I realized as I was reflecting on the imminent new year yesterday that this day, the 1st of January, 2015, is the 70th anniversary of the death of my Uncle Bob, my moms only brother, who was killed on this day when his plane was shot over near the Philippines in 1945. He and the other 7 men about his aircraft died when it was hot by Japanese gunfire. He was 24 years old, my momd only brother and her hero, and my grandparents only son. By an odd coincidence, I am oberving the New Year holiday in Poland, a country that I have always loved and that has held a deep fascination for me. I was born nine years after Bob died, so I never had the chance to know him. Yet Jane, my mother, moved back into her parents home after she and my father separated, so I grew hearing stories about my uncle throughout my young life. One story I amways remembered was one Jane told of the 1st of September, 1939, the day Hitler led the German blitzkrieg against Poland, the day that darkness began to surround the world. Jane told of how she recalled Bob calling his friend, Ray Ilg on the phone and his say: My God, its happened! Its going to be a world war; America is bound to get involved, and I wonder if either or us will make it through alive. He expressed his profound support for the Polish people, an emotion that I seemed to have inherited many years later. After the attack on Pearl Harbor, Bob was the 1st man at Syracuse University to drop out and volunteer to serve his country. He was deployed to the Pacific Theatre and eventually served as a navigator on bomber planes. He made through to see the liberation of the Philippines in the fall of 1944. Paris and Rome had been liberated on the other side of the world. On New Years Day he was offered a chance to one what would have been his last mission before reaching his quota, thus being able to complete his tour of dduty or re-up. The catch was that hed be flying with a diffrerent from his regular team of comrades, and they all tried to convince him flying with another crew was bad club. He scoffed at such superstitions and joined the mission. Their plane was hit and seen by other crews, plummeting toward the water, fully engulfed in flames. So I never got to know my uncle. I bear his first name as my middle, and I proud of that. Growing up in home, listening to his records, hearing so many stories about him, I coudnt help but fell that I was somehow carrying on for him, living the life that he never had the chance to enjoy. It would be silly to suggest that I feel that I am the reincarnation of Bob Horton. Rather, I hope to live with kindness and empathy and do what he would have wanted me to do. I hope I have doen well. Amen.
Posted on: Thu, 01 Jan 2015 12:29:22 +0000
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