Thank you! for sharing, Doc, beautifully and heartfully written!Clare Green
From: Lawrence Pruyne <docpruyne@xxxxxxxxx>
To: Ellen Pruyne <EllenPruyne@xxxxxxxxx>; Cheri Robartes
<crobartes@xxxxxxxxx>; WarwickList@xxxxxxxxxxxxx; John Bickford
<bick333@xxxxxxxxx>
Sent: Tuesday, November 14, 2017 4:44 PM
Subject: [The-L] A Story for Veteran's Day
I finished my PhD, moved to Boston,didn’t get a teaching job. Penniless, I had
to do something. I worked for tempagencies. In 2000, I got a trial job writing
articles for the LexingtonMinuteman. $40 an article, 5 articles a week, I
starved. It changedmy life.One of the first assignments myeditor gave me
was an interview with a man who finally got a purple heart forbravery…55 years
after the fighting stopped.Hmmm. I smelled a good story. Lexingtonis a wealthy
town. I drove to a back street of well-kept houses, coiffed lawns,sunshine
shimmering through the maples. John, slightly stooped, 80-some yearsold,
answered the doorbell.He shuffled into the kitchen. “Sitdown, sit down.”
Sunlight streamed through the window, onto the table. Idutifully got out my
notebook. His eyes were rheumy and bloodshot, his skinmottled with age.
A velvetcovered box sat on the table. He opened it to show me his purple heart.
Iasked, “What did you do to get it?” World WarII. John was a young
company commander. His orders came through, and theymust’ve filled him with
dread. His company was to take a village, across theriver, where the Nazis were
deeply entrenched.At the break of dawn, under heavyenemy fire, he and his men
jumped into rowboats. They rowed across the river. Menwere shot on the seats
around him and fell screaming into the water. Hiscompany made the bank and
charged up a steep incline. The village was a couplehundred yards away, across
a flat open field. The German bullets tore into his menas they ran, and they
died where they fell.In the village they fought theNazis house to house, room
to room, sometimes with bayonets and knives. Mendied, too many to count. Many
more men suffered wounds and lay bleeding on theground. By dusk, they had
managed to clear the village of Germans. I willnever forget what he said
then. “Most of the wounded didn't live through thenight.” “Why?” Iasked.
“Did they bleed to death?” He shookhis head. “We were in Belgium.It was
the middle of winter. They froze to death. In the morning, most of themwere
frozen to the ground.” Sitting athis kitchen table, I saw that he was
re-experiencing his feelings of thatmorning, the terror and sadness, the
losses. All those torn and dead young men.All those parents and wives, back
home, whose lives were shattered. All thosechildren who had lost their father.
I could see the suffering he had lived withfor all those decades, plain on his
face. Johnsniffed once. The silence condensed. We looked at each other. I
couldn’t speak. John’sstory did something to me. Before that morning I
never really felt how much Ilove America. Inever realized, until that day, that
I’d give my life for America.No doubt in my mind. I would bleed every single
ounce of my blood into the soilfor my country, and I would consider it a fair
price for the life I have led. I have lived a free man. Americais
the birth place of freedom in the world, and its very foundation. Thatfreedom
has been bought with the blood of all those who died in our fight
forindependence, and for the freedom of those we enslaved, and later, for
thefreedom of our brethren on foreign soils.Freedom is not an idea. Freedom isa
state of being. Our freedom has been brought forth out of the darkness of
ourterrible fears, and the ravings of lunatics. It has been paid for with
theblood of men. John isprobably dead now. I met him seventeen years ago.
To this day, when I rememberhis story, I still cannot speak. I cannot find the
words to voice my profoundsadness, my gratitude, and my love.
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