Memorial Day 2016 presents an opportunity for many to visit gravesites of war heroes who lost their lives during battle in service to our country. On their headstones you see tangible evidence and proof that they lived among us. Along with their names on a marker you see the branch of service to their country where they belonged and the highest rank they attained during that service, an indelible part of their identity in life, as well as in death. They belonged. Their life and time here made a difference. But what happens when your loved one went “missing in action” during wartime service to our country? How do you remember that soldier?
Yet, how often are we faced with explaining to others how our loved one isn’t “in a cemetery, or in an urn, or buried in the family plot”? When those we love have served our country go missing in action, it becomes the job and mission of hundreds of military service personnel to try and find them. Military training preaches “leave no one behind” and elite military personnel will roam the earth and scour the seas in search of proof of life, or death.
This Memorial Day, if you have a “Missing in Action” service person in your family, comfort yourself and those you love by going to the scrapbook of photos of their lifetime, turn the pages, and say their names aloud to others for the first time, or the hundredth time, as their lives are to be remembered forever. Write down, voice record, or video with your camera phone the words your parents or grandparents tell you about that person. They are, and will always be, part of your life, beyond their lives. “For we walk by faith, not by sight.” ~ 2 Corinthians 5:7 (KJV).
And now, a Memorial Day memory shared with me, of how one family was touched, 60 years later, by an act of caring friendship that provided closure for a loved one, missing in action…
As our story first begins, there was a lovely young woman, barely 20 years old, an entering freshman at the biggest school in her state, miles away from Texas…and she was there to study journalism.
She’d only just started college and a journalism major was still a new thing for young women, but it was quite acceptable as a future career choice, to be sure. That career was expected to last until the young woman eventually found a young man who would ask her to be his bride, and she’d stop work to create a home and family with him. That was a certain path for most young women of the day, whose career options were primarily nurse, secretary, or teacher. It was similarly envisioned that, in school, you’d meet future spouses with shared educational experiences and hurry off to marry and spend forever, happily ever after.
Days of the 1939 stock market crash were not that far in the background, and a World War was something the United States was in, but to college youth, the world of adulthood seemed, for most, in the far horizon ahead. Diversion and entertainment was found as a welcome respite in music and dancing. Back then, the big bands of Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey, Artie Shaw, and Glenn Miller came through college campuses, a chance to see future legends was about $1.50 per person, if that much. It was a genteel time when girls lived in dormitories with house mothers and young men were only allowed in the parlor during fixed social hours. Enter, then, this one particular young woman, who was quite a head-turner in her day for her sweet spirit, infectious gentle laugh, and bright countenance that seemed indefatigable. Gentlemen callers had her booked up three weeks in advance to escort her to school dances.
Because of her inherent beauty she was pursued by numerous eligible young bachelors, each of whom was waving a fraternity pin at her, in hopes she would go steady with them. That’s what you did then, when life was a gentler, kinder time. She determined she didn’t want to tie herself down yet, so she’d never accept a pin. The young men would cry and plead, but she remained firm in her determination not to dive right into falling in love. She loved dating, music, and life itself.
She was a football princess in the huge university’s football homecoming court. When one of her young suitors ran track, she’d call out from the stands as she watched, “Hurry, honey, hurry!” not knowing exactly what to yell at a track meet. At Texas A&M, Aggies are always sure of what to yell, but that is now, and this was then and it wasn’t Texas A&M where she’d gone to school as that wouldn’t happen for another thirty years with Gen. James Earl Rudder and Sen. W.T. Moore making that possible.
In the first few months of college, not one young man stood out in her mind as unique. No one seemed different from any other…all very nice, very earnest and yet, quite predictable. She loved to dance, though, and she was a terrific dancer. Whomever was her date that evening, they’d get tapped on the shoulder quite a bit with young men wanting to “cut in,” a term foreign today as it has not been used in six decades, at least.
But at one Saturday afternoon social at a meeting hall on campus, one veritable newcomer, a young man properly attired in a dress suit, attended this decidedly dull recital where a young lady nicknamed “Totsy” played the harp. She played a lot. And harp music being what it is, it captures and holds your attention for only so long. What captured his attention, however, was a young woman with a demure smile and blue eyes that danced. His swarthy good looks, as she spotted him across the room, included a golden tan, brown hair and brown eyes, the coloring of the Prince Charming she’d seen in a dream she’d had years before. The young man’s last name, as he introduced himself, indicated he was of Greek heritage, and he was at university from a very northern U.S. state (yes, a Yankee), to study medicine.
