Some sixty years after VE-Day, veterans of the 3rd Armored Division held a reunion, as they have every year since 1946. The guys who had spearheaded the Normandy Breakout, and first crossed the Siegfried Line, met in Northern Virginia, atop a hotel overlooking the Pentagon and Arlington National Cemetery. I attended with a neighbor who commanded a company of Shermans in the 3rd. We joked that I had been their drummer boy.
The numbers had dwindled since the first reunion; the years had now taken more than the Wehrmacht had. Some knew others there, most did not. My neighbor could find none of his ”boys.” Then there were the wives, children, and grandchildren, who lately had been showing more interest in the war and its meaning. There was even a Belgian man, born well after the war, whose village the 3rd had liberated in late ’44, just before the Bulge. A band played music from the era. Several couples got up and danced, and acquitted themselves well. There was no backslapping or tall tales. Those staples of army reunions, I was told, were common enough at the first dozen or so get-togethers, but had worn thin long ago. Since then, and especially lately, the affairs were simply assemblies of elderly gentlemen, short vacations with catered dinners. No boasting, little nostalgia. Just a nice outing.
A few, after feigning amusement at the drummer boy intro, asked if I was a veteran. When I mentioned that I had been in the army in Vietnam, their smiles became genuine and warm. We were not some mystical band of brothers – I sensed we all disliked the romantic flourishes heaped on something as ugly as war – just some guys who had experienced similar things in their youths, a quarter century apart. We mused over the nonsensical ideas of war we once had, and at the odd sensations and sounds when under fire for the first time. One guy laughed as he showed us a scar just below his collarbone, where a Mauser round had hit him as he raced across a bridge in Germany. Out came wallet photos. One showed a guy in his late teens, helmet at a jaunty angle, M-1 at the ready, his smile darker than that age normally allows, but not without a trace of 1940s cockiness. I asked where the picture had been taken – away from combat, I thought. ”No, no, that’s Cologne.” Pointing to the background, he added, ”The Krauts were just a few blocks away.”
The subject of the war – not theirs; the one in Iraq – came up naturally enough. Many, reflecting pre-WW2 sensibilities and no enthusiasm for war, said it was a mistake from the start and we had no business being there. Others, for whom WW2 understandably formed a template for all wars, thought we should use the same hard hand that had brought victory in ’45. The subject fell away as naturally as it arose. Life was too short now. There was unspoken agreement to go on to other subjects. The glazed chicken on the menu looks good. Red or white with that?
Along with dinner came a few speeches: one by the grandson of a division soldier, the other by an amateur historian. Both were filled with romantic prose of deeds and honor – oratory more fitting a reunion of a few decades ago. Though appreciated, the speeches came across to many as a little tired. The guys had heard them countless times before and hadn’t come to hear more of them. Attention was limited, applause only polite. Most preferred to enjoy dinner and chat about the deeds of their grandchildren.
The league’s gathering neared its close with a little more Glenn Miller and Harry James. One veteran who had become an ordained minister after the war offered a prayer then sang a traditional Irish song of hope for seeing one another again. The elderly gentlemen shook hands or hugged and spoke of next year’s reunion, but some knew they would not be there for one reason or another. As they filed toward the elevator to take them from the top-floor hall, many paused to look out upon Arlington.
©2008 Brian M Downing