If I could keep one thing, it would be the journal my Great Grampa kept in the war. It's an old withered book, barely hanging together at the seams.
It's pages filled with messy and rough handwriting, some of it speaks of the horrors of what he saw while in other parts, he talks about more mundane things, such as lunch. "I had spaghetti with meat sauce again today. I swear they give me that on purpose, I mean this is the fourth time this week that I've eaten that garbage. I tried to trade with one of the other guys but he wouldn't go for it so I had to make do. I miss Ma's cooking, she was no expert by any means but man, that woman could really cook a good chicken pot pie."
My Grandpa wasn't a poet by any means but when he wrote you could almost swear you were there on the battlefield with him.
"There was noise everywhere, all around me. I hear explosions and screaming and bullets whizzing by my ears, someone's yelling orders while someone else is calling back to camp. I couldn't focus on anything, I tried but it all was just so overpowering and I was just trying to stay alive. And the dust, my Lord the dust and dirt was everywhere, in my eyes, in my nose, in my mouth. I felt I was going to choke to death if I don't get shot first."
"I didn't find out that we won until later when I woke in the medical tent. Turns out in the midst of all the chaos a piece of a mortar shell hit me clean in the head. The doctor said I was lucky though, he says I got hit by the blunt side of the shell and had it been sharp I probably wouldn't be alive right now."
He even wrote about his loss. "I found out that Josey died the next day when they started recovering the bodies. I could have gone to see him before they buried him with the rest of the bodies but I chose not to. I didn't want to see him like that. I didn't want my image of him to be tainted. It's strange because I don't even exactly feel sad, at least not how I would imagine I would feel. I remember when my Aunt Mary died, Ma cried for a week straight and even to this day she'll tear up if you mention Aunt Mary. That was proper grief. Instead I just don't even feel like it's real. Perhaps it's just numbness that will soon pass."
I never actually knew my Grampa but reading his journal makes me feel like he's right there, teaching me the world through his words. It's something I hope to give to my kids someday.
It's pages filled with messy and rough handwriting, some of it speaks of the horrors of what he saw while in other parts, he talks about more mundane things, such as lunch. "I had spaghetti with meat sauce again today. I swear they give me that on purpose, I mean this is the fourth time this week that I've eaten that garbage. I tried to trade with one of the other guys but he wouldn't go for it so I had to make do. I miss Ma's cooking, she was no expert by any means but man, that woman could really cook a good chicken pot pie."
My Grandpa wasn't a poet by any means but when he wrote you could almost swear you were there on the battlefield with him.
"There was noise everywhere, all around me. I hear explosions and screaming and bullets whizzing by my ears, someone's yelling orders while someone else is calling back to camp. I couldn't focus on anything, I tried but it all was just so overpowering and I was just trying to stay alive. And the dust, my Lord the dust and dirt was everywhere, in my eyes, in my nose, in my mouth. I felt I was going to choke to death if I don't get shot first."
"I didn't find out that we won until later when I woke in the medical tent. Turns out in the midst of all the chaos a piece of a mortar shell hit me clean in the head. The doctor said I was lucky though, he says I got hit by the blunt side of the shell and had it been sharp I probably wouldn't be alive right now."
He even wrote about his loss. "I found out that Josey died the next day when they started recovering the bodies. I could have gone to see him before they buried him with the rest of the bodies but I chose not to. I didn't want to see him like that. I didn't want my image of him to be tainted. It's strange because I don't even exactly feel sad, at least not how I would imagine I would feel. I remember when my Aunt Mary died, Ma cried for a week straight and even to this day she'll tear up if you mention Aunt Mary. That was proper grief. Instead I just don't even feel like it's real. Perhaps it's just numbness that will soon pass."
I never actually knew my Grampa but reading his journal makes me feel like he's right there, teaching me the world through his words. It's something I hope to give to my kids someday.
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