Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

There is a multi-awarded country song, written by Jamey Johnson and Bill Anderson, with a line about two soldiers in World War II in a black and white photo: “You can’t see what those shades of gray keep covered; You should have seen it in color.”

Last week, I was going through a drawer when I found a black and white photo faded, particularly around the corners. It pictured eight Navy men in a port somewhere in the South Pacific. A couple were shirtless but all were dirty and sweaty. Their arms were slung around each other and, despite the seriousness of war, they were grinning. In front is one who is dressed in a wrinkled, deep green shirt and matching wide-legged pants. He is wearing the Navy’s signature white hat and his smile is crooked.

That one is my daddy, a man who was always fiercely proud of his service to his country, though it meant two years of separation from his wife and communication only through irregular mail.

He was a man of the mountains who had never been too far away from the Appalachians. He finally had a decent job in town, away from the hills. Yet, he didn’t wait for the war to find him, he found it and signed up. It would be 30 years before Mama knew he volunteered and wasn’t drafted.

I flipped through a tiny book labeled “Autographs” and read the notes of other sailors. “Keep giving your mountain advice,” one had written. “This Brooklyn boy learned a lot from you.”

“I think the world of you even if you did cut my hair too dang short.” Daddy earned extra money by cutting hair, cooking for the officers and pressing their uniforms.

Back home, Mama was doing the same. She took in sewing, ironing and cleaned houses. On the ship, Daddy used the extra money whenever he was in port and sent his pay check home to Mama. She spent not a dime. She lived on the income from her various jobs.

When Daddy came home, he was surprised by how much he saved.

He bought a gas station – Amoco, always – and went to work: pumping gas and “mechanicing.”

I read more comments, names and where they met. “I’ll never forget meeting you on that cracker box, the USS SC in Pearl Harbor.”

I had never heard Daddy mention being in Pearl Harbor.

Oh, but I had heard plenty about New Caledonia, Iwo Jima, Guam and other South Pacific islands. He was on a submarine chaser that was called into a big battle that would prove to be one of the U.S.’ most critical wins as they faced down a fearless Japanese fleet. Daddy’s ship arrived toward the end of the battle but they were to celebrate joyously the turning point in the Pacific Theater with the American fleet’s decisive win.

While at work out in the Pacific, a leak developed on his ship – never call it a boat or a lecture spring forth – it was a slow leak but they headed to the nearest port for repair, which was days away. Of course, there was no cooking to be done so they survived on the only canned food they had: pineapple.

“Almost two weeks of nothin’ but pineapple. I haven’t eaten one since and I won’t ever eat another one.”

He didn’t.

About six months ago, I ran across his honorable discharge papers which listed five medals he had been awarded. I had never heard of or seen any medals. Neither had any of my family.

He served his country not his self.

There is a photo of Daddy, in his uniform and hat, with a fellow sailor in a photography studio. Their arms are slung over each other’s shoulders and they are grinning.

Though the pencil writing has disappeared, the photo is in color that has held up quite well.

Why color then? The war had ended.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the Stella Bankwell Mystery Series. Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.