I had two great- uncles who served honorably in World War II, one a Navy veteran and the other an Army veteran. Being an African American military vet, fighting segregation in combat units must have been both sad and satisfying. Sad because although all men were called, black men in the middle of blood strewn battle fields were still denied equality. Satisfying because shortly after they built bridges, canals, fed and supported fellow fighters they lived to see the integration of the armed services begin in earnest in 1948.
My Uncle Roscoe, who was known to the family as “Brother,” was a man with large hands that would not only engulf my hand, when he shook it, but squeezed my wrist simultaneously. He was called brother because his sibling, who served in the Navy as a Seabee could not say Roscoe, when they were children, so he just called him brother and it stuck. I remember when he would come around, after work, with his big smile to visit his Mom, my great-grandmother, I would introduce him to my childhood friends as, “my uncle Brother. This was always followed by confused looks and the amused question, “well is he your uncle or your brother?”
In the basement closet of the house I grew up in was a Japanese sword or at least that was the family legend. My sister and I would imagine stories of my uncle taking it during battle from a Japanese General. We would imagine my uncle with his huge hands saving a unit of men and being awarded the sword as a trophy from his vanquished foe. We knew nothing about the jobs black soldiers were assigned. My uncle William, Roscoe’s brother, brought home a beautiful flowered Japanese tea set, that his mother guarded in the dining room china cabinet with a reverence that made us weary of even touching it. One Thanksgiving she used two pieces, just one cup and one saucer for herself. She thoroughly washed, hand dried and placed it back among the set, surrounded by the ribbons and awards my sister and I won at school.
Both these fine men, military veterans, father figures and guardians to three generations of my family tree, are both dead now. I have trouble separating their funerals in my mind because of the pride and sadness I felt at seeing their flag draped coffins, shiny medal adorned buglers playing taps and the words, “on behalf of the President of the United States and a grateful nation…
My great-grandmother was so proud of them and yet they were so different. The older of the two, William, whose name I carry, was as solid as a rock, brusque, lonely and single-minded. He was left with raising the children of his deceased sister, and this extended to more family members who were left in his charge for complicated family reasons.
My uncle Roscoe was a gregarious, hard drinking, loving husband who was as reliable as an atomic clock. Always on time, never stopping and there when you needed him. When I was twelve I asked him to lend me five dollars. I started to explain it was to be used for spending money during a school field trip. He stopped me and said, “if you ever have to explain to friend why you are borrowing money, they are not your friend and he handed me the money. I have never forgotten that moment. That was the best lesson of unconditional love I had ever been taught.
To those remembering a loved one today, they left you with honor. Do something for the family of a vet.