Delete

I find the delete button on my computer quite handy. I delete a lot of things – documents and images I no longer need to keep on file; whole paragraphs of poorly penned prose; e-mails with too many “Fwd’s.” I instantly delete anything marked “a must-read.” (Sorry, that’s my rule).

But there is one thing that makes me pause with my finger over the delete button and regret what I am about to do. I work for an association with a little more than a thousand members. Most of the members are World War II veterans who served with the 36^th Infantry Division, Texas National Guard. When they were just teenagers, or barely adults, after basic training, they sailed off to war, leaving mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, sweethearts, wives, and sometimes children behind.  They trained further in North Africa, then sailed once again – to Italy, where they became the first American troops to set their boots on European soil in the Second World War. When they had liberated Italy, some of them went on to liberate France, and some to the Pacific, until the fighting was over. Then they came home to try to take up their lives where they left off.  

My uncle is one of those men who bought our freedom for us at a great price. He’s 90 now. Most World War II veterans are in their 10^th decade. None of them is younger than his middle 80’s. After all, the war’s been over for 67 years.

Over the past six years, serving as membership secretary for the association, and editor of their quarterly newsletter, I have gotten to know some of the veterans. They’re a mixed bag of brash, ornery, humble, shy, outgoing, and reserved gentlemen. They are mostly nearly deaf; their eyesight isn’t so keen, and while some are still nimble on the dance floor, I see more and more wheelchairs and walkers at the annual reunions which I attend.
As editor of their newsletter, I read their correspondence and I edit the war stories they send me for publication. I speak to them on the phone, I exchange e-mails with them.

When I open my mail, I usually find at least one notice that another old soldier has faded away. Someone sends me an obituary from a newspaper. A widow writes to say that after 60 years or so of marriage, she is now alone. Sons, daughters, grandchildren or friends of the veteran send me the news. Saddest of all is to get back a piece of mail, simply marked “Deceased.” It makes me wonder if the man had no family, no friends, no one who cared.  However I got the notice, though, it’s time for me to go to work.

I list the name and date of death in the newsletter, under “Taps.” I add the name to a roster of those who have passed away during the current year. Their names will be read at a memorial service during the next annual reunion, and widows of veterans will place a wreath in their honor.

I still have one more task. I open the database file that contains the names, addresses, units in which they served, and I highlight that veteran’s entry. Then I pause, with my finger over the delete button. 

It’s easy to delete a line in a database. But how do you delete a hero?