Some are also giants

A___M A N___N A M E D___M I C H A E L 

A man departed this mortal coil a few days ago, a man of many descriptions, many qualities, a well-faceted man, although that description might have baffled him, for he was also a plain and simple man. He was a husband, a father and a grandfather, and a friend. He greeted me warmly, and sincerely, welcoming me into his family, as his “dog-face buddy”, an honor hard to describe, but tremendous in its acceptance, in its warmth and meaning. As the wit once said, “There are no atheists in foxholes,” a phrase easy to comprehend, for those who have stood at the edge of the abyss and looked downward. There are no cowards in foxholes either, no false friends, no back-stabbers, no whackos or sickos. No sir, in the foxholes of any battlefield are found only those who have had to come to terms with the tenuous hold we have on life and the fact that it might very easily be snatched from our grasp at any future moment. This does not mean that every person in a foxhole is a hero, an Audie Murphy or Rambo, defying death as he heroically deals it out. In truth, most of the “heroes” of any battle were those who simply followed orders and did their best, accepting whatever fate handed them, usually scared stiff, but unwilling to let fear rule them. When called upon, the average man can rise to meet almost any challenge, and frequently does. By acknowledging my own service in VietNam as equal to his own in the fields of France and Germany, Michael Springer saluted me, another “dogface”, from a different war. That gesture went a long, long way to undo the way I felt about how I had been treated when I returned from that benighted place. These days it is de rigeur for people, frequently absolute strangers, to volubly “thank” those returning from Iraq and Afghanistan, these days, for their “service”, a far cry from the silence that had greeted me, and those of my friends who did return from the killing fields of Southeast Asia. I only heard of GI’s being called “baby killers” on TV, and any fool stupid enough to actually spit on any one of us was in certain danger of learning what a “killing machine” the US Army had really made of us. Nevertheless, there was no confetti-strewn parades for us, no “thank you for your service”, no warm regards for our futures. When Mike shook my hand and whispered those words, he made me feel as if I had finally come home, as if a weight had lifted away, and the hypocrisy of an earlier age were as insignificant and unimportant as I had always thought, but couldn’t quite convince myself of believing. That was Mikes “style”, as it turned out, to set others at ease, to offer a hand or a smile, where needed. I am certain he had his flaws, as do we all, but he had the lesser variety of the ills that afflict most of humanity. He aspired to work hard and do his best, to pay his bills and love those who mattered to him, simple pleasures for an uncomplicated man. It’s too bad there aren’t a lot more like him; the world might not be in the sad shape it is, were there a majority with his failings, instead of the millions of greedy, self-centered sorts we have to cope with, or even those like me, who think they know what is wrong with everyone else, and are blind to their own, my own, failings. Mike shared many of my own jaundiced views of those who aspire to political office, expecting them to be working for us, not for their own personal benefit, as they do, to a man, and a woman, unfortunately. We agreed on the shortcomings of those in power, the meaningless chatter they thought of as “powerful rhetoric”, the cupidity of campaign promises used only to further the career of career politicians. Although I only knew him for a matter of 3 years, and saw him in person for less than two weeks, on two trips back to his home in Detroit, Michael Springer left a powerful impression on my life, one that will last the rest of mine. Real “heroes” are like that, they affect the world around them far more than they are affected. It is one of the ways we can recognize them, usually after they have left this “vale of tears”, as my sainted grandmother called our passage across time, on the Earth. What follows is my goodbye to this hero, Sgt Michael Springer, US Army, 1942--1946.

E L E G Y F O R A D O G - F A C E B U D D Y Some men are giants, regardless of their physical size or the money they have amassed. Some touch the lives of those who pass by, leaving a memory to last long after the initial contact. These are the men who make the world a better place, simply by their being here, to show the rest of us how it should be done. Mike honored me by accepting me into the cadre of those he loved best, into his family, and into the group of his “dogface buddies”. While the sound of that honor may not seem like much, to me it was a badge of acceptance and camaraderie to be worn with honor. By these few words, he reached out and touched that part of me long since hidden from the rest of the world. He touched the part of my heart that had been shut down, closed off and boarded up. What he experienced in his war was certainly different from what I went through in my own, but we were alike in ways unknown to all others. Only those who have spent a lonely night in a foxhole in some backwater part of the world can ever know the what all “dogfaces” have known, over the years; the reliance one must have in one’s friends, by placing your life in their hands, as they place theirs in yours, we become brethren in a way stronger than mere familial ties. I think he knew and felt this above all, that we might not have fought the most important battle, but by being there it became as important as any battle, anywhere. I know he served honorably, demonstrating the courage required by the times. He did his duty and came home, to take up the duties of peace time. In that, he did just as he had done in wartime--he did his duty to the best of his ability. Like so many before, and after, he understood the duties of a man and a father. He took his responsibilities in stride, always doing his best and keeping his faith. These are the same qualities that made being his “dogface buddy” an honor, for it is such things men do that make them special, that make them “heroes”, doing what needs to be done, regardless of danger or difficulty, without excuses. To do less would have been as unlike him as would have been for him to run in the face of the enemy--something he would not have done, for any reason. It doesn’t take knowing someone for a long time to know the basics of their character; some cannot be trusted, some will never let you down. Mike was a stellar member of the latter group, a man to “ride the river” with, a man to carry his share of the load and not complain, a man who would stand by his friends and stand up to any bully, an American, a “hero”, a “dad”, a loving husband and a very good man. I will miss him, for the rest of my own life… Bruce