Last post, I told you about a man of faith. The other two men on my list are different.

The first was a profane man. He smoked and drank and chewed tobacco, and his speech was punctuated with oaths. He was the owner and operator of the local gas station. That’s what we called it, although no one ever bought gasoline there. Every farmer had a 500 gallon tank at his farm. You filled your tractor there, filled the out-of-service milk cans you used to carry gasoline to the fields, and filled your pickup.

You went to the gas station to get a tire repaired or buy a fan belt from the hundreds hanging high on the walls. The station operator would retrieve one of them using a ten foot pole with a hook on the end, which he manipulated one handed.

You see, he only had one arm, and that was a bigger deal in the fifties than it is today.

If you are young, you may never have seen a tire removed from its rim. If you are under fifty, chances you have never seen it done without a pneumatic breaker. This station operator had only a tire vice, a heavy rubber-faced hammer, and two or three levers shaped like blunt, curved chisels. When a tire needed repair, it was the signal for the start of a violent ballet with all the farmers gathering around to watch. He would drive the tire away from the rim with a dozen powerful blows from his overdeveloped right arm, drop the hammer and insert a lever, haul it back and brace it against the center stem of the tire vice, grab the hammer and drive it deeper, grab the free end of the lever and haul it mightily sideways clear around the perimeter until the tire popped free of the rim so he could reach the tube inside. It was fast and loud as he did with one arm what the onlooking farmers could not have done with two.

Today, because of helicopters and advances in medicine, fewer soldiers die within the first hour of being wounded. As an unintended consequence, limbless persons have become common. Add to that the generation old shame for the way returning Viet Nam vets were sometimes treated, and you end up with a culture which embraces its amputees.

This was not true in the fifties. The station owner’s lost limb could have been a war wound. He was of the right age to have lost it in WWII, but I never knew. No one talked about things like that back then. And no one provided special hospitals, advanced prosthetics, or support groups. A man made it on his own, or he didn’t, with very little help.

I was impressed. I still am.

*****

I never met the third man in this trio. His name was Nigger Eddie. I won’t clean that up. It would be as wrong as changing Injun Joe’s name to clean up Tom Sawyer.

There were no black people in my little town, but Nigger Eddie lived somewhere in the county. That was the name everybody called him by; I never knew his real one. We would see him driving down the main street, which was also a state highway, face forward in his pickup, never making eye contact. People would look up as he passed by and say, “There goes Nigger Eddie.” They never waved; he never looked up.

Nigger Eddie was respected by everybody because he kept to himself and never made trouble. He drove through our lives, but he was never a part of them. Apartheid was new in the fifties, even in South Africa, but my people fully understood its basic principles.

That’s all I know. Even as a child I wondered where he lived; was he married; did he have kids; what was that family’s life like? I will never know.

Within a decade, the civil rights movement opened my eyes and began to open the eyes of the nation. Here was a black man too old to reap the benefits of that change. I hope that his children and grandchildren did.

There are three men from my childhood I would like to see again.

The first was the preacher at our church for about ten years. I can see him before me in memory, but I can’t remember his name.

Over the years I have known a lot of preachers. Some were weak men trying to do good; some weren’t worth much, no matter how hard you looked for goodness in them. The man I remember was what a preacher should be.

Our church was as tiny as our town, so we couldn’t afford a full time minister. This gentleman worked as a switchman on the railroad, in a yard in Tulsa, thirty-five miles away. He lived near his work and drove to our town every Sunday, come rain, sleet, snow, hail, or tornado. He preached the morning sermon, spent the day visiting church members, then preached again on Sunday night. Some church family invited him to dinner every Sunday after church, and that was about all the pay he got. The salary we gave him would barely cover his gasoline. Midweek, he drove up after work for prayer meeting.

Fifty years later, I still remember his sermons. They were hard, but they weren’t cold. He told of fire and Hell and the coming Armageddon in tones that would set your hair on fire, but his face was always full of kindness, sorrow, and forgiveness. When he said Christ would forgive, you could believe it when you looked into this man’s eyes.

One morning, he did not show up for Sunday service and word went around that there had been an accident. He worked between the cars, opening the couplers, and America’s rail yards have always been slaughterhouses. His hand had been caught between moving cars.