She spoke quietly with the young man, and her good friend was similarly engaged talking to the young man’s buddy. Mutual interest in continuing their conversation and ditching the recital became their new mission plan. Quietly, the young woman, for some unannounced reason, decided she had a lightly Southern accent (she was good at accents), and asked (not wanting to disturb the harp fanciers) the young man and his buddy, “Would you-all like to join us at the school soda fountain for a Coca-Cola?
She’d said it in hushed voice but his exuberance burst forth past decorum as he exclaimed, “Would I-all? You bet!!!” Relegated to sit through yet one more harp selection, so as not to be rude, two young ladies and two young men reconvened at the soda fountain for cold carbonation and warm conversation, all at the affordable price of a $.05 Coke apiece. There was an instant recognition of kindred spirit and soul mate that flowed through their words. At the end of the soda time, he asked her for her name and where she lived.
She couldn’t recall why she decided to play hard-to-get, in addition to Southern belle, but she said, “You can call me Poppy” (not her real name). As they shook hands goodbye, he said, “Poppy, where do you live?” Replying with a smile, “Somewhere around here.” Three weeks later, she was walking to her dormitory when she spotted him, looking a bit haggard, sitting on her front steps. He said, “I’ve been to every dormitory on this campus asking for “Poppy” and no one had ever heard of you. So I am here to ask you now, “What is your real name and will you go out with me this Saturday night?” Amused, yet unapologetic, she gave her name and agreed to the date.
That Saturday night led to the following Friday night, and eventually they were dating exclusively, often double-dating with his best friend, also a pre-med student, who was dating her best friend. Life was idyllic, splendid, and love was in the air. Eventually they spoke of marriage but at the time, late in 1942 and the beginning of 1943, the call for young men to enter military service into another world war, became the pervading thought.
From the news back home, she’d learned that three of her brothers had enlisted; the youngest was 15 years old, but he’d lied about his age pretending to be 18 and eligible. The need for soldiers was so great, her youngest brother was accepted by the Navy as he stood taller than most 18-year-olds. She knew what the stakes were, and as her own special young man was preparing to enter the U.S. Army Air Force, he wanted to become engaged to “Poppy,” the nickname he called her still, even though he now knew her real name.
That was a grave decision that she made at that point in both of their lives, a turning point in fact. She declined his proposal and said, “I don’t believe I want to do that to either of us. I want you to come back safely and when you do, we’ll be married immediately.” He understood that she was saying that she didn’t want “that knock” at her front door that military personnel make to deliver the news that a loved one had lost their lives in service to their country. He entered the service in early 1943 and he’d only been enrolled at the university for six months. He was brilliant and his grades were high, on track for the med school goal he’d set his eye on.
Entering the service, he was transferred to Laredo, Texas, and completed training as an air corps navigator. Letters had been exchanged between them while he was in service, but on April 8, 1945, both of their lives would be changed forever. His plane went down and he went missing in action that day on an island in the Philippines. The pilot was a Texas Aggie, but at the time, she’d not known much of that school before. Her beloved had served in the Bomber Squadron and was awarded the Air Medal and the Purple Heart, both of which were delivered to his parents up north. His name was listed on the “Tablets of the Missing at Manila American Cemetery, Manila, Philippines.”
Missing in action. No body to bury. No proof of non-life or verification of death. The devastating news of his passing was doubled in the not knowing truly “if,” or “when,” or “how” it had happened. She knew deep in her heart, though, that he was gone. Her grief was private and yet something happened to her faith in God that day. A good person was taken from all of their lives and she didn’t understand the “why,” and all she cared was that she hurt in a way she’d never hurt before in her life.
Ten years later she would meet and marry a gentleman in Texas, where she’d relocated, and they’d have one child and the marriage would end after less than a decade. The child would end up going to school at Texas A&M, deciding after all the freshman scholarships had been awarded, having always intended to go elsewhere for the four years of high school. One of those last-minute, life-changing decisions, the mother had sold her home and relocated to an apartment locally to help provide a home for the child, who was then in the midst of applying for loans, grants, and campus employment to attend a school that beckoned as a place where dreams could come true, eventually, after a lot of time and hard work.
That first week, the mother had seen in “The Eagle” that the monthly Silver Taps service would occur that Tuesday night on campus. She suggested the newest Aggie should attend to become quickly immersed and acculturated, even volunteering to go with. It was a phenomenally moving ceremony where the students gathered solemnly, the Ross Volunteers marched in, stood ready, aimed, and fired in salute to the lives lost that preceding month. The crowd paid tribute to the names read aloud, taking in each one. One name was read aloud and chills ran through both mother and child.
