Immediately after graduating high school, having obtained my EMT license while in high school, I spent my days in the back of an Ambulance. At 19, I was too young to be a driver, but I also had 6 years of experience in emergency medical services with the volunteer fire department at this point, so I was perfectly comfortable “in the back.” I spent most of my time transporting people to and from their treatments for cancer and kidney failure, living a few hours a day for a number of months with each of them. I listened. I cared. We prayed. Most stories here didn’t have a happy ending.
One day I showed up for a new patient, Mr. Henderson. We’d take about a 45 minute drive for his treatments. One day, as we were talking, he mentioned that he was a World War II veteran. We started talking about an old WWII flight jacket that I had inherited from a family friend, which was hand painted with the nose art from his B-24 bomber “Double Trouble.” His eyes lit up, and he said he would like to see it sometime.
The next time I was scheduled to transport Mr. Henderson, I brought the jacket, and stored it under my bench. On the way home, I told Mr. Henderson that I had something to show him. I pulled out the jacket, unfolded it so that the back was visible, and tears began filling his eyes. He reached out to touch it with his hand, as if I had pulled a ghost from under my seat. He held on to it for a while and cried. I have to say it wasn’t the reaction I was expecting.
Then he looked at me and literally forced the words out of his mouth, “Those flyboys saved our lives. I knew they were up there, but I never even got to meet any of them. They saved us.” Mr. Henderson thanked me, and after that he began telling me about his experiences as an infantryman in WWII during our trips. He wasn’t just any soldier. He was an African American, assigned to a segregated all “colored unit.” The amazing thing was that his first battle was fighting to even FIGHT for his country, because the military would not let blacks go to combat. He described the lack of training for his unit, and the awful treatment they received.
He told me about the first night in theatre, the fear, getting shot at, and having very little ammunition to return fire into the blackness in front of him. He knew they were sent to die…set up to die. Some in his unit ran off, disappearing into the night and deserting the unit, never to be seen again. Still, he loved his country, he fought for us, he was proud to serve his country, and made it home.
It took years before I realized the significance of who he was, and the stories he told me. Mr. Henderson taught me that no matter how many times someone tells you “No,” some things are worth fighting for. He also taught me what unconditional love of one’s country is. For that, I am thankful.
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