Awaiting “That” Generation
From: James Algiers
Subject: Awaiting That Generation
Date: September 16, 2010 at 10:23:20 PM CDT
To: Louis
Dear Louie,
A letter to you with a question that’s been asked over and over… when are we going to get it? When will there be peace in the world? Perhaps you’ll remember some of the characters I talk about below.
Awaiting That Generation
One of my earliest memories of school at St. Kilian grade school was an Armistice Day speech by a man named Geo Kolb, who had been a soldier in World War 1, known at that time in 1934 as the “War to End All Wars.” Each November 11th at 11 o’clock, the town whistles would blow, the lights would dim and for a minute or so all would recall the ending of the first war of the world. Programs would be held at each grade school, the North Side School, the South Side School, and St. Kilian’s School. A musical program of one hour of patriotic songs would be held at the High School. At 11 a.m. a minute of silence would be observed throughout the city, in the stores, the shops, and on the streets. The moment was universal, the hope eternal.
George Kolb, who later became the county services officer, was a good speaker and he gained the attention of the students at St. Kilian School. All in the small auditorium, were quiet for the program and most attentive. In the days before slide shows and DVD presentations, attention was gained by the enthusiasm of the speaker and the context of the speech. Mr. Kolb was enthusiastic and knowledgeable of the events which had occurred on Nov. 11, 1918 when a truce was declared ending the slaughter of four years.
The last sentence of the speech in 1934, given to the students, was a dramatic plea to us to be a better generation than that of our parents. Our parents’ generation had committed to the fighting and deaths of the European Campaign, a campaign which saw the deaths of thousands of our soldiers and millions of English, French, German, Austro Hungarian, and Italian soldiers and civilians. The Russians had fought, capitulated, and were, for that moment, spared the slaughter which would come later. He pleaded with us to become interested in a better world, and pledge to have a peaceful life. We listened, and were impressed.
But as the subsequent years from 1934 to the present have demonstrated we, and the subsequent generations, have been most unsuccessful as war after war has killed and destroyed throughout the world. His pleading for active participation in the cry for peace has been for naught as the past 80 years have seen one conflagration after another. No one living has ben spared heart ache and loss; many and at times most of a generation’s sons have left home and trained and fought for homeland on distant shores. So many have never returned and as the methods of destruction have increased, the heartaches of mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, friends and lovers have become nearly unbearable. Each of us has been touched in many ways and at many times. I would like to recall a number of personal losses which still affect me.
As a sophomore in high school I ran the mile; not very fast, but I ran. And as I ran I watched the backside of a runner from West Bend, an athlete who was superb, who was a class act in running and who showed promise in living. He was pleasant, a lot of fun, and who looked forward to running for the University of Wisconsin after graduation. We spoke at each meet, we ran, and he won. I watched him from the running pack, I watched as he pulled away, ran to his daylight. I admired him, envied him, and looked forward to seeing him at the meets. At the last meet he stated he had been drafted, and running would have to wait until after the war. It was 1943. He entered, was assigned to the tank core and died in the summer of 1944, during June, the month I entered the navy. I have often wondered what his life would have been. Where was the generation of peace?
From 1932 until 1944, I attended St. Kilian School and Hartford High School. In my class, for 12 years was a boy from the country; he lived two miles west of town, we became friends for each school year and acquaintances on Friday night on Main Street. He was a bright kid, and somewhat of a mathematician; he showed promise and he desired to go to college. The draft came and went. The war was over, and he had no money for college. He farmed, thought of school, but stayed on the farm.
In 1950 the Korean conflict drew from another draft pool, and Leander was drafted. He went to Korea, became a sergeant in the Medical core, and was killed attending a wounded soldier - shot through the Red Cross on his helmet, just a few days before his planned discharge, just before the “Armistice” of Korea. He was killed, and all the promise of school, college, and medical school went with the bullet to the Red Cross target on his helmet. I was sickened. I was in Medical School when his death occurred and looked at the empty chair in the lecture hall thinking of Leander filling the spot in a subsequent class. He was worthy of a chance to live his dream, a dream we had spoken of many Friday nights on Main Street.
Over the next number of years, over the next generation, a generation without peace, another generation of war, or peace actions, or whatever, the great extended conflict of Vietnam occurred, lasted for years, was waged each night on television; we learned of the daily body count, and saw the Napalm Bombs , heard of “agent orange” and were frustrated. The bodies came home, were buried, and the population grew, developed new problems, and blanked out the conflict.
I was practicing medicine in Hartford during those years and it was in the emergency room that I met a returned veteran from Vietnam. He presented a new type of loss caused by the war of the era. He was a problem, he was misunderstood by his neighbors, friends and relatives. He did not understand his actions, he became a misfit in society. He became a cast off. He became lost. He would show up in the emergency room late at night, on Sunday morning, Saturday night, and most anytime. He ranted and raved, created a problem and would storm out of the department after creating havoc. No one could understand his actions.
One Saturday afternoon he arrived at the E. R. and performed his usual antics. I was on call and after trying to come to some understanding with him, I suggested he be admitted and we could interview him for an extended time. That extended time was three hours during which he finally revealed his demonic problems.
He had been drafted into the army, was sent to Vietnam, spent six months in Saigon where he was introduced to drugs and alcohol, sex and entertainment. After that introduction he was transferred to the front area of activity and assigned to the “Graves Register’s Office.” It became his sentence to patrol the jungles after a conflict and search out remains of bodies in the hot insect infected pits of hell in the jungle. He spent six months doing this retrieval work, used drugs and alcohol liberally and contracted hepatitis B. He was transferred to Japan where street entertainment was available and then transferred home and discharged. His life here in Washington County continued to deteriorate and he became irascible. He drank constantly to free his mind from the memories and to refrain from thoughts of family, friends, and life’s rewards. He talked continuously of his “Demons,” of his life, and its ruins. After this confession of two to three hours, he agreed to hospitalization at the Veterans Hospital. He eventually was treated and has made a great life for himself and his family.
These three stories, two deaths of promising young members of society and the story of the “demons” of warfare, bear out the reasons why Mr. Kolb, so long ago searched for the generation to end all wars by seeking and working for peace. He searched, and asked the students to dedicate their lives to the search. He was disappointed with subsequent history and the students to whom he spoke have been equally disappointed as we have lived out our lives for the past 70 years.
So many lives have been lost, so much sorrow has existed in the world, and still we are no closer to “that generation” of peacemakers. Will we ever find “That Generation?” I doubt it, and I still mourn for my three friends , lost in the conflicts of old and fear for those of the future.
Perhaps our generation should have tried harder when Mr. Kolb asked for our commitment for peace.
What do you think, Louie… will this generation be able to figure it out? I sure hope so.
Until then, all we can do is Keep the Faith, my friend.
Jim.
*This letter is also available on video.
