[Note: The following column was written for the Journal by reader Liz Wessel, R.N., M.S. Liz is a caregiver with St. Joseph Health System in Orange, California.]
My father Philip Emil Sorensen was a medic in the army
during WWII. He spoke of his skillfulness at bartering for scarce goods and of the
many friendships he struck up along the way, but he spoke little of his lived experiences
in the war. Dad 6’2” and lanky sought out a Japanese-American soldier who he
nicknamed “Smitty" (with my dad, at Smitty's left, in photo.) Smitty was a 5’3” and wanted nothing to do with my father.
Finally, dad’s persistence won out and they became best friends. While Smitty
(Richard) Imagawa was overseas serving, the government seized his property and
confined his family to an internment camp. So Smitty was fighting for our country
while his family was taken as prisoners of war by, America, his own nation....
After the war, Smitty settled in California and
became a beloved and renowned pediatric physician serving in his community
until his death. I had never really thought much about this; yet I live in California,
3000 miles from my childhood home, because of the bond of their friendship.
For a time, my father was stationed in France during a bitter cold winter.
At night if a man needed to relieve himself, rather than go out in the freezing
cold it was easier to urinate in his helmet. Suddenly, an air raid would sound,
the siren screaming loudly. Adrenaline pumping, the men would automatically
grab for their helmets putting them on without thinking. My dad laughed a lot
when he recounted this experience.
When dad was dying, he experienced a war flashback that was
painful to witness. Although, extremely weak, his fear rallied amazing physical
strength and he insisted on getting out of bed. All attempts to reassure, comfort,
and reorient, him were to no avail. “Shhh...there here, be quiet, quiet”, he
whispered. “They are up there; they are going to find us!” His terror was real and
the ordeal lasted a long time. Finally, exhausted we were able to help him to
lie back down and drift off to sleep. Afterwards I cried as I experienced a
moment of war that my dad had lived so many years before. (Later, I learned
from my mom dad was in the Battle
of the Bulge too.)
My brother Phillip Peter Sorensen was drafted and served in
the Vietnam War. In the Vermont summer of 1977, Philip and I went to a local pub one evening. Philip never talked about
Vietnam
and that night I asked him to tell me something of his war experience. Philip
described his job as a combat engineer, which was to go on ahead of the platoon
to locate and detonate any land mines in the road. The day before his tour of
duty ended, he recalled traveling by jeep with other soldiers when they were ambushed
and heavy fighting took place. We both marveled at the miracle of his surviving
so many close brushes with death.
The next day, my dear brother, Philip, was killed in a car accident. We never know which conversation with anyone we love will be
our last.
My mother-in-law Helen Fueshco Wessel courageously joined
the Navy during World War II to serve as a nurse. Her three brother’s Joe, Billy,
and Steve, signed up to serve and Joe was killed in action in Italy.
Far from home and family, drenched
in loneliness amid the immediacy of war, Helen met married my
father-in-law, a marine, who later served again in the Korean War.
On this Memorial Day weekend, I think of the ironies of war and of those long gone whom I
hold close. Out of the heartaches and sacred encounters of war, lifelong relationships
formed, civilians suffered, lives were sacrificed, babies were born, and people
connected in inexplicable ways grew together in Love’s golden circle.
