Memorial Day memories from an American in World War II

Letters from the front from my dad in Italy

My granddaughter Sufi, daughter of Erin and sister of Satya, was born on May 30 a decade and a year ago. 

I've always told her she was born on real Memorial Day, which makes it easy for me to remember since May 30 was indeed Memorial Day when I was her age.

But, like all things from long ago, somebody got the bright idea that a three-day weekend was more important than years and years of a hallowed tradition, and Memorial Day was moved from May 30 to the last Monday in May. There's still a 1 in 7 chance of Memorial Day actually being on May 30, but I don't want to put Sufi into some sort of "leap year" situation where she's not sure how old she actually is.

As it turns out, in 1968 Congress passed the Uniform Monday Holiday Act, which has nothing to do with what sort of uniform you might have worn in the military or even in your current job. The law went into effect in 1971, long before Sufi was born. But I still tell her she was born on real Memorial Day.

Be that as it may, my dad regarded Memorial Day as one of the most sacred observances of all the 365 days on the calendar. It was not a day to remember him or his service, because he survived his World War II combat in Italy and North Africa, but it was a day for his fallen comrades, many of whom died all around him. He carried his very real survivor's guilt for the rest of his life.

Like so many World War II veterans, dad would almost never talk about his experiences. He was proud of his service in the Army's 337th Infantry, but abhorred the death and destruction that war brought, no matter who was right and who was wrong.

He didn't have to serve in the war at all. He had put in five years after leaving Oregon State and was on terminal leave while honeymooning with his new bride, my mom, when December 7, 1941 arrived. He and mom were seated at a public event when the bombing of Pearl Harbor was announced over the loudspeaker and he turned to my mom and said, "I'm going back in."

He served stateside for a while, training soldiers at Fort Benning, Georgia, where my oldest sister Mary was born. In those days, Catholic families were pretty much required to name their first born daughter "Mary," who ended up being the only one of five children not born in Portland.

When dad finally shipped out for Europe on Christmas Eve, Mary was a year old and mom was pregnant with Dorothy Jo, who was born while dad was overseas.

His letters home were full of love for mom, for Mary and for the child he had yet to meet. I came across those many letters long after his death in 1987 and they have made me smile, made me laugh, made me ponder, made me cry and made me love my dad even more.

They were always routed through New York City, which explains the return address, even though dad was in Italy. They were addressed to my mom at 305 North Alberta Street, Apt. C, in Portland. They were full of hopes and dreams and an intense longing to be home. There was no drama or bravado in any of them. They were simply full of love for his "three girls" back home.

One day, while apparently out on a mission of some sort, dad noticed something that brought back memories of the Oregon coast he grew up with and was so fond of.

"The other day," he wrote, "I saw something which reminded me of home very much. It was Scotch Broom. As you remember, it is that shrub with the yellow flowers on it that grows all along the road from Astoria to Seaside."

In another letter he wrote "I took a river swim today. It was the first chance I have had to get a bath in a couple of weeks."

In yet another, he wanted to be sure mom had enough cash to get by back home in Portland, writing "If I get paid at the end of this month, I will have $158 and will send you $125 of it and keep the rest in case I get a chance to buy you something."

And then there was this, written on May 29 of 1944, the day before Memorial Day.

"I live each day by itself and don't think of the days that we have to be apart, but always keep in mind that some day we will all be together again. If you take each day by itself and don't think of the time in weeks or months or years, it will be much better.

"We have a radio here and we have it on quite a bit. We even get 'Fibber McGee and Molly.' I have not yet heard that song that is called something like 'Mares Eat Oats,' but I have read about it in the papers.

"Sometimes we listen to the Italian and German stations. The German propaganda stations have pretty good American music. Their propaganda, however, is quite amusing.

"Hey, guess what, the radio is now playing that 'Mares Eat Oats' song. Isn't that a coincidence? It is a fairly cute song, but I don't see anything outstanding about it.

"You mention, dear, in your letters, that you feel bad because you can't do much to help me, but you shouldn't feel that way at all because you are doing all I could possibly want you to and that is taking such good care of our little girls and watching over them and giving them all the love and other things they need to be good Catholics and teaching them how to be happy and that life is beautiful and to enjoy the things that really count, like home and flowers and the sunshine and the little babies dancing on the pavement when it rains."

Major James Joseph Dunning. I loved him the day I was born.

You can reach me directly at bobdunning@thewaryone.com.  Would love to hear your Memorial Day stories.