In honor of Arthur McClure Sawyer, WWII Veteran - Pop, we all love and miss you!
Imagine coming home from school at 10 years old and finding that your father has left you and your 2 siblings. Your mother died when you were a toddler, and there is no family to care for you. If that happened today, you would surely be shipped off to a foster family and given a life of hope, or perhaps misery. Like anything, life is what you make of it. There are two choices when you wake up: fight or quit.
I'm proud to say my grandfather was a fighter. He was that little boy who came home to find he was left to care for a family. The stories told of trapping rabbits or catching snakes to sell for money could hold you captivated for hours. And the thought of working on a farm from sunrise to sunset for 25 cents a week, yes cents, and "your keep" wears me out. But it was what had to be done to survive, to fight for the next day.
If that battle wasn't enough, Pop enlisted in the Army for two reasons: baseball ("the boys" loved to play ball when they weren't training - In some ways, I think he actually saw being enlisted as getting to have a childhood), and he was paid well, or well enough that money could be sent home to his sister. He told countless stories of training in Panama; the sun so hot it would bake your skin to the point it peeled off in sheets, your socks so wet you could wring the water out of them, and the ground so dry it would crack open. Believe it or not, those were some of his more enjoyable times while enlisted.
I've never seen a man so proud of America. The flag was hung every morning, she was brought in at night and if it started to rain. All the while, she was never allowed to touch the ground, and he made sure his granddaughter knew the rules as well. To say he was patriotic would be an understatement. Like all of our soldiers, Pop was willing to give his life for our country. For my freedom. For your freedom.
Pop posing as a young man.
June 6 1944, the 29th Infantry invaded Normandy, and Pop was there as a B.A.R. man. Just a few days before, his shoulder had been dislocated while jumping hedgerows during a drill in England. The sergeant accused him of trying to get out of battle. He replied, "No sir, I'll do my duty." Pop was unable to carry the nearly 20 pound rifle on the injured shoulder, but went to fight in spite of the pain. That's what fighters do. There is no such thing as quitting or giving up, and sometimes you have to adjust your game-plan as you go. It may mean carrying your weapon on the other shoulder, or being laughed at for wrapping your Mae West floation device around your B.A.R. instead of your body. Pop wasn't afraid of being the butt of a joke - if it meant survival. What seemed like a joke to the other men, turned out to be a sound decision after he considered how the weight of his pack made him top-heavy. And thank God he did. When their landing-craft hit a sandbar, Pop jumped in the water and doggie paddled to the shore. The other men, who were unable to right themselves in the turbulent water, did not survive.
Pop told the rest of the story, how he and a guy from another company worked their way inland. There were never a lot of details, and he never mentioned shooting another man, although I'm certain he did. There was never a complaint uttered, although he was injured by shrapnel during the battle, and had his leg broken when a land mine went off as he stepped out of a truck before crossing into Germany. As a matter of fact, those injuries gave him what he considered the time of his life.
My treasure: Pop's medals, just as he placed them years ago.
The velvet is torn and sagging, but I could never touch them to change it.
While his broken leg was healing, Pop spent time cleaning and setting the gap on spark-plugs. It was then that he got to get up close and personal with the B-52 "Bumbers", as he called them. Pop loved those planes, and would talk about how it was a miracle they could stay in the air covered with all the bullet holes like they were. If you asked, he would tell you that was the favorite time of his life. And I'm blessed that he picked "Spark Plug" as my nickname, because I guess that meant I was right up there with one of the happiest things he ever got to experience.
My other treasure: His Bronze Star Citation
Again, yellowing and showing its age, but I would never change how he framed it.
Pop, I'm fiercely proud of you, not because of the Bronze Medals or other Citations you received while serving, but because you made the decision to fight everyday like it was your last. There was never a time that I saw you ever consider giving up, quitting just wasn't in your vocabulary. In life, for your country, for your family - you were born a survivor. America was lucky to have you fighting for her, just as we're blessed to have the men who fight for us today.
May God bless America, and the men who fight to keep us free!
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