The 'Generation' answered the call when asked

My father, PFC Allen Herndon.

(NOTE: This column appeared in a special Veterans' Day section in the Nov. 9 edition of The Anderson News.)

I don’t think I ever fully understood why those who won World War II are often called “The Greatest Generation.”

Until recently, that is. 

 

Oh, I thought I understood. Intellectually, I knew why that label had been applied to those who served in some way during the all-out war that has shaped the world in which I live. They were regular citizens.

Farmers. Bankers. Factory workers. Teachers. Store clerks. Doctors.

Some were well off. Some were not. Most were somewhere in between. Yet, they put aside their different backgrounds and came together.

As the great historian, Stephen Ambrose, once said, “None of them wanted to be part of another war. They wanted to be throwing baseballs, not hand grenades, shooting .22s at rabbits, not M-1s at other young men.

"But when the test came, when freedom had to be fought for or abandoned, they fought.”

Someone had to stop a psychopathic madman and his minions in Europe. Someone had to stop the imperialists set on controlling the Pacific.

They didn’t ask for the job but those in The Greatest Generation were more than up to it. They left their fields, their stores and their desks only with the thought of stopping tyranny halfway around the world and getting back home.

Only recently, when going through some old photos, did it really hit home with how great The Greatest Generation really was.

My father, PFC Allen Herndon, was a member of that generation, serving in the United States Army in World War II.

Actually, my dad never saw combat. In his usual understated wit, he would just say, “I was on the boat when the war ended.”

My father died of cancer more than 30 years ago. He rarely talked about his time in the Philippines, where he was training for the planned invasion of Japan in late 1945, or of his time in Japan as part of the occupying forces after the war ended. What happened in his turn of events before and after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, I don’t know.

What I do know is a story that is similar to so many others of the day. And it’s what makes that generation great.

Dad was working on the family farm on Alton Station Road. His father milked a few cows, got the tobacco in the ground with a horse-drawn setter and shopped at Chowning’s Grocery.

They went to church on Sunday.

But one day, my father’s life changed. He was a senior at Kavanaugh High School when the notice came, “Greetings ...”

That he was still in high school didn’t mean he could get a deferment. He was of age and deemed to be able-bodied. That was all that mattered.

Soldiers return from Japan in Oct. 1946. My father is in the group.

He reported to the Lawrenceburg train depot for the ride to Louisville in January 1945. In my mind, I picture a young man scared of what could lie ahead but afraid to show that fear to anyone.

Several months later, my father was in the Philippines prepping for his role in Operation Downfall, the dreaded invasion of the Japanese mainland. 

 

With an entrenched army and a fanatical civilian population taught from birth that Emperor Hirohito was a deity and living the Bushido code, estimated casualties for Operation Downfall ranged anywhere from 500,000 to well into the millions.

But like so many others, my father answered the call. After atomic bombs rained destruction on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, his orders changed from invasion to occupation.

I have often wondered if I would even be here today if the atomic bombs had not been dropped. The randomness of war dictates that inches, equipment and simple luck – good or bad – are the differences between life and death. 

 

Dad served his time in Japan nobly. He didn’t bring home compelling stories of dodging bullets or surviving artillery shells exploding nearby. Just some souvenirs and photos.

They were photos of Hiroshima, as he went through not long after the bomb. They were photos my sister and I distinctly remember seeing during one of those days when Dad did talk about the war. His message was simple: Never let this happen again.

Most of those pictures of Hiroshima’s ruins have disappeared. All we have are photos of my father with other young men who answered their calls. We have no idea of their names or hometowns. We just know that they served.

Some of those young men came home and worked in factories. Others returned to the jobs they had before Uncle Sam called. Others came back and went to college.

My father with a young child in Japan.

When my father returned, he finished his studies at Kavanaugh, graduating from high school at age 22. And he made a career in the military, giving 33 years of service to the Kentucky National Guard. While he never had to go overseas again, his job kept him in touch with those fighting in Korea and Vietnam. Some of his friends did not come home.

He never sought glory in what he did, but he was proud of his service to the cause of freedom.

He was like so many others. They saw freedom as something worth fighting for. 

 

They fought that battle, then went about their lives.

They really are The Greatest Generation. They should never be forgotten.