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In Remembrance-Veteran’s Day

10 Friday Nov 2023

Posted by in Memory Keeping

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My siblings and I were born after WWII and as young children we never knew or understand the real significance of the war to our father nor to the country he defended. It was not until we were older that we grasped its import to yesterday and today’s world.  While studying history in school, reading books about the war, viewing documentaries or watching movies, our education of this event grew exponentially as we grew older. We rarely heard our father’s very personal stories and experiences; he shared few. 

We knew he was a paratrooper with the 513 Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 17th Airborne Division. He earned a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star. The 17th Airborne Division, known as “The Golden Talons-Thunder from Heaven” activated on 15 April 1943 after training at Camp Mackall, North Carolina. The Division was under the command of Major General William Miley, and they arrived in the United Kingdom on August 24, 1944. Our father was nineteen years old. 

As a young soldier he participated in the Battle of the Bulge in the Ardennes Region of Belgium. Winston Churchill referred to this as the “greatest American battle of the war.” On December 23, 1944, the division was flown to France by emergency night flights and moved to an area near Rheims under the command of General George Patton’s US Third Army. On Christmas Day the division was ordered to take a thirty-mile defensive position running along the Meuse River near Charleville, France. The 17th Airborne Division also participated in Operation Varsity, during which he and fellow soldiers were dropped behind German lines near the town of Hamminkeln, Germany. The orders were to capture the city. 

We knew he encountered Nazis and most probably killed or wounded some, but he never discussed that part of the war. Once when I was older he quietly described what happened to paratroopers who landed in a tree-alive or dead-and were discovered by Germans. The details were scarce, the horrors were loud and clear. 

We also knew he had a war trophy because he showed it to us. War trophies were common then and included many items, both legal and illegal. Soldiers were allowed much leeway in taking home property that belonged to the enemy. Today, there are strict rules in place regarding war trophies.

His war trophy was a large Nazi flag with a large Swastika in the middle. He either secured it after liberating or conquering a city. We do not know. As children we would drag the flag into the living room, spread it out over the floor, and jump up and down on it screaming “Bad Nazis, bad Nazis.” My memories of this are somewhat vague, but I do remember the size and the stark brightness of the flag’s colors. I understood, while somewhat naively, that Nazis represented evil and unjust crucifixion against people who were different; to this day the hatred by Nazis continues and is still seen across the world in the news and other digital communications invoking a shock wave similar to that which traveled throughout Europe and the West under Hitler’s reign. 

Eventually our father  donated the flag to the Evansville Museum of Arts and Sciences, which sat on the banks of the Ohio River in downtown Evansville. I remember seeing it once on display with other items from the war, but it is likely no longer on display. After he earned an Honorable Discharge, he came home to Kentucky, married our mother and began a family. In the early 50s he moved to Evansville to raise a family. He had four children and five grandchildren. Today he has six great-grandchildren he never met. He would have loved each and every one of them. 

For the rest of his life, he chose to never fly in an airplane. On Father’s Day in 2012, his son BQ, and grandson Evan, jumped from an airplane with parachutes-in-tandem to celebrate Father’s Day and honor his memory. My brother jumped with a picture of our father in uniform in his pocket as he skydived into the clouds. My brother described it as one of the most amazing events in his life because he was with his father on the way down to earth. 

Unless you stand in the shoes of a soldier, you cannot possibly understand the motivation to be a soldier, the loyalty, dedication, and strength it requires to be one, nor the pain and suffering endured during and after combat. On this Veteran’s Day, let us remember those who have sacrificed their lives through service or death. Thank them for their service, as we thank our beloved father for his. Always in our hearts. We hear your “Thunder in Heaven.”

Sissy, Sudi, BQ and Yordi.

In Honor and Memory of Pvc. Allen Reid Strange

513 Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 17th Airborne Division. 

Born February 3, 1925-Died April 21, 2005

80 years old 

Shaving somewhere in the Ardenne Region of Belgium

Third from left, top row

Pvc. Allen Reid Strange

Military Time

21 Friday Sep 2012

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I learned the lesson of “Put your best foot forward” very early in life. As a child of a WWII veteran, who served his country bravely and proudly, I understood the importance of literally putting my best foot forward, front and center, polished and shined. No pair of shoes in our house went unpolished for very long.  It didn’t matter if the shoes were old or new, they received a spit and polish on a regular basis. Usually on a Sunday night, Daddy carefully lined up all the shoes on the floor as he set out to do his duty.  At the end of his task, every shoe could have passed the scrutiny of any officer, in any branch of the military. He had his shoeshine kit, which was nothing more than an old shoebox filled with the necessary equipment, stored and ready for use.  The easily recognizable Kiwi shoe polish in its circular tin of dark and bronze colors for both black and brown shoes was the mainstay of his kit. There was also the liquid version of Kiwi white polish for those two small pairs of my sister and my white summer shoes or the baby shoes for the toddler who was taking first steps. Vaseline was on hand for any patent leather shoes, a multitude of old socks, and brushes completed the array. White cotton socks abandoned somehow in the washer, dryer, or one, which sported a hole in the toe or heel often, ended up in Daddy’s shoebox.

He used one of the discarded socks, which he placed over one hand to spread the polish, and then slipped his bare hand into the shoe just like a foot, entering the open space inside. He religiously pressed his sock-covered fingers into the semi-soft polish and worked his magic. After he applied polish of varying colors to all of the shoes, he waited for five or ten minutes so the polish could sink into the leather. Then he started back at the front of the line to begin the shining process.  He used another sock, the polishing sock, to release the dullness of the polish and transform the leather to its new life of luster. His hand moved rapidly back and forth against the top, the sides, the heel and the tips of the shoes, leaving one newly shined area to tackle the next polish-laden part of the shoe. He continued his work until he was satisfied with the product, carefully laying the shoe back in its place, which resided quietly next to its partner. When all of the shoes were polished, he instructed us to come get them to put them away. As we picked up our shoes, he cautioned us to place our hands inside the shoes as we picked them up and not to touch the leather “just yet.”

That simple ritual of my childhood remains with me today. I have my own shoeshine kit, with the proverbial Kiwi polish of black, brown, navy and red. Vaseline and unmatched, abandoned socks are part of that kit, as those occupants await their duty, in their designated spot in my closet. Boots, high heels, flats and loafers. I hate to admit how many pairs of shoes I own, knowing that the number is greater than my mother or father ever owned in their lives. But, what I can tell you is that those shoes and boots are neatly stacked, in their boxes, on the shelves, inside my closet. Not one pair is scuffed or dull. In this and in many other ways, I learned to put my best foot forward, always. And, my shoes and I know that a man of honor, courage and duty is responsible for that gift.