Published: May 31, 2006 04:46 pm            

A PROMISE FULFILLED

Editor’s note:

• This column was originally planned to publish memorial day weekend. Due to technical problems, The Evening News and The Tribune could not publish the column until today.



On a warm June day in 1944, Charles Buczinski, a sergeant in the U.S. Army Air Corps, climbed aboard a B-17 bomber.

He made his way to his seat and went through the normal preflight procedures. The pilot waited his turn and then taxied the bomb-laden plane to the runway. As the wheels cleared the tarmac, Charlie settled in for the long flight.

As the English countryside faded from sight some of the crew tried to rest. Others, I’m sure, passed the time thinking about family and friends far away. It’s safe to say a quiet prayer or two was probably said. Everyone on board was keenly aware of the danger of long-run bombing missions.

Although the Allied landings in France a few weeks earlier had been successful, the Germans still controlled most of Europe. The German troops were battle-hardened, well-equipped and determined to defend their empire. Charlie, nor the rest of the crew, had anyway of knowing — as their plane sliced through the skies over Holland — that in a few moments they would all be dead.

My Dad and Charlie were family of sorts. Charlie’s mother was my father’s Godmother. That may seem insignificant in today’s culture, but in the Polish Catholic community of Housatonic, Mass., it was an important relationship. Parents carefully chose a person with similar backgrounds and values that they could trust to raise their child if they were not able. Charlie’s mother and my father would remain in touch throughout the rest of her life.

Charlie and Dad grew up in the picturesque Berkshire mountains. Norman Rockwell would immortalize the area and its people in his illustrations for the Saturday Evening Post. It was small-town America at its best.

December 7, 1941, changed everything. America would never be the same. Housatonic — like countless cities and towns throughout America — would send sons off to war. Charlie joined the Army Air Corps. Like his father — who had distinguished himself as a soldier in World War I — he was anxious to serve his country. My father would soon be in the army as well.

The war would go on for four long years. Five hundred thousand Americans would die but ultimately the Allies would prevail. Germany and Japan would be defeated.

Adolf Hitler’s 1,000-year Reich had lasted but 13 years. Hitler was dead and Germany in ruins. Japan’s vast armada that had attacked Pearl Harbor and ruled the Pacific lay at the bottom of the ocean. Peace, at least for awhile, returned to the world.

In 1946, my father was among the millions of soldiers returning home. He had been trained at Fort Knox, Ky., plucked from an armored division, much to his disappointment and sent to an ordnance unit in England. He spent the last years of the war repairing damaged vehicles brought back from the front.

When he returned home he married, went to college on the G.I. bill and started a family. In time his work would bring him to the old Naval Ordnance Station in Louisville.

As fate would have it, Charlie had also come to Louisville. In the fall of 1950, he and his crew were buried in a common grave at the Zachary Taylor National Cemetery. Here he would rest eternally on American soil with the five other men who had climbed aboard that ill-fated plane on June 28, 1944.

Charlie’s mother had always hoped that we would visit her son’s grave. Our intentions were good, but our follow-through lacking. Occasionally, his name would come up in family conversations and we would reiterate our need to search out and visit the grave of Dad’s old friend. Time marched on. Charlie’s mother died and we once again chastised ourselves for our failure.

Years later, I finally found myself at the office of the Zachary Taylor National Cemetery. It’s a peaceful, well-kept place. The staff was very helpful, quietly aware of the importance of those in their charge. A week later, we took Dad to fulfill a long-overdue promise.

Finally, on a warm spring Sunday, Dad and Charlie were reunited. It had been more than 60 years since they had been together. My father stood quietly by his boyhood friend’s grave. I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt his thoughts with my questions. This was his time and I probably wouldn’t be able to understand anyway.

I can only imagine what he might have been thinking.

Perhaps, his mind wandered back to those carefree prewar days in Massachusetts. Days spent with his family and friends. A time when life seemed limitless and the future his for the taking.

Maybe his thoughts went back to war time England, surrounded by the English people worn down by years of war and relentless bombings. In England, he had watched Allied bombers bound for Germany fill the skies. Here he had watched anxiously as crippled planes struggled to make it back to their bases.

I’m sure he thought of the long full life he had lived. A life with a family, friends and a career. Sure, there had been good times and bad. Life has its ups and downs. But it had been a good life. He had to think of all the things that Charlie had missed. His friend had died way too young. The long row of crosses in the cemetery were a reminder that he was not the only one.

No one knows how fate decides who ends up in harms way. There seems to be no rhyme or reason. One life is lost, another one lived. The ageless question remains unanswered: Why one lives while another dies.

So this Memorial day, I’ll pause for a moment or two to think about the men and women that have defended our great nation. I’ll think about how fortunate we are to live in a country where we are free. I’ll remind myself of the terrible price that has been paid for our freedom.

Then I’ll say a little prayer for a brave young man who climbed into an airplane and flew away.

        

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