Uncle Ray sat in his chair sipping
his Beefeater Gin Martini and listening
to me tell of my trip to Germany. He
wanted to know about what I had seen
and done on my recent vacation overseas.
I wondered if it brought up memories
of his military tour of duty there, and
his unit’s march across that country
after enduring the horrendous Battle
of the Bulge in Belgium.
He was one of the lucky GIs who had
survived the bloodbath and bitter cold
and snow in 1942.
Ray let me do most of the talking as
he lit up his cigarette and asked his
wife, Josephine, for another drink.
I was sure his wife of over twenty
five years had heard his horrific war
stories before. But that was then
and this was now.
Ray was safe and sound in his
suburban home surrounded by
his five lovely children (all
grown), basking in the comforts
of his secure suburban home,
stable and prosperous with his
profession at the prestigious
Chicago investment firm.
Even though I spoke of a
courteous and accommodating
people, the quaint villages and
stout beer, I suspected Uncle
Ray couldn’t help comparing
his bitter experience with my
delightful jaunt overseas.
He never offered to share those
biter times which I was relatively
sure still haunted his mind to this
day.
I knew something of post traumatic
stress syndrome which would plague
so many veterans of war for the rest
of their days.
I could see it in his eyes, hear it in
his deafening silence. Even Uncle
Ray’s third gin martini, and the
thousands which would eventually
follow could ever wash that horrific
indelible stain away.
-30-
Chris Hanch 10-10-2021
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