God will bring me home to you. I am saving my last dance for you. Love, your Darling"

My Grandfather made it back home, worked at the Bethlehem Steel Mill behind their house for several months before he was recalled to active duty. He was assigned back to the Quartermaster Corp to be a part of the rebuilding of Germany. He was preparing for deployment at Camp Lee, Virginia while my Nana Kay stayed behind in Lebanon so my Uncle Bill and Mom could finish the semester at school.

The last letter my Grandfather wrote was dated 24 October 1946, "Hello Babe, Not many more days until I will be home to help you pack. Let's be scandalous and put up the tree early. Heck let's do it the first night I'm home. Four Christmases away from you and the kids were almost too much for my heart. This year let's celebrate as long as we can before we depart for Germany. I know you thought being apart was over but the Army does what the Army will do. My duty is still needed. I promise soon instead of words to hug your loneliness, my arms will hold you every night. Love, your darling, Marlin."

Tucked inside the envelope with his last letter was a much smaller envelope from Western Union.  Folded in half a telegram informing Mrs. Kathryn A. Kopp, "Lt. Colonel Marlin Robert Kopp died 2 November 1946 at Camp Lee Virginia of a heart attack." One sentence is how the Army informed my Nana Kay that her Darling, her love, her Marlin had died. There would be would never be another Christmas together, there would be no last dance.

My Nana Kay never remarried, no man could ever replace her Marlin. The years after my Grandfather's death my Nana Kay's diaries affirmed her love for him. She missed him, cherished their memories and held onto his love.

19 December 1971 would have been my grandparent's fortieth wedding anniversary.  She recorded in her journal, "When I close my eyes tonight I will once again be dancing with my darling Marlin. I long to hear him say, I love you Babe."

The summer of 1973, my Nana Kay was dying, her strength waning but her love for Marlin was strong, still as vibrate as their first waltz. Her last entry, "I am ready to hold my Marlin. I miss him so. I have waited a long time for our dance."

As I repacked their memories in the box I was comforted by the fact; they may never have danced in each other's arms again but my Nana Kay danced with him in her heart every day.  Her Marlin had loved her enough.