Take time to remember

  • Published
  • By Maj. John Beaulieu
  • Air Force History Office
WASHINGTON (AFPN) --  Three and a half years ago, while driving from Washington, D.C., to Augusta, Maine, my sister called me on the cell phone. “You better hurry, the nurse says he doesn’t have much time left.” My heart sank because I was only halfway there.

As I raced north, images of my father flashed in my mind: cheering me on from the stands when I hit my first homer; shoveling snow near the gas pumps at his tiny convenience store; yelling “Atta boy, John!” at my high school and college graduations; sleeping in his favorite chair with a Pepsi between his legs and the news on the TV. . .

A few hours later, I was at my father’s bedside. In just three weeks, pancreatic cancer had turned my strong, happy, barrel-chested father into a weak, sullen, old man. Dad and I had a few precious moments together before the end.

Of all the photos of my Dad, my aunt chose his World War II Army photo to hang at the wake for all to see. Nearly all of my father’s six brothers and four sisters regaled me with many familiar stories of Dad’s exploits “in the service.”

In 1943, my father, Ronald Beaulieu, was a new corporal in the 11th Armored Division of Patton’s 3rd Army. Although he was trained as a forward observer and scout, most of the time he was a driver for junior officers or sat behind the wheel of a “Deuce-and-a-half” or a halftrack in a convoy.

On one particularly long drive, Dad had a one-sided debate with an officer about U.S. geography.

“How can you say that Maine is not the biggest state in the union?" he said to the officer. "You don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

Obviously, my father was a proud but very ignorant New Englander, and Dad’s captain was very patient because he, a Texas native, just let my father drone on.

My father was very proud of his unit’s achievements. Fighting in “The Bulge,” crossing the Rhine and liberating the Mauthausen-Gusen Concentration Camp complex were the three he spoke of most often. The latter was his proudest moment.

Rumors had spread through the army about German atrocities, but when my father pulled up to the outskirts of the concentration camp, he was shocked by the horror.

He told me years later, “I know you’ve seen pictures of the Holocaust, but they can’t show you what I saw, what I smelled, and what I felt. The suffering there was far beyond my worst nightmare.”

Because my father’s first language was French, he spoke with several victims face-to-face and couldn’t believe the tales they told him. That day, my father gave away nearly everything he had.

My father and five of his brothers served their country in World War II. Like Soldiers, Sailors, Marines, and Airmen today, he traveled to a foreign land to fight for people he had never met against enemies that threatened us on many fronts. Like his brothers, he volunteered to do this, and he served with distinction.

I’m proud to be my father’s son, and grateful to wear the uniform of my country. Although my father’s generation has been called the “Greatest Generation,” which I don’t dispute, I like to think that their legacy and their spirit continues in the hearts and minds of those who serve today. Despite the stories of abuse, wrongdoing, and neglect in our nation’s military, I hope Americans see that there are thousands who do their duty, who do the right thing, and serve with distinction as well.

According to the experts, we are losing World War II vets at a rate of one every 70 seconds. I hope you take time to remember them.