~Doc Lawrence~
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He was awarded the Bronze Star, but never mentioned it.
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The Third U.S. Army |
Politicians, particularly serial draft dodgers lecturing
voters about remembering veterans didn’t impress him. “The only ones who love
war never fought in one,” he said. During my baby days in Atlanta, I would go
through his footlocker where he kept his Army paraphernalia. His Eisenhower
jacket with the famous 3rd Army shoulder patch was there. I’d put it
on and it swallowed me. There were pamphlets explaining what to do if captured,
like tell your captors nothing more than name, rank and serial number. There
was a German to English translation handbook, a bunch of combat ribbons and
some spellbinding photographs of him posing in uniform.
My soldier father was as handsome as Burt Lancaster or
Montgomery Clift in “From Here to Eternity.”
Dad would open up about his war experiences a little more as
he got older. He would describe the horror of the concentration camps, how the
local German villagers lied about having knowledge even though the stench of
death hovered over the countryside for miles. Many of his friends both in
Atlanta and his retirement home in South Florida were Jewish. He would speak
glowingly of his regular golf games with them. They embraced each other and the
meaning of that brotherhood wasn’t lost on his family.
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He died peacefully in his sleep in 2015. My friends remembered
him as an elegant man. He was a son of the South, a devout Christian, a retired
banker and a solid citizen. He took pride in his rural roots and didn’t mind
one bit if you called him a country boy.
It’s time to visit the cemetery, mount the American flag he
served under, place a bouquet of flowers, and say a prayer. Precious memories,
how they linger.