The Minnesota Farm Woman

My father was a veteran of World War II and drove a bomb truck to the front lines of France and England. When my sister and I were little girls, he told us many stories, which I’m sure were cleaned up versions of the horrors of war from someone who was in the midst of it. When we would ask him to “Tell us about when you were in the war, Dad, ” we would almost shiver in anticipation that the story would be a good one. One somewhat dubious claim to fame was when a young soldier he was training ran Old Blood and Guts, aka The Bandito, aka General George S. Patton off the road while driving the bomb truck. He also told us that he traded his chocolate rations once for warm hand-knitted wool socks, which I’m sure were a welcome relief for a shivering soldier in the damp English winter. His paychecks were sent home to his parents, and there is one much-read letter saved by his mother in which he instructed her to buy Christmas gifts for his younger brothers. Our favorite story was about the day the soldiers each got an orange, which I’m sure was a rare treat for them, also. The local children gathered around, fascinated by the colorful fruit which they had never seen before. He told us how he peeled the fruit and gave each child a section. They thought it was the best thing ever, savoring each bite and making it last as long as possible. One of the mothers gathered up the peel, too, as nothing ever went to waste in a country torn apart by war and hunger. Stories like this almost became parables, making us realize how lucky we were to be able to eat an orange every day if we wanted to, and to think about those hungry children and appreciate what we had. We never forgot them. Years after Dad died, I was paging through his photograph album when I saw the snapshot. I don’t know how I had missed it, since I had paged through that album many times before. There it was, folded and torn, but showing a soldier who looks very much like Dad on his knees, surrounded by children. It appears that one of the boys has an injury to his leg. I have often wondered how many of those children he talked about survived the war. If they did, they would be in their 70’s or 80’s now. I hope, as they tell their own war stories to their children and grandchildren, they remember a kindly young soldier with twinkling blue eyes who shared a special treat one day and hopefully, brought a slice of sunshine to their war-torn world.