Oblivious

I could write an essay titled “Oblivious” once a month. Its definition is, after all, “not aware of or not concerned about what is happening around one.” I could spend plenty of time castigating others who don’t seem to know what I know for being oblivious of current political, health, cultural, or other trends. Conversely, they could accuse me of the same. This publication is called “blahblahblog” for a reason.

In fact, there are things I have never even thought about to realize my own oblivion. I’ve said it before and I will reiterate, “Not only do I not have all the answers, I don’t even know all the questions!”

For some time, I’ve felt terribly oblivious about details of history, especially about my own father’s part in World War II, and Korea, and Vietnam. For most of my life I’ve been able to brag that as a Marine aviator.Dad served in all three. But, how so? Worst of all, I am a Marine Brat who was born at MCB Cherry Point and graduated from the DOD high school on base at Quantico. Why do I understand so little?

Because I was born a girl, I never feared being drafted. There are tomes to be written about the Vietnam era, most of them controversial. As I reached adulthood, although I had questions, I fell back on selfish oblivion. My parents wanted to protect me from the horrors of war, but looking back, I think they did too good of a job. In fact, when I asked Dad why we were fighting in a far-off land that had not attacked us, his simplified answer was this question; “If an enemy has sworn to destroy you (Communists), would you rather fight him in his back yard or wait until he brings it to yours with all the death, destruction, chaos, and rubble?” In other words, “Do you want to be part of the inevitable collateral damage?”

I weep that so much of my generation and the great majority of the generations that are following mine are completely oblivious to the direct and collateral damage of horrific warfare; the death, destruction, valor, sorrow, and especially the motivation. What motive could possibly be so compelling to throw humanity into the wholesale Hell of war?

The best place to start obliterating oblivion is right here, with me.

I am fortunate to be included in two different groups for high school reunions; one with the students I enjoyed for four consecutive years in Newport, RI, and one with my classmates of only my senior year at MCB Quantico.

I just returned from a weekend reunion at Quantico. Every time I go there, I reconnect with my friends, all of whom are not only children of career Marine Corps war veterans, but several are also retired officers, themselves. And on every trip there, I spend time at the incredible National Museum of the Marine Corps there. It was opened about the same time my father died, so he never got to enjoy it. I wish he’d been able to spend hours taking me through it.

Shame on me! I have spent many hours trying to learn of the war experiences in Europe, where my father never served. I even know the grandson (and namesake) of Admiral Nimitz, whom my sister dated in high school, and yet, I am an ignoramus when it comes to the Pacific Front. So, I’ve been reading, and that is not easy for me since I lost my glasses and am having to use an older pair with smudges and scratches obscuring the central focal area.

While in the museum the other day, a classmate described to me how the Japanese Mitsubishis (Zeros) were more maneuverable but lacked both the armor and power that our F4F Wildcats had. To gain the advantage, our pilots fought in pairs to take them down.

I’ve been reading accounts of the Marines in the Philippines VMF-115, and now my dad’s squadron(s) VMF-224 & 225 in the South Pacific. I am horrified and amazed at not only what the pilots endured, but the incredible supermen who were the ground crews and mechanics on whose lives the pilots depended completely.

When taking over the airstrip at Guadalcanal, the 19 planes of the VMG-223 and 12 dive bombers of the VMSB-232 arrived at Henderson Field, the Marine Ground Crew was delayed in their trip from Hawaii. Instead, the Navy men of CUB One were ordered to pinch hit, servicing the planes and maintaining the airstrip for 12 days until they were relieved.

Arvil Jones and Robert Aquilina described the conditions those men had to work in without fuel pumps or the specialized tools for the new aircraft. They had to stand on the slick airplane wings and tip up the 55-gallon drums of gasoline to pour it into the wing tanks of the F4F fighters. They created a funnel from palm-log lumber to accomplish this. There was no mechanism for mounting the bombs or other artillery, so the men stood in the mud beneath the wings, with all their strength lifted them into place and hand strapped them on. No one was exempt from malaria, dengue fever, sleepless nights, food and clothing shortages.

As I read this account by Jones and Aquilina (paraphrased here), all I could see were “Supermen” covered in mud.

At the museum, I bought Eugene Sledge’s book, “With the Old Breed.” I’m also reading online about the incredible new and improved airplanes whose imperfections caused multiple deaths of the pilots testing them, even before they were delivered for combat, the bombs that failed to release over the targets, the flaming cockpits, crash landings, drownings, and the men and aircraft that were never found. I’m reading about the pilots who crashed far from base and were rescued by infantry and then killed in ground skirmishes by Japanese rifles before they could return to their command posts. I’m reading about the tribulations of switching to jets for the Korean War, about failed aviation lubricant that remained congealed in the cold Korean winter skies.

I can’t even count the number of times I’ve watched Band of Brothers, Schindler’s List, Saving Private Ryan, and Pearl Harbor. I’ve watched and read Anne Frank’s Diary and Corrie Ten Boom, had a lengthy private conversation with a couple of first-hand Holocaust survivors, and covered countless other war stories, some real, some historic fiction, but all telling the human experience (in Europe).

I have friends in my own generation who drove earth movers, assisted with mortars, and crawled on their bellies through the jungles of Vietnam; and classmates who served in Dessert Storm. I apologize for not getting into these more recent conflicts, but I’m still working on WWII.

The bottom line is this; IF we have honest high-level leaders, there should always be a clear and moral urgency to answer the call to war. If we are being attacked, counter to win, such as with Japan. If genocide and world dominance must be fought, again, fight to crush the enemy, as with the Nazis. Never fight to placate or to make arms dealers rich. If we are going to war to honor a treaty, we’d better be very careful what kind of treaties we pledge ourselves to.

But for the men (and women) who were called either by draft or an insistent inner voice to fight in World War II, these men should be forever honored for the cause they represented was honorable and their task was gruesome and deadly. Many of those “men” came off of high school football and baseball teams or straight out of college, or plucked from their family’s farm tractor. Those baby-faces returned home hardened and scarred, if they came home at all. Can we even describe how their hearts and minds were changed?

And they did it all so that I could leisurely stand on my dock on a sunny fall noontime and throw sticks into the brackish water for my dog to enjoy swimming after.

Really? Yes and no. They did it to preserve freedom, personal obstinance, choices, and honest elections for us.

I write this because even though I plan to live beyond age 120 and die while doing something inane like dashing across the street and getting struck by a bus, I realize I might not make it that long, and I need to pass along this sense of urgency.

So, if you feel those things slipping away from us, maybe it’s time you did something positive to obliterate oblivious thinking. Try the “Three-foot Rule,” reaching out to any people within three feet to remind them of the sacrifices made so they might live in a free society, not an easy life, not even an always “fair” life, but a life with room for each man and woman to better him/herself if that is his/her goal. (And shouldn’t it be?!)