His daughters didn’t know much about World War II, except what they learned from school, or John Wayne movies. He kept the medal hidden away in a dresser drawer.
To me, all he w
I rode the school bus with his youngest daughter. See Mr. Mike today, see him next year, he always looked the same, blue jeans, long sleeve western style shirt, sleeves always rolled up twice, always in a straw hat. To me, he was just a neighbor. A short one.
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The Generation That Earned The Label
He’s part of that Greatest Generation. You had yours down your road, I had mine down my road. If yours were like mine, they didn’t talk about World War II. My uncle spent the war at Pearl Harbor. Another cousin was in the Pacific, on a flagship, watching kamikazes. They came home, married sweethearts, had a family, got busy with enjoying peace.
As for Mr. Mike, and the war, I wasn’t smart enough to ask, and he was too much a man of his times to ever set me straight.
I moved away from the country in the 10th grade. Last time Mr. Mike saw me I was a 125 pounds of spaghetti muscles and my biggest battle was teenage acne.
Next time I saw him I was in my 40’s. He looked at me and said, “You made much of a man.” As compliments go, from a grown man to a wanna-be, that there, that’s a fine one.
And even then, I had no idea…who was talking to me…
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He was born in 1919. For his 10th birthday America gave him The Great Depression. He was 22 when the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor. Goodbye whatever-you-had-planned, hello war.
He was with the 47th Armored Field Battalion of the 5th Armored Division. After boot camp his battalion took the big ships over the big blue ocean, to the U.K. and waited, and waited, and waited…for D-Day.
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Round About Here, This Is Where Guys Ask Themselves Questions
I can’t speak for girls, but we guys, we all wonder, if we have it in us. Are we brave, or are we cowards? There is no knowing, until the wolf is at the door, or in this case, shells from a German 88, and guys just like you, but on the other team, pointing Mausers your direction, and they think you being dead is an improvement on the situation…
Before bullets fly, and he gets tested, let’s get to know Mr. Mike better.
First of all, he’s not Mike. His real name is Dalbert Cephus, and he’s none too fond of what his parents named him. His education stopped around the 4th grade. He’s a short man, gonna top out at 5’4. His army buddies name him Low Butt. In 1944, he’s just another GI on a big Navy boat. He’s shot some rabbits and squirrels back home, he’s practiced on targets at boot camp, and now with the water still red, he lands at Utah Beach…
He’s about to grow in their estimation.
It takes him less than a month to go from battle virgin to being nominated for one of the nation’s highest commendations.
Nineteen of his buddies have been caught in a trap. Between him and them are some vehicles that have been hit by artillery. They’re on fire, and rounds are exploding, but Mr. Mike gets in his half-track and goes forward, through enemy artillery and small arms fire, and helps get them out.
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The Silver Star is for men that stood up when others lay flat; it’s for putting your meat and muscle at risk to high velocity metal.
A Silver Star, Folks, That Ain’t A Small Thing
It’s not the Medal of Honor, but it’s Way Up There. There’s got to be some death-making metal in the air to even rate a nomination.
Audie Murphy has a Silver Star. American Sniper, Chris Kyle, he has one. Ronald Speirs, Band of Brothers, he has one. The Big Dogs of WWII, Patton, Bradley, MacArthur, Marshall, they have one. One of our Presidents, LBJ, he has one.
And just down the gravel road from what I call home, a little 5’4 man with a 4th grade education, who’d barely had time to dry his feet from Normandy, was running in that company…and never said a word when he came back home to the sticks…
The 47th fought from France to Luxembourg, and into Germany. They fought in the infamous Hurtgen Forest. Only seven Silver Stars were awarded for the entire battalion. Mr. Mike is one of them.
He came back home, and did what that generation did, just shut up about it and got on with life.
One day he was having lunch with a daughter in a small café in Eunice when a man came to the table with tears in his eyes, thanking Mr. Mike for saving the life of his uncle.
Tell you what, that right there, that’ll change the way you look at daddy.
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I Didn’t Find Out He Was A Silver Star Until He Had A Casket
He had another war in his old age: his wife, dying from Alzheimer’s. They don’t give out Silver Stars for that, but I don’t need to tell you if he proved brave or not. It was a slow war, but he was all-in to the very-end.
In his 90’s his old lieutenant tracked the family down. First time the kids heard that his army nickname was “Low Butt.” Nicknames take a back seat to What Really Matters. When the Pentagon, and your army buddies have seen you “With complete disregard for his own safety” everybody finds out what seems obvious, it ain’t the size of the man, it’s the man proving his size.
Tell us about Daddy, they said. Oh, he says, just about the time you’re realizing that something needs to get done, you’d look up, and there Low Butt was, ready to get after it.
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What Do You Tell Youngsters About That Generation?
It must sound like a made-up story. These tough, solid people. Not just one or two, but an entire crop of America, uniformly orderly, ethical, proud, responsible, self-sufficient and brave…
Mr. Mike is just one of them. A lot of men from the community served in the war, but to my knowledge he’s the only Silver Star among the bunch, and never said a word…
He told me I’d made “much of a man.” And all I’d done was quit being skinny, which ain’t much of an achievement.
It’s me that wishes a chance to
say Mister, with serious respect. And double that, for being the kind of man who is wise enough to know that we like our heroes to be humble, and to find them by ourselves…
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This edition of Uncle P’s Bedtime Stories is brought to you by Eighty-one, where we count it a gift of God to have Greatest Generation people for parents. Uncle P can be reached at 81creativity@gmail.com.
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