As I write this I am sitting inside the Virginia War Memorial. This is my job, I work for Capitol Police. As I was working here yesterday a 90 year old volunteer and I were the only ones in the building. He told me that he was a WWII veteran. Over the next couple of hours we talked about his experiences in the war. This is his story.
He was a lieutenant in the army. His mission: to detect Nazi artillery and radio the co ordinance to his men who had artillery behind American lines so that they could shell the Germans. He was in Paris going across a bordering river. The American Army came up to the shore and the core of engineers began building a bridge to bring the tanks and half tracks across. The Nazis who had artillery stationed in an unknown location on the other side of the river began shelling the American forces. The old gentleman leaned on the desk that I was sitting at as he talked. Here he stopped evidently moved at the memory of such a traumatic event. He looked at me and made a semblance of laughter as I could clearly see the pain of remembering such an event in his eyes. “It was bad” he said.
The shells burst around them. Some of the shells misfired¾ thanks to the French underground that had sabotaged the German’s ammo the previous night. If it wasn’t for that so many more of them would have died. Amidst the bombarding explosions the army corp. of engineers maintained the building of the bridge. They had to get through. The freedom of the world depended on them. They made it across and the Nazis moved their shelling onto the other side of the river still keeping it up hot and heavy. “Call it cowardice or whatever you want but I convinced another lieutenant in a half track to come with me out of the field.” the older gentlemen said looking pained as if regretting something that he hadn’t yet told me. They traveled until they found a young French boy that said he wanted to help. So after climbing to the top of a water tower and then being led to the top of a church tower without having spotted the German artillery he made a decision that has haunted him for the rest of his life.
He made a decision to take a dirt road further toward the enemy to locate the artillery. The French boy knew the danger of this and said that he had to go home. The old gentleman laughed hard. He said, “It was even funny then.”
He said that he began traveling further and further down that dirt road. He went further and still further until he said he got an eerie feeling. Deep in enemy territory he stopped signaling to the other lieutenant to stop he got out of his jeep and the other lieutenant from his half track and they walked to meet each other in the middle. Little did he know but he had stopped dead in the middle of a Nazi outpost. On both sides of the road were German machine gun nests. The Nazis were sitting there watching and waiting for them to meet in the middle of their vehicles so that they would be most vulnerable to machine gun fire. As soon as they met in the center of their convoy the Nazis opened fire. His driver, himself, and his fellow lieutenant fell to the ground shot. He said that the other lieutenant’s face just exploded. “I was shot in the a** and I knew I wasn’t going to die from that so I went to the lieutenant and tried to help him. I know how to tie a tourniquet on an arm or a leg but how do you tie off a wound like that.” His eyes filled with tears and his voice choked when he reached this part of the story. He pulled himself together as he told me that he left him and made his way back to the jeep for cover so he could return fire. The firefight lasted around 10 to 15 minutes when all of a sudden it stopped. The American army was rolling up the road in their direction.
The medic treated him first. “I knew for sure he was dead when they didn’t treat him first. But I found out later that he was alive and lasted a week in the hospital before he died.” His voice choked again. “I am not a war hero…I should never have gone away from the main army like that…I am not a hero.”
I was taken back by this comment. To think that a man like this who fought for the freedom we hold so dear should consider himself a coward and not a hero was saddening. I looked at him and told him “Sir, you are a hero in my eyes. You all are and always will be.” As he later walked towards the door to leave he turned to me and said, “I don’t have one to many friends and I am glad you are one of them.”

Sir it is my honor to have met you and considering you my friend is the greatest honor a man could have. My hat is off to all our veterans and we owe them all the thanks in the world for the freedom they have conserved and won for us. Never forget their sacrifice and always remember that freedom is not free.
“The tree of liberty must be regularly watered by the blood of patriots and tyrants.” Thomas Jefferson.