It seems that I can’t let go of it. Last June, this column featured recollections of my father’s service in WWII stationed on the tropical Pacific island of New Guinea. The years were 1943 to 1945. He was 30 years old when he arrived there, older than many of his fellow soldiers, but still young and vigorous and hopeful for the life ahead. No one who was sent there was prepared for such harsh conditions – the nearly impenetrable jungle, the intense heat, the bugs, the enemy. My dad contracted malaria and nearly died. Malaria ravaged his body, and he never fully regained his once healthy self. This was the story of so many who served in the Pacific during that war.
After the war’s end in 1945, the returning soldiers moved on with their lives, going back to work, raising families, and investing in their communities.
Little was said or shared about what they underwent. I don’t recall a single, sustained conversation that I ever had with my dad about his war experience. After what I now know, I think I understand why. I understand his reluctance the few times I approached the subject. I understand the screams in his sleep that would wake the family, screams he would not recall having. I realize why it was so important for him to attend his army company’s reunion in 1990, three years before his death. To reach out and thank his fellow soldiers who stood by him after he was stricken by malaria, confined to the infirmary, deathly ill. To reclaim the bond that came out of the conditions they endured, the shared experience they alone understood. Most essentially, he went to the reunion to see his brothers, one last time.
After my father died in 1993, I retrieved a bag gathering dust in my parents’ attic, with artifacts from his war - photos, letters, his dog tags. With this material in hand, I reached out to members of his company with whom he served. With time to reflect, and, perhaps, with the recognition that their lives were approaching a final chapter, they were eager to share their stories that paralleled my dad’s journey from basic training to the jungles of New Guinea. Letters came from across the country. Eric, from Oregon, wrote, “For years, I didn’t talk about my time in the Pacific. After the reunions started, and talking with the other men, I was more forthcoming with my family. I clearly remember sitting at your father’s bedside, encouraging him. He was extremely ill. Others never recovered.”
My research continues on the often-neglected story of the toll that disease took on the men who served in the region – Americans, Aussies, the Japanese. The 2007 book The Ghost Mountain Boys by James Campbell tells of the 32nd Division’s mission through the treacherous mountains of New Guinea, helping the Australian army rebuke Japan’s effort to take the island. The 32nd included several Muskegon men, among them Carl Stenberg, Russell Buys, Donald Stout and Stanley Jastrzembski. Their accounts in the book spoke of the brutal conditions they faced, including the disease. Of the nearly 11,000 troops of the 32nd, over 9,600 became casualties, 7,000 due to illness. Malaria, dysentery, typhoid fever - this is the other war these men fought. I hope to add to this story with an essay now in the research stage.
I return to my father. Bruce Springsteen spoke intimately of his relationship with his father in the recently-closed show Bruce Springsteen on Broadway, now streaming on Netflix. His unsettled connection with him remains, long after his death. In the show, he laments, “And we live amongst ghosts, always trying to reach us. They’re with usevery step of the way. My dead father is still with me every day. The Soul remains with us.” And so it is with my own father. Woodrow F. Nelson was a gentle man who came home damaged by war but who nonetheless worked hard, sacrificing for family and community. I now understand, and I wish I had one more hour with him. Oh ... the conversation we would have.
Contact Rich at richmskgn@gmail.com
