Mystery Writer Don Lewis

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Dec 31, 2011

Wrinkled Old Man

He was a wrinkled old man, bent slightly forward at the waist, his face wearing years of trying experiences. I guessed him to be in his eighties. His face, narrow and long, carried upon it a nose broken and twisted by life’s challenges. That his weary eyes had seen much sorrow was readily apparent by the look of their downward squint. It was a kind face, windowing a heart full of caring and burden.
With the knobbed head of his crooked wooden cane held firmly in his hand, he meandered slowly through the Millcreek Mall, stopping here and there to ponder the contents of a store window, or to rest, or both. Every movement of the man’s gait was slow and deliberate, as if to make certain that each step he took was upon firm ground, and his stooped shoulders held his arms close to his side, as though passing through a narrow doorway. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him.
The sound of hasty footsteps approaching from his rear brought him to a stop. As I moved in his direction to help in case of a collision, the young man rushed by and the old man was safe. As he raised his gaze to continue, his steel gray eyes, the one feature that bespoke of a handsome youth, caught mine. I had been watching him, wondering if I would live as long as he, and if so, whether I would have the courage to be walking alone in a busy mall. He smiled, knowingly, and nodded his head, as he continued his stroll. I had never seen him before, but when I noticed a screaming eagle pin on his lapel representing the shoulder patch of the storied 101st Airborne Division, the Heroes of Bastogne, I felt a bond with him. I was never a member of the 101st, but I was a paratrooper and I wanted to speak with him about … well about anything; I just wanted to talk with him.
On one hand I was hesitant to interrupt the old gentleman’s labored saunter, but on the other hand his smile invited conversation.
“Excuse me, sir,” I finally said, “Are you from Erie?”
“No,” he said, “I’m from Pittsburgh. I’m up here visiting my daughter and grandsons.”
“Are you alone here?” I asked.
“No, my daughter and the kids are around somewhere shopping. I’m not a shopper so I told her I’d be out here somewhere.”
“If I’m interrupting sir, I apologize, but I noticed your lapel pin and …” I hesitated to say more.
“Not at all young man,” he said to me, a man of 59. “In fact I could use a rest,” he said, pointing to mid-mall benches. He led me to them and we sat side-by-side.
“Were you in the 101?” he asked.
“No sir, but I was a paratrooper.” When I asked him if he was in World War II he replied in the affirmative. My heart was in my mouth.
 I asked, “Were you in on the D-Day Jump into Normandy?” He nodded his head and said that he was. But he said it in a way that conveyed he had done nothing special; he was just doing his job.
“Were you involved in the Battle of the Bulge?” I asked, my chest heaving with every word.
“Yes,” was his simple answer. I wanted to ask about his combat awards, but I decided not to risk embarrassing the man with that question, but neither was I going to let this conversation pass without asking him if he had been at the Siege of Bastogne. He said he was there the whole time. “In fact, if I’m still alive six years from now,” he said, with a hopeful glint in his eye, “I’ll be going back to Bastogne for our 50th reunion.”
There were so many questions I wanted to ask him about those experiences; oddly enough, one of them was how it felt to march down Broadway in a tickertape parade; to feel the pride of being an American, to hold one’s head high, to have fought and given everything and receive such a glorious reception.
All too soon his daughter and grandsons came by to pick up grandpa. I didn’t get to ask those questions, but I wish I had. He gave me his name, but I didn’t write it down and I have long since forgotten it.
I have met a number of outstanding people in my life, but I have always held a special respect for my dad and all of the veterans of World War II; the boys who became men when they parachuted into hell in Europe; the Army Infantry and US Marines who signed blank checks on their lives when they stormed the beaches of Europe and the Pacific; the sailors and airmen who swept the seas and skies of the enemy; the tank drivers who slugged their way through Europe in metal boxes.
There were a million men and women like the wrinkled old man who put their lives on the line for us; you and me, and were humble enough to say that they were just doing their job. They were the ones who SAVED THE WORLD.
God Bless them all. I always thank every WWII veteran I meet. Soon they will all be gone. Honor them with a simple, “Thank you.”
I’m a writer of mystery novels now; no longer the lean mean fighting machine I once was, but I will always treasure the honor and inspiration it was for me to meet someone as brave and patriotic as was the wrinkled old man, and I will never forget him. I hope he made it to his reunion and I hope he’s still alive and making more old vets feel good.
If this blog made you feel good please pass it on to your friends. It’s a true story.
donlewis@sccoast.net                                                                        www.etlewis.com