The Laughing Wolf

Memorial Day, Part 1

I never knew my Uncle Foster, and the image above is the memory I have of him. I've seen pictures of him at various ages, right up until he was in uniform. There is one of him with a very lovely lady, his girlfriend who may have also been his fiance.

Foster was the last of 15 children in my Dad's family, and as such reports were that he was a touch spoiled and indulged -- at least for the first part of his life. His life, and the lives of the others, were forever altered by the Great Depression. They were prosperous until then, but afterwards lost almost all they had, along with my grandfather. They fell back on the farm they owned, worked it, and got by. In point of fact, they did okay for those days and times. There was food on the table, a roof overhead, clothes to wear, and the occasional treat.

The stories I have of Foster vary, though I think I have enough to have a fairly good picture. Most of the sources were biased, especially my Dad. There we had an odd mix of things, from the usual things brothers carry about each other to a strong pride.

It was from Dad that I first came to truly know that I had an Uncle Foster. I had seen the entry in the family tree, and maybe a picture or two, but Dad made him real one night at a restaurant. Growing up, eating out was a rare treat, and my seven- or eight-year-old self was chowing down on what passed for Chinese at that time in my hometown (the first real Chinese restaurant with real Chinese did not open for several more years if memory serves). Dad made some remarks about how Foster had loved Chinese food (and maybe culture a bit too, the memory fades) and how my enthusiasm reminded him very much of a dinner with Foster in Honolulu. There were a few more comments, then he closed down as he often did in regards the war and other painful subjects.

Being the meek and biddable soul that I am, I began to hunt for more, for I would know of this man to whom I apparently bore some striking similarities. We both loved Chinese food and more, had dreams of flight, and... what more? Knowing that Dad was a tough nut to crack, even then, I went and started asking relatives, for they were more forthcoming and I could use what I learned to get Dad to talk more. There was not nearly as much as I would like, for I quickly found out that the reason I knew him not was that his life was cut short.

When the war came, Foster went into the Navy and into Naval Aviation. From what I have been able to learn, he may have had a gift as a pilot, though he apparently told Dad that if he and his crew did not make it back it would probably be because of his navigation. I can empathize with that a bit, as dead reckoning is hard enough on land, much less over water far from shore.

The meal Dad mentioned that night was, I think, the last time Dad saw his baby brother alive. By rare chance, they were both in Honolulu at the same time, and went out for dinner. They apparently had a good time, with Foster very much enjoying the food. I suspect Dad did too, though not quite as much, and afterwards, well, he never did have a taste for it again.

It was towards the end of the war, and Foster's unit went forward and did some of the last conventional raids on Japanese harbors. Dad was forward deployed with Admiral Spruance, and got the news. Foster and his crew did not return from a raid. The ship with Foster's CO was in the same harbor, and the Admiral had arranged for Dad to go talk to the CO, but orders came and the ships must leave, so the discussion was by radio.

The raid went well, though the target well defended. From what I have heard, Foster took his plane in, and placed load on target. It was coming out that something went bad, and his plane went down. The others in the squadron reported that it angled down in such a way that indicated the pilot was dead, or unconscious, at the controls. The gunners/others never had a chance to get out before it went in, and none came up after it did. Dad felt, possibly guiltily, that such was for the best given what the Marines had found in regards the treatment of prisoners by the Japanese. Such was but one of the reasons the Marines were glad to oblige those who chose to fight to the death... Foster's death shook him, and hit hard. So hard that despite the many gifts he received after the surrender, he gave it all away and took nothing home that would remind him of the war.

So, a few years ago, I found myself at the Punchbowl. A request to the guardians of that place saw me in, and my taxi driver willingly took down his sign from his roof for commercial vehicles are not allowed in that hallowed space, and waited without charge while I walked. I walked and I searched, and I found:

It seems strange that such a simple marker could bring a tear to an eye for a man never met; nor that such a journey would move a taxi driver who had probably seen it all and heard it all. Yet that marker is a cenotaph to all who fell and will not come home until the sea shall give up her dead. For Foster was but one of many who so fell, and is honored in that place.

May she look down them all, those who fell then and those who fall now. May she gather them up and guide them to the Green where the light awaits them all.

This is one part of what Memorial Day means to me.

LW

BTW, should any read this who served with Foster, please do drop me a line. For I would know more, for good or for ill, of this man.