An Aggie named “Family name, the Third” had died and was being remembered that night. It was the son of the best friend of the mother’s fiancé-elect; they’d all known each other from the days at the northern university. Those college best friends had married and had a son, who was his father’s namesake, with a name so distinct there was never a chance that any other son in the country would bear ‘that’ name. The IIIrd had earned his Ph.D. at A&M and now, some 30 years later, his life was already over, and that was the only information to go on. Memories welled up in the now mature woman, as she stood there stunned in disbelief at what she’d heard.
Touched by the passing of a child she’d never met, born to parents she was once so very close with, was another turning point in her life. She’d already had her faith in God restored when a new young child, her niece, was born not long after she’d lost her fiancé. Seeing the beautiful young life in her parents’ home (her brother was still in active duty), she decided to love and trust and give her niece all of her heart and she became healed. Who knew that after all this time her past world of once idyllic youthful dreams would intersect with the ‘here and now’ of loss, again, that very night?
She relocated to the town where her child was attending Texas A&M and soon found work, and one of her coworkers was a young lady who was in her first career employment after high school. The younger friend was smart, witty, fun, and in need of a mentor about how the world of business worked in large offices. She adopted the young woman as her own, a mentoree, and they became great friends. For many years after her retirement they stayed in touch, and the story of the young man who’d once captured the elder’s heart had never been discussed until one day, out of the blue, the story was shared. The young friend said, “You know the pilot’s name who was an Aggie? They have a Former Student’s Directory and Association and they could help you find him. You should give them a call.”
With nothing to lose, the mother called the Association of Former Students and found the address in Texas for the Aggie, the pilot of the plane that had carried her navigator on his crew. She dialed, he answered and a private conversation began that day that revealed, as she described, a “closure and healing” for her loss some thirty years prior. The pilot described in detail what had happened, where, and how they’d all searched for the body of her fiancé, to no avail. Just hearing the story of the final day of his life, from one who was there, brought her peace. Words, simple, honest, factual truths, the relating of history from one person to another, healed thirty years of pain.
Thirty more years later, the mother was living with her child in the weeks leading up to her eventual end of life. Her young mentoree came to pay a visit for what would be the mother’s final birthday. When the young mentoree arrived, it was now as one of the most accomplished and successful young career women (now a wife, mother, and grandmother) in the city of Bryan. She arrived smiling and bearing a small scroll of paper, secured with a beautiful red ribbon. Graciously she presented it to the woman who’d adopted her like her very own and taken her under her wing some 30 years before.
The mother had no idea what was on the scroll. Gently she slid the scroll out from under the ribbon and opened it. It was two sheets of laser paper, one a beautiful military service memento, and the other a printout from an Internet web site that hosted a high school classroom Memorial Day project in a state up north. Students there were studying former students of that high school who had served their country and lost their lives in so doing.
His photograph was there, the face of her once fiancé, a thumbnail-sized photo, but clear as day in black and white. His name, and facts of his childhood were there. His high school activities and honors, the clubs he belonged to, the list of all the service activities he performed in school, Boys’ State distinction and academic honors were all chronicled. She’d never known those things before; those conversations had never taken place.
The date of his death, when he went missing in action, was recorded and the names of the two 11th grade students who’d done the research was provided, and credit given to the local newspaper entry dated May 2, 1945, that had run news of his passing was listed.
As the mother looked into the eyes of her younger friend, both were crying tears of joy. More closure, thanks to words preserved in a time-capsule-like format, accidentally discovered by fortuitous happenstance, based on a simple random conversation, by a friend who’d entered her life some three decades later. Closure came, healing came and peace arrived for the mother as a tremendous, unexpected surprise. Two years later, the mother breathed her final breath of life on Earth. She was at peace; her work on Earth had been done.
Her beloved was “Missing in Action” no longer. Joy, hope, and faith would see her through on toward the afterlife, all thanks to a love story that had come together in a divine manner, concluding with the last words, “The End.” And so it was, and so it shall be, ever on.
Sharing your stories just like this one is now just one more way in which the Callaway-Jones family now offers you an additional way to preserve your legacy for generations to come. Let them know who you are, who you were, and how the lives they’re leading now are either very similar or very different to yours. Our family now has a Certified Life Tribute Specialist on our staff who can work with you to compile and produce your stories, just like this one, of the most important people in your life—friends and family alike.
We will ask you, “How will you be remembered?” and you can tell us. Together, we craft the story to last past your lifetime, the final gift you can leave to those you leave behind. We’ll preserve, safeguard, and share with loving care, your heart, in helping you create some of your priceless memories for generations to come. You have my word on it.
Cody D. Jones ‘02
Owner and Local Community Member
