On a wall in my mother’s home, beneath a glassed frame, there hangs a memorial certificate which, along with a Purple Heart, was posthumously awarded to the uncle I never met. On it is the inscription of powerful and solemn words authored by Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
The words are as true today — especially on this day — as they ever were, and they read as follows: “He stands in the unbroken line of patriots who have dared to die that freedom might live and grow and increase its blessings. Freedom lives, and through it he lives — in a way that humbles the undertakings of most men.”
The year was 1944, and my mother was at work in a Chicago office building when the call came. It was short, her sister’s voice serious, and the message simple: Get home immediately. She didn’t ask questions. When you’re 16 years old, your country’s at war and a call like that comes in, you get home.
The Army chaplain had just been to the home to inform my beloved grandmother that her only son had been killed in action. By all accounts, my grandmother skipped the crying and went directly to the screaming.
Serving as a sergeant in Co. A, 110th Infantry Regiment, 28th Infantry Division, he died at the battle of Gathemo, just weeks after landing in Normandy, France. His name was Bernard Frank Rossi and he was 23 years old.
He died 13 years before I was even born, but there was never a moment when memories of him were far removed from the conversations of my grandparents, my mother or her two sisters. As a kid, I remember having questions about “Ben,” about what kind of person he was, and what kind of uncle he’d have been to the six nephews and five nieces he would have lived to know. In spite of my curiosity, there’s still so much that remains a mystery.
Did my grandparents cry tears of joy when their only son was born to these Italian immigrants over two decades prior? How could they have ever known their only son would later die — one of 416,800 other brave Americans who lost their lives in World War Two?
Although I’m certain I know the answer, was there anything that could have ever prepared them for that visit from that Army chaplain?
Years later, at the age of 12, while going home at night in a crowded Buick after a celebration of my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary, I remember listening to my parents’ quiet conversation. My dad mentioned to my mother how subdued my grandfather seemed throughout the night.
She told him, “I think he was missing Ben.” Silence followed. Sometimes there are no words.
I remember in that instant feeling angst for my grandparents, my mother and her sisters.
Looking back on my younger self, I’m sure my 12-year-old mind could not have fully comprehended the multitudes of hearts that have, over our country’s history, been broken with inconsolable anguish, the oceans of tears that have been shed, or the terrible cost of freedom.
Now, at the age of 98, my mother is the last survivor of a Gold Star family that was forever changed by the loss of a brother and a son. A family that, as Abraham Lincoln wrote in a letter to Gold Star mother Mrs. Bixby during the Civil War, “laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of freedom.”
Lately, malcontents within our society seem hell bent on fanning the flames of division. Their attempts at silencing dissenting opinions betray their revulsion of our American values. These efforts have manifested themselves in various forms of division, censorship, lies, greed and corruption in our highest levels of our government.
On behalf of our fallen, we mustn’t let them succeed. Because if there’s one thing we all share, it’s the freedom borne of the sacrifices made by those who gave so much throughout our history.
Who died serving this country.
This Memorial Day, as with all the others, it is fitting to solemnly remember those heroes who lost their lives fighting and dying in defense of the things we cherish most: our freedoms, our Constitution and our way of life.
Are we a country so divided by religious, political, economic and cultural divides that we can’t stop and take time to appreciate the freedoms purchased by the blood and treasure of so many American lives?
Personally, I hope and pray that’s not the case. Because, throughout the nasty, contentious bickering and disagreements we will continue to have over the years, there’s one thing we should understand, and it is this:
The freedom to do so is not despite the sacrifices made by those brave heroes. Rather, it is because of them.
Dave Del Camp is a retired merchant marine engineer and part time blogger. He resides in Portland, Maine.
