Our Man in Arlington

Last Saturday, I went to the mall to join with thousands of others honoring veterans of World War II. The occasion, of course, was the dedication of the World War II monument on the mall between the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial.

It was a spur of the moment decision. I wasn’t planning to go. But the day was gorgeous, the temperature and humidity perfect, and my curiosity got the better of me. I am glad it did.

As I was waiting for the subway, I struck up a conversation with a young couple that was headed toward the mall. They were in their mid-twenties. Anyone discussing “The War” with them was probably discussing the Vietnam. Even Vietnam to this couple was learned third-hand; they had not been born when we were ignominiously booted from Vietnam.

They asked me as the train drew into the station whether I was one of the World War II veterans. I laughed. Did I look that old? But I had to admit that I was seven when the war ended in 1945. Not quite a veteran of the war, but a veteran of the home front. I had older cousins and two uncles serving in the armed forces. My father was a civilian engineer with Wright Aeronautical Corporation working on the B-29 bomber. (I learned that long after the war. No one spoke about what they did during the war, including an aunt who we discovered after she died was a secretary for one of the officials working on the atomic bomb.)

What I remembered most were the pedestrian things. We had no car during the war (our Chevrolet broke down and we couldn’t get the parts to fix it), and public transit was a way of life – a good one at that. I would take the bus with a bunch of kids to the next town to see the Saturday cowboy feature – without parents. I remember rationing, bins of used nylon stockings to be made into parachutes, blackout curtains and air raid drills, books of stamps we kids bought for war bonds, war bond posters with hideous stereotypes of “Japs” and “Huns”, and the huge victory gardens that we and all of our neighbors grew to save the nation’s food supplies for the boys (and girls) fighting to save us from unimaginable horrors.

To us kids, World War II was mostly fun.

All of this came back to me as I walked the mall, watched the dedication ceremonies on huge television screens, cheered with the crowd when the jets flew over at the conclusion of the ceremony and listened to the great Artie Shaw band play wonderful swing tunes as couples danced much as they did in the war time canteens.

The most remarkable thing about the day, however, was the crowd that came together for the dedication. Diversity does not describe it well enough. People from all walks of American life were there, and people of all ages. Perhaps one of the remarkable things was the large number of people in their teens and twenties. Many families came with three and four generations in tow, all there to honor their oldest relatives.

We can vastly over dramatize the uniqueness of American culture and the virtue of all of its citizens. We have our warts, uncomfortable inequities, and often are at each other’s throats both politically and socially. But then – you attend an event such as this and come away with a sense of conviction that, with all of our difficulties, there is a certain indefinable quality of American life that is unique. Call this chauvinism if you wish, but on Saturday, I was really proud to be an American.