I was too young to visit him in the hospital, so I didn’t see him again until he returned weeks later. He had lost the outer half of his right hand, but he could still hold the Bible in it, and slap it down in emphasis on the pulpit. I was ten; I couldn’t take my eyes off it. I can still feel the bony oddness of it as we shook hands at the end of every service.

He preached a thousand sermons in that church, with one theme: surrender to the love of God or burn in Hell. I eventually surrendered, went down the aisle to where we sat side by side on the front pew with his arm around my shoulders while he prayed for my soul. It didn’t take, but if there were anything today that would make me change my mind about God, it would be that man’s unfaltering faith.

Last post was about my father in the closing days of WWII. After his wounds had healed, he was returned to his unit, now in occupied Bavaria.

How he felt about the German soldiers he fought, he never did say. In his stories, he never shot them – just scared them a bit. Somewhere along the line he had ditched his M1 Garand for a Thompson sub-machine gun with a broken stock. He carried it (he said) one handed by the pistol grip; in combat he pulled the trigger and recoil sent the muzzle swinging up and to the left, with a spray of bullets that sent the enemy sprinting for cover.

It was a good, clean story for the wife and kid, but once he almost slipped in the middle of telling it. Comfort and humor almost got swamped by blood and truth. He changed the subject. There is no doubt in my mind that, like a million other WWII veterans, he only told what his audience could bear to hear.

His feelings about German civilians were quite clear; these were his kind of people. Bavaria was a long way from the seats of power, and these were farmers and poor shopkeepers. He hated Nazis, and German generals, and politicians, but he liked the local people and they liked him. So did their daughters.

My father was handsome young man, full of life, full of fun, and he had money. The young German men were gone. They had gone to war and were now dead or in Allied POW camps. The German civilians were hungry. As I read between the lines of his stories, my father kept several families fed, in exactly the same way my grandfather kept several families of out of work townsmen fed with produce from his farm during the depression.

My father’s feelings for his Bavarian Germans were conditioned by his childhood. These were working people, like his own family and friends, and like the German settlers that lived around Owasso, Oklahoma where he was raised.

He fell in love with a German girl and they planned marriage, but he discovered that to marry her, he would have to reenlist and remain in Germany two more years. He was a homesick farm boy, ready to feel the Oklahoma dirt beneath his feet again, so he left his German girlfriend and came home. A year later he married. A year after that, I was born.

As I said in the last post, I served but did not see combat. The Syd Logsdon in this title is my father.

World War Two was a presence in our home when I was young. My dad served, was wounded, and returned. It was the biggest and most concentrated experience of his life.

My dad was a storyteller, but all his war stores were humorous tales of incidents along the way, or descriptions of enduring exhaustion and cold, or brief, dry, cool descriptions of the techniques used to clear a town or take a pillbox. He went through some of the worst fighting in the war, but his stories were essentially bloodless.

These were not the kind of gung-ho stories that would lead to hero worship. He didn’t consider himself a hero, anyway. He was just one of millions who went where he was sent and did what he was given to do; that was enough.

I can see him in memory, telling his stories. Even as a child, I could see the pain in his face. He had to tell the stories – he couldn’t keep them in – but he kept the horrors shut up behind his eyes. I don’t know how much he told my mother when they were alone, but I do know how often her nights were disrupted by the terrors that came to my father in his dreams.

He joined the First Infantry Division as a replacement after D-day and fought his way across northern France. His view was a soldier’s view – a road here, a village there, this particular house, that particular pillbox. I don’t think he ever had a global picture of where he was. He left combat in an ambulance before the assault on the Rhine. He always said that wound kept him alive. He had an almost superstitious belief that he would have died on the Rhine.

He was there for the entire Battle of the Bulge. Roughly two hundred thousand American and German troops died in a small corner of the Ardennes forest. You can see windrows of the dead, in history books, in grainy black and white photographs. He never talked about that, although he was eloquent about the cold and the exhaustion.

The wound that sent him out of combat came under incongruous circumstances. After the Battle of the Bulge was over, his group had captured a stash of German weapons. The lieutenant in charge wanted to try them, so he, my father, and some other privates took a panzerfaust – a German antitank weapon – out to an open field. My father put it on his shoulder and pulled the trigger.

My father always speculated that some Jewish prisoner in a munitions factory had sabotaged the weapon, in hopes of taking out a German soldier. No one will ever know. The weapon exploded an inch from his head, and he spent the remaining months of the war in a hospital in Paris.

More next post.