Infamy
Thursday, December 7th, 2006I remember when I was a little kid, going to parades on Jamestown’s main street. The highlight of the show for me was the national guard guys with all their cool gear.
I remember – as probably a six or seven year old – watching a couple of the “older” guys, probably in their late thirties and early forties, and even talking with them. I talked about my proudest possession – my dad’s old book of WWII airplanes.
I remember one of the guys, probably a senior NCO (I remember a bunch of stripes and rockers on his sleeve) smiling. “I was in that war”.
I’ve thought about that guy often over the past 35 years, as the WWII generation has gone from being Dad to Grandpa, from “the establishment” to “the greatest generation”.
And I thought about them when I read that this may be the final Pearl Harbor Survivors’ Association meeting:
The survivors in Honolulu this week, many hunched, some in wheelchairs, men deeply wrinkled yet still trying to trade a history lesson for a quick kiss on the cheek, collectively know one thing: They defied death 65 years ago, but the inevitable is creeping up on them. They know this from the pain in their backs and hips. They know this as their eyesight fades and their hearing fails. And they know this because every five years, when they return to Pearl Harbor and find that their old buddies are not there, it’s a reminder that their friends either couldn’t endure the arduous Hawaii flight or died within the last few years.
“At our little happy hours each night you see the guys sitting alone who don’t have any old shipmates to speak with because they’ve all died,” said Debbie Marks, 35, who became involved in the survivors association because of her late grandfather. “I just spend the night walking around trying to get the ones who are alone to start talking to each other instead.”
This one killed me:
Donald Robinett came directly to the sign-in area for Pearl Harbor survivors when he arrived here this week.
“I am trying to find my shipmates,” the 89-year-old veteran announced excitedly. “I want to see which ones are here.”
A volunteer at the Pearl Harbor Survivors Association, one of the groups organizing a massive reunion to mark the 65th anniversary of the Japanese attack on U.S. forces here, began flipping through a log book until she came to Robinett’s ship, the USS Tracy, a small mine-laying vessel that had been in port that infamous day. “Sir,” she said sadly, patting the old sailor on his shoulder, “you’re the only one here.”
There’s nothing I could possibly write here that wouldn’t sound stupid.




