CHAPTER 20--GRANDPA JOE

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emember how your mother had shared those letters her father had written while serving in World War II? How impressed I was with his courage, his bravery, how he tried to blow off the fact that he was in any danger. Remember how he said: "The only bright spot is the fact that I am doing something that may contribute to the safety of my loved ones. I think I know how both you and Marilyn feel and I am sure that you too will be good soldiers."

Or, how after months of having his hopes dashed that he would stay behind doing administrative work, or go to officers school and join special services as an entertainer, he found himself on the front lines, and the whole time he made light of it.

Sitting here in a foxhole somewhere in France, it's difficult to believe that I am so far away from you and the duchess. My thoughts of both of you shorten that distance and each memory brings me closer to home. I feel fine, honey, and I don't want you to worry about me. I have a comfortable foxhole and sleep well.

Wasn't it ironic, Queen that we always called him Grandpa Joe, even though the image of him always was that of a handsome, scrawny, 33-year-old Jewish male going off the serve his country? He never had the chance to grow into the old man that connotes "grandpa ness."

And for me, somehow what he'd done made it seem all right that I was going over to serve in Vietnam. If Grandpa Joe was courageous enough, then I could be too. It didn't matter that I didn't quite understand what Vietnam was, or why we were there. The only thing that mattered was that Grandpa Joe would have been proud of the man who married his granddaughter.

Now, with the Vietnam experience behind me, and a fuller understanding of both wars, now matter how much I learned to deplore the military, your grandfather's words, the army he served in, the cause he fought for, in my mind, as far as I could see belonged to a different time. I mean, back then our country was united about something, for the most part. We had to stop the tyranny. And were defending the homeland. With Jews being slaughtered by the thousands, this Jew, Grandpa Joe, left behind the safety and sanctuary of America, never to return, never to set foot back on American soil, to die-not a victim of the holocaust; but as someone who helped topple the Third Reich-because it was what had to be done.

And I admired him for that.

After a few months in Vietnam I wasn't even sure who the enemy was anymore. And one thing I'm sure of: Grandpa Joe didn't roam the French countryside looking for French peasants to kill. It was hard for me to imagine anyone writing about our experience in Vietnam the way he wrote about World War II. And yet, that is why I went so eagerly.

On our ride to our present destination, we passed numerous French villages, and if you think back to the Long Beach earthquake in 1938, you can almost visualize how these villages look. Practically nothing left of them. The buildings that are standing have large gaping holes in them. It is amazing how accurate our Air Force and Artillery are. Even as I sit here, our fighters roar overhead, flying their ways to their respective missions. I know each bomb, each shell, and each bullet is another nail in Hitler's coffin. The French people themselves are a tired and battered people. It is a constant wonder how they have stood this tragedy of war. Yet here they are, coming back to their villages and homes, or, rather, what is left of the buildings and villages, ready to try and pick up where they left off. I hope, as millions of us are hoping, that it is over soon and all of us can live in peace and happiness.

The weather here is about the same as it is in the states. A typical warm August month. Grass is green, flowers in bloom, apple trees bending to the weight of their seasonal crop. Each farm has an apple orchard and cider is plentiful, the hard variety. The French concoct a drink called calvados, somewhere in the neighborhood of 280 proof. It's a cross between a boilermaker and two tons of TNT I use it in my lighter as lighter fluid. Works fine.

It was after August 1944, that Grandpa Joe's voice fell silent. What had been a recurring rhythm in your mother's life-the daily reports from her darling Joey-became a song that abruptly ended. And the poignancy of it all had struck me in his last letter dated August 24, 1944.

This is the first opportunity I have had to write in the past two days. Just want to let you both know I am fine. Haven't gotten any of your letters as yet but am hoping they catch up with me soon. May not get a chance to write you for quite some time. But don't worry about me I'll be OK. Keep thinking of both of you all the time. Just have faith and it won't be very long and all of us will be together once again. Tell the duchess to stay with her piano; it's her destiny to make people happy, and she will one day become very famous in the entertainment field. She has show talent, honey; bring it out.

Isn't it odd, Queen, that your mother was nine when he went over, but my child was only three months in the womb? Still, the parallel haunted me, as did the fact that the war flipped the situation on its head. Instead of going off to war never to return to his family, a soldier heads off to war only to return to find his family dead. That had become one of the defining differences between me and Grandpa Joe, and the two very different wars we fought in. Joe gave up his life. I gave up my family.

The way that the war just took life and flipped it on its head just struck me as ironic, Queen.

Two men.

Two wars.

Two fates.