Remembrance Day 2013
“The truth is incontrovertible. Malice may attack it, ignorance may deride it, but in the end, there it is.” ― Winston Churchill
Monday was a sacred day. Some thoughts on November 11th......
My father's generation was the men and women who fought World War II. And the Korean War. (And the "peace keeping" mess in Egypt and the Middle East when the Arabs became cognizant they were on the wrong side for most of their history - that's another day's topic).
My father never talked to me about his experiences during the war. Whatever I know of his wartime was second hand from my mother (reluctantly and vaguely), some of his and his friends ramblings (strong drink was usually involved), family artifacts after his death, research, and my own interpretations of his behavior over the course of our shared experience. I'm ashamed to say that shared experience was too little and too brief. It never dawned on me to ask him directly......
I remember Donald Lloyd Drover, my father.
This picture of him in uniform is (surprisingly) the earliest picture of Don in the family album. Don't know if he was camera shy or his family couldn't afford a camera or didn't think to take his picture, or maybe didn't share. I estimate his age at 17 years (he was born May 16(?), 1923, best guess). (Correction – he was born on May 17, 1922 – thanks Aunt Belle)
My dad's story is one of millions of war stories. He didn't have a wonderful Hollywoodland war experience. You know the one; where he's in a big band and tours the war playing music for the troops, meets a wonderful woman, experiences frightening close calls, does something heroic, and comes home with a foreign bride to the adulation and gratitude of the country, and a Hollywood contract to boot - you've seen it on TCM a dozen times. My dad had none of this.
Despite the lack of glamor, fanfare, and opportunity, he was one of the lucky ones. He came home.
The only other early picture is this one from someone named May - with the words "To Donny with love from May" written across one corner –
On the rear of the photo is a note that says "Hiya Funny Face. Don't let the Germans get me". I assume she was a close friend before he shipped overseas –
There is some faint writing that seems to be an address as well. I wonder if he carried this photo with him during his service time. Probably not, for reasons that follow......
Don was overseas before March of 1940, because here he is enjoying some R & R in jolly old, written up in some publication - perhaps a service magazine? -
The above picture is the only picture I have of his service days. There must have been letters home, and communication with his family, but I have no knowledge or evidence of such. (Update: Aunt Belle believes it may have been in the Star Weekly, or a British newspaper.)
Time went by.... to the last months of 1944 -
These next artifacts in this timeline are rather frightening, although I'm sure when Daisy and Thomas Drover received this news of their son, they cried tears of joy and relief. Postcards from the war –
The message on the back –
Notice the grand sum of 2 cents to deliver a post card from Pennsylvania to Toronto. The last name is wrong and so is the address (12th Street is correct). Somehow the mail got through (sarcasm)....
Another postcard arrived, probably a day or two later (based on the postmarks and dating) -
This card had the wrong surname (Drover is one of the harder names, apparently), and no province, but got home just the same for the grand sum of 3 cents (probably $3 in today's economy).New York to Toronto. Here's the message on the back –
I don't know if Daisy or Thomas ever contacted Margaret and Frederick Cooper, or Mrs. C.P. Skilton to thank them. It may not have occurred to do so, for those were different times, and much different people.
About a month later, this postcard in Don's handwriting was written, and some time later arrived home. –
Gelfangenennummer: 139611 means "Prisoner 139611", Lager-Bezeichnung: VII-A means "Place name: VII-A" Kriegsgefangenenpost means "Prisoner of war post".The back side of the card -
Kriegsgefangenenlager means "English prisoner of war" (rough translation)
My father was a foot soldier - a sniper. He was captured in northern Italy, and shipped to a POW camp, Stalag VII-A ( ). I do not know if he was processed there then relocated, or if he stayed until the camp was liberated on April 29th of 1945. This is the ensign of the American liberators of Stalag VII-A
The 14th Armored Division - officially nicknamed "The Liberators" ( ) was responsible for setting free 130,000 prisoners from Stalag VII-A as numerated in the Wikipedia article. I assume my father was one of those. At this time the German war effort was more desperate than efficient. I can imagine feeding hundreds of thousands of POW's in (literally) hundreds of camps was not a top priority - they were having trouble provisioning their own troops.
From the information I have gathered about this event, my dad (not a small man even at 17 years of age when he enlisted), was 86 pounds when released from the POW camp. 86 pounds. It boggles my mind. a document that must have been issued when Don was being discharged -
From this document, he did 1498 days of overseas service, and 1582 days total service. That's 4 years 122 days, give or take a leap year. Bureaucracy aside (calculating a $$$ value for service not the hardship and suffering!!!!), He was barely 22 years old when discharged. When I think about my own frame of mind at 22 years old then imagine what my father lived through by the same age, I am speechless...... I literally cannot comprehend. (Thanks to Aunt Belle, I realize he was 23 when he came home. Still incomprehensible to me.)
I remember my dad as a strong, steady, mostly silent presence in my childhood and adolescence. Regular as clockwork, dependable as the sun rising. I can't remember a time he struck me, and very few times he spoke harshly to me. Yet, he could stop me in my tracks with a look. Eyes really are windows to the soul.
I never heard him complain ever, not once. When he died in 1990 of cancer, he didn't weigh 90 pounds. Bitter irony.
The world, my world, which these incredible people built, was profoundly good. There was infrastructure. There was stability. There was hope and opportunity. Everyone knew the merits of public policy and was anxious to aid, enable, and comply. The public policy was sane - unlike current PC driven regulatory oversight which strangles normal human activity and development. I can't remember while growing up a feeling of anxiety or loss or deprivation or injustice. There was always a job to be had, a clear objective, and hope for a prosperous future.
What we inherited, then abused, is subject for another discussion.
On Armistice Day, Veterans Day, Remembrance Day, I watched some old videos of WWII. I looked at some old photos, personal and on the Internet. I did some thinking (which is hard work). I drank some drinks. I shed a tear and more.
I salute those people who preserved and propagated the western way of life. I can't imagine a better way to be or a better philosophy. Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. If we prove only half as stalwart, as worthy, it will be sufficient.
David J. Drover