Memorial Day
A Day to Remember
This year, in the midst of all this turmoil, it’s a good time to remember the veterans whose services are bring so ruthlessly amputated.
It’s easy to let Memorial Day be all about sales on swimwear, picnics, and just a fun day off. But for veterans, these are tough times. Benefits cut, services in jeopardy, healthcare threatened.
Veterans are being especially hard-hit by Trump’s federal cuts
“Congress Still in the Dark On Cuts to Dept. of Veterans’ Affairs
And it seems to me that this is a message we should amplify. This is something that middle-of the-road voters, conservatives who are uneasy about Trump’s excesses, may respond to. Weren’t Republicans supposed to be the defenders of the military? Next time you do a social media post, or write a letter to the editor, or make a sign for a protest march, consider bringing this issue front and center.
My grandfather, Louis Joseph Tomaselli, was a soldier in the First World War. Long after he passed away, I discovered an unsuspected treasure–his journal. Starting on New Year’s Day, 1918, he kept a journal for almost every day of the following eventful year. The journal is small, so it would fit in a pocket, and he scribbled entries every evening, while sitting in the muddy trenches, cold barns, or freezing tin-roofed barracks
Here are some of his observations, taken from his journal written more than a hundred years ago.
In early spring of 1918 his unit was ordered to the trenches:
You walk in mud, red mud up to your shoetops all the time. You have nowhere to eat at all and must stand in the mud to eat. When it comes to sleeping we sleep in mud, we are so crowded that we cannot help but put our feet all over each other.
We are eating like kings in our dugout even though shells burst all around. Breakfast this morning consisted of oatmeal, bacon, cheese and coffee and bread—not bad!
Shells fly over us all day long but we don’t give a d____. Small, large, and larger they come! Some have a sound when travelling in the air like a moan. Others like howling cats.
Last night we were heavily shelled by the Huns’ shells falling all around our dugout which is about 60 feet underground.
After several weeks they were given a reprieve because so many of the men had skin diseases like scabies. They were sent off to the hospital:
This morning… we were ordered to bathe. Why, you cannot imagine how happy we were to receive such orders! All our clothes were sterilized and…we were given clean underwear and a pair of pajamas. Ah but this is the life.
I am cootie-less!
The meal today was not quite sufficient, for men are just flocking in here and the kitchen is not large enough for all.
I am put in charge of the hospital guard which was intended to keep the boys from leaving the site without a pass…but I turned my back to the happenings and let the boys have their fun.
The rumor that we are soon to see the USA is getting more persistent daily--oh how I hope it’s true! The hours seem long but we make the best of it. I dreamed of Alexa and home last night and awoke sad.
Today about 700 more men come in and food quite naturally getting scarce and our appetite sharper.
Yesterday a lot of boys came in in ambulances from the front. Gassed and shell maimed, and they bear their misfortunes bravely. Not a moan…
The wounded—maimed are coming in fast –it’s a sight not to be easily forgotten--the ambulances are coming in fast and a string of them is at the entrance day and night.
One of my friends came in today with one leg shot away…He asked for me, but I did not recognize him…until I had spoken to him.
When a man dies the body is stripped then wrapped in a blanket and gently lowered into a hole. The cold earth is then thrown upon the corpse until it is hidden from view. Sometimes a mark is placed over the unfortunate that he might be located after the war by his people [but] very often not a trace of any information as to the identity of the corpse can be found.
Then it was off to the front again:
Got up at 5 o’clock which is really 4 because all the clocks have been put forward to save light. Today we made 15 kilometers past woods and fields dotted everywhere with graves—this part of France is full of graves.
We are putting up in haylofts again, it is not so bad now for we are having warm weather although nights are cool. In the evening we happened by the village church and realized that it would do us good, 6 of us went in and attended the stations of the cross. Then we went to bed.
Every time I open this book my first thought is of Alexa. How are they all at home?
It is such trials as we are going through that make home what it is. We will know how to appreciate our homes and loved ones if we ever see our golden shores again.
I remember my grandfather teaching me some of his WW1 marching songs, but he never shared the sad parts. When he passed away, like all veterans his coffin was covered with a flag. I still have it. For years it sat on a shelf gathering dust, but now it’s getting some use. I’ve been taking it to protests. I hold it up—it’s so long it takes two or three neighbors to stretch it out—or I drape it over my car at roadside protests. Upside down. I like to think he would approve.
Dear Friends,
Are you infuriated by the state of the world and wondering what to do about it? I hope you’ll continue to check out The Optimistic Activist.
Every now and then I post some ideas for doing something. How to get out the vote, spread the word, and support progressive candidates. Ideas for simple but effective activism. As easy, as practical, as do-able as I can make them.
Together, I think, we could really make a difference.
“Optimism is a strategy for making a better future.”
--Noam Chomsky
Gramps was one of the lucky ones who made it home.
What a treasure that journal is.