Dad and Pooch…..

Recently, a second cousin of mine reached out and shared a couple of stories about her dad (my cousin Pooch) and my dad. This is one of those stories.

It was Late May, 1944, and World War II had been going on for awhile. Dad, who had joined the Army in 1940, was home on furlough from the Army. He was severely wounded in Sicily in August of ’43, and after recovering in North Africa, this was his first trip home. His body was scarred, and his recovery still wasn’t 100%. In fact, he hadn’t been cleared to go back to combat duty.

Dad was staying at his folks home, and it was a pretty big deal and everyone wanted to see him. My Aunt Ellen (also known as ‘The Head Pecker’, but that’s another story) came by bus from Southern Illinois to stay, and brought along her son Pooch, who was 10 years old.

At the time, dad was 19 years old, so while older than Pooch, they weren’t that far apart, and during the day, they would hang out some together. As a matter of fact, dad started taking Pooch with him when he walked to a local swimming hole, known as Blackhawk Beach, a few miles away. Everyday they would walk there, swim for several hours, and then walk home. 

 My Aunt Ellen couldn’t understand why a “grown man” would want to spend so much time with his nephew.   One day she asked why he took Pooch with him everyday, and if Pooch was bothering him. If he was, she would stop it. Dad smiled. He said “No, he’s not bothering me. Actually, I’m using him for bait”. Aunt Ellen looked at him quizzically, and Dad started to laugh, and then explained. “Pooch is so cute, I’m using him to attract the pretty girls at the beach”.

The trips to the beach continued, until one day in June. Pooch was ready to go to the beach, and found dad pacing back and forth in front of the radio. It was June 6th, 1944 and the D-Day invasion had started. Reports were coming in, and dad was talking to himself. He was trying to figure out the status of his old unit, and was concerned about the guys he knew. He also didn’t know that his brother, my Uncle Mick, would be landing with the Navy at one of the Normandy beaches on June 7th, delivering supplies.  

They didn’t walk to the beach together that day, or ever again.

Dad ended his furlough the next day and had to walk to the bus station to head back to Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Everyone wanted to go to the terminal with him to say goodbye, as they didn’t know when or if they would see him again. Dad wouldn’t allow it. He didn’t want a big scene at the terminal, and so told his mother and his sisters that they all had to stay home. But not Pooch. Pooch walked with Dad to the terminal. At the station, they said their goodbyes. Dad got on the bus and made his way to Fort Bragg. Pooch, a little man at 10 years old, cried all the way home, because he knew there was a chance his Uncle Bill wouldn’t be coming back.

 When I think back to that June of ’44, I see a relationship between an uncle and a nephew that came to be that of two brothers. They stayed close over the years, even though they were often miles apart. When dad died six years ago, Pooch traveled from Arizona to pay his respects. To quote my cousin Jan “Uncle Bill went out of his way to take care of my dad when he was a young boy. He was one of his heroes”.