Living memories are slipping away
RAY CRYER Rusk

Living memories are slipping through our fingers.

I think of that when I stand at my father's grave in Lone Dove Cemetery. He was a WWII veteran, and we lose more of those guys every month. He said WWII was the biggest show on earth and he wanted to be part of it. He did not draw stateside administrative duty; he was in the thick of it.

Raymond "Buster" Cryer grew up in a tough world. As it did with many, the Depression fell on his large family like a sack of cement. Before it ended, a great cancer grew across the world that had to be removed with fire and steel. Dad went into the infantry and became part of the Fourth Armored Division that spearheaded George Patton's Third Army. He was wounded twice and saw horrible things.

Buster admitted he had no idea what war was about until, in massive explosions, he saw buildings the size of a high school go up like a paper bag. He saw a woman atop a burning building throw her baby into the air to escape a slow, cooking death, only to watch it fatally bounce like a rubber ball. He saw men and women behave admirably and despicably.

At one time, for 250 miles, he rode the lead tank in Patton's record-setting thrust. He won the Bronze Star when he and three friends captured the mayor of a town of 500,000 and told him to surrender the town or they'd splatter his brains on the wall. The mayor knew they were not bluffing. Buster had an SS officer shave him daily during a brief period as a guard of POWs. I asked if it was wise to have an SS with a blade at his neck. Buster said he was so angry, he didn't care if his throat was slit.

One day we got a cable saying he was missing in action, presumed dead. Yet he showed up at a Paris hospital before being recycled to the front.

Buster wasn't a perfect man. He could be selfish and was not always fair with mother on finances. But he didn't drink or smoke, and kept his cursing to a minimum. He was a good father but took no guff off anyone, and he had courage that filled me with awe.

When substitute teaching some years ago, the class was on the subject of Nazi Germany. From their bored expressions, I asked a minority student if it seemed like ancient history. He said, "Oh man, it's got dinosaur tracks on it."

I doubt his grandfather would have approved of that remark. If Hitler had won we'd have no race relation problems because we'd have no African Americans, Hispanics, etc.

That might appeal to Aryan nut groups but I enjoy ethnic diversity. The Japanese of that day practiced ancestor worship. Worship may be overdoing it, but I think we owe those men more than we've given.

Next time you have an encounter with an old man who once faced such horror for his generation and those that follow, listen to his story, take notes, or try and tape it. In your quiet time, bow your head and pray not just for the ones you know, but for those who found their destiny end on the beaches of Normandy, or in some Pacific grave.

Shakespeare wrote of St. Crispus Day, "Those who do not fight this day will count their manhood cheap." Perhaps that is the reason we give such vets light contact. They never label themselves heroes, yet awaken within us, beyond circumstances, time or reason, a measure of guilt that we were not there to bear some of the burden - yet we enjoy the fruits.