Visions of Peace

This was my original post from early 2005:

We Are All Volunteers in This Army

by Patricia deVarennes

I was sifting through 11 years of accumulated possessions. That day I was sorting books. It was an exhausting task as we have a couple of thousand tomes whose ownership history covers 3 generations. I discovered bits of memorabilia lovingly, sometimes carelessly, placed between now musty pages. I put these things aside. I thought my current task more pressing. After all, we were moving.

My late father and uncles all served in World War II. My father was a Marine, present at Pearl Harbor, Guadalcanal, Iwo Gima among others. One uncle was in the Coast Guard, another in the Navy. One had been a POW. Health broken, he died in his early forties. Because I was so young when he died, this uncle was the least known to me. My memories of Uncle Paul were pleasant, but overshadowed by the recollection of my father’s grief at his passing. That remembrance too, I put aside for a more convenient time. No time now.

After that, the effects of dead relatives popped up repeatedly, sometimes in the oddest places, most particularly, small things relating to Uncle Paul’s military service. The amateur genealogist in me looked forward to exploring these items later. I took a break from the parade of books and finished off a closet. In a happier frame of mind, I returned to the living room to empty a bookcase, leaving the boxes of older books for later.

A book fell and struck me. OUCH. Not surprising, you say. That’s what you get for having books precariously perched in bookcases. But I didn’t. The only things that were on top of the tall bookcase I was near were a globe and a framed print. I sat on a stool and picked up the offending book, Horror Trek, by Robert W. Levering. It was old, but in good shape. What the heck? I’d never seen it before. I opened it, and inside there was a personal note from the author to Uncle Paul. The book was about the Death March to Bataan. I leafed through it quickly, and found his name on the list of those who were there.

I should backtrack for a moment and note that ghosts and such are good-naturedly accepted where I come from. Intuition was a source of pride for my grandmother, who always knew when “her boys” were coming home during their stints in the military. They used to tell about how she would be waiting on the front porch when each arrived for a surprise leave, and always had the correct son’s favorite food ready and waiting for him. “Mama always knew.” And they would laugh. She once said that she wouldn’t let herself see the ghosts at the old home-place, because then it would scare her and she wouldn’t be able to stay there alone. Maybe my reaction on that steamy summer afternoon is more understandable now.

I said out loud, “What? What! What do you want?” Never ask unless you want the answer.

There was a cloud, a fog, a swirling white hole opening in the living room. I was afraid. What had I done?

There were three men standing at the edge of the opening. They stepped forward. At first I didn’t recognize them because they were wearing uniforms and they looked so young. But there they were, just as they had looked in pictures from long ago: my father and uncles. My father smiled at me. Uncle Paul spoke. “It has to stop. The death, the dying, the war, it has to stop. IT HAS TO STOP. The time has come. WE have come to help. We are ALL here to help. You need to tell people. We are all volunteers in THIS army.” The urgency of his message was mingled with sadness and love.

Then, the brothers stepped aside and revealed what was behind them. As far as my eyes could see, were soldiers. They were of all races and colors. They were from all times and places. Their uniforms and regalia spanned the gamut of history. There were soldiers of two world wars, “modern” soldiers, veterans of the so-called Civil War, cavalry soldiers, native peoples, Roman centurions, and strange people in garb I did not recognize. The crowd of soldiers extended over the horizon of the hole, into a blurry, illuminated beyond. The hole closed, slowly, and the last I saw was my father and uncles standing in the ranks of these soldiers. Tears streamed down my face.

Six months have passed since that time. I have done very little. I feared ridicule. I feared derision. I told a few people. It’s hard to tell the story because I cry every time in the telling. Last night, I had a dream. My father said, “Puddin,’ it’s time to talk.” He used to call me Puddin’ when I was a child. My Uncle Paul was there again. This time he said nothing, but smiled at me.

There aren’t enough tears in the world to keep me from telling this story now. There isn’t enough ridicule or derision. Why did this happen to me? Perhaps it is because I am the mother, daughter, and granddaughter of soldiers. I don’t know and it doesn’t matter, for it’s not the messenger who is important. It’s the message.