Big Deal, Heroes Come and Go

A tribute to a WWII soldier

Big Deal, Heroes Come and Go

I hold the last memories of a man.

I hold his honor.

Upon my death,

A few decaying dust laden

Sheaves of old paper,

Never again to see the light of day,

Will be all to hold his name.

His name, Lynn Ernson.

He was my wife’s father,

A big, gentle man

Who spoke little.

Every morning 

Hey would don 

His ancient worn hat,

Take up his walking stick,

Call for Harry, and

Man and dog would walk

The desert.

On visits

I was invited along.

He took me to ruins 

Not made tourists attractions.

We stood together

Eyes searching ancient crumbling

Pueblos built in cliff walls.

We marveled at their design,

Pondered the mystery 

Of their abandonment,

Felt sorrow for a race of people,

A nation gone forever.

This man Lynn,

Far more than most,

Knew the suffering and sorrow

Of the rise and fall

Of nations.

He wanted to be a forest ranger.

Our nation made him a soldier,

Put him on a South Pacific Island 

With orders to hold it.

They numbered maybe five hundred,

Lonely men awaiting armament

Never delivered.

They died of disease.

Their mates struggled to bury them

In the swampy soil.

When the Japanese arrived

It was a slaughter.

Ill fed, beaten,

The survivors eventually 

Were thrown into a ship’s hold

Where they continued to die,

Where they prayed in the dark.

More died on a long march

On Japanese soil.

Three years Lynn spent in that prison camp.

He was made slave labor,

He suffered broken bones,

Injury to his spine,

Damage never properly treated.

He endured the sadism of the guards,

Ate small bowls of rice and bugs.

He told me the only reason he survived

Was because of Red Cross packages.

The packets included American cigarettes

Which he traded to fellow captives

For portions of rice.

Three years.

He would have died there if not for

Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Their guards dropped weapons,

Disappeared.

The men could only wait, starving.

Six foot two inches tall,

When liberated Lynn weighed 

Ninety eight pounds.

He spent an entire year recuperating 

In the San Diego military hospital.

He returned to Helena.

He met two girls, friends.

They had left an impoverished 

Finnish mining town,

Moved to the free wheeling capital

Seeking a better life.

Lynn married one of those girls,

The one with the limp,

A artifact of childhood polio,

The one named Jenny.

We know the friend turned tricks

To survive.

We were never sure about Jenny.

It appears they had a good life,

Raised one daughter.

Lynn took a night job in the post office,

For security,

More importantly,

To avoid people.

He stayed decades.

Who knows the terrors,

The memories, the 

Depression, anxiety,

Thoughts of suicide

He must have lived with,

All those decades 

Before the state even named

The post traumatic stress

Of war.

How many deaths did he mourn?

Those friends he buried in the jungle,

All the many who died after.

Did his heart hold room left to mourn 

The loss of his dream 

Of being a forest ranger?

Lynn and Jenny retired to Cottonwood,

A tiny northern Arizona town.

I met them there.

Lynn loved to eat.

Lying in a bed in that military hospital,

He told himself he would

Never go hungry again.

Jenny walked lopsided 

With a crutch,

No longer just limping,

The ravages of that long ago polio

had severely weakened

One side of her body.

She was little,

Her spirit was fierce,

That girl born of Finnish miners.

Her sixties brought cancer

Again and again.

She may have needed a crutch,

But she walked away from it.

I am not tossing you

Romantic claptrap.

My heart told me 

Jenny was his life,

The only reason Lynn continued 

Living.

Lynn’s father had been a raging, abusive

Alcoholic.

At the age of fifteen

Lynn swore himself an oath:

Never to drink.

And he never did.

Never!

The man abhorred alcohol.

Now Jenny however,

Jenny liked a little wine,

Liked a cocktail or two.

Unable to drive,

Unable to socialize much,

Dependent on her fiercely

Teetotaling husband to get around,

Well you get the picture.

She rarely got to have any 

Fun with alcohol.

One reason she enjoyed our visits.

Mary Anne and I liked our alcohol.

(Too much as it turns out,

But that’s another story)

We both loved to cook.

We would draw up menus

Of ethnic dishes from

Italy, Greece, the Mideast, North Africa,

Then prowl the little supermarket

For grape leaves, feta, filo,

Item after item.

The shopping was always a challenge,

We would brainstorm substitutions,

Cross dishes off the menu.

Still we always salvaged a menu

The likes of which

The neighborhood had never seen.

Jenny was encouraged to invite all,

Friends, neighbors, women from an old club.

We would lay in a healthy stock

Of liquor, wine, even beer,

Cook for two days,

Then the doorbell began ringing 

And the party began.

We poured drinks, 

Answered question after question,

While Jenny glowed as

Hostess of the year.

Everyone had a wonderful time,

Everyone but Lynn,

Who sat in his easy chair

Frowning and pouting

In disapproval,

Making no effort at conversation.

We actually felt Lynn’s disapproval 

Every night of our visits.

Mary Anne and I 

Were pretty serious drinkers,

Accustomed to drinking every night.

We cut back some,

But continued our habit

Of evening drinking,

And Jenny was damned pleased

To join in.

The three of us would sit

Around the kitchen table,

Drinking wine,

Telling stories,

And yes, 

Lynn would sulk in his easy chair.

There was a night 

I thought he would rise

And put a stop to things.

Jenny was in her cups,

Challenged me to arm wrestling.

I was amazed.

I struggled.

I could not push her arm down.

I told you she had fierce spirit!

Both straining for half a minute,

A minute,

I became acutely aware 

Of Lynn’s glare at my back,

Could feel his rage.

I let her win.

The fun had gone too far.

I remember a day in the desert,

He suddenly swung his walking stick

Across my chest,

Stopping me,

Then he pointed with it.

I didn’t see it at first,

Then my body erupted 

In a chilling fight or flight response.

I had been about to brush by a rock

Upon which lay coiled a huge rattlesnake.

It was out there in the desert

That Lynn found it easier to talk.

He explained to me 

He didn’t hate the Japanese.

He bore them no ill will.

He had forgiven them,

Forgiven the nation,

Forgiven the culture,

Forgiven the people 

Who had so abused, tortured,

Almost killed him.

Yes it is a big deal,

The heroes who come and go.

Lynn Ernson is a hero,

My hero,

My only hero.

Please remember what I have written

Here today.

I don’t wish to be all alone,

Holding his memory,

Holding his honor.