WWII DOCUMENTARIES SHOW TOO MUCH DEATH

WWII documentaries and death usually go hand in hand.

That’s what you get watching video about the deadliest war in human history.

But the bigger story is for those who lived to tell.

Or a blogging veteran, U.S. Army, ’74-’76.

For my story telling class we had an assignment: tell a story to the class.

My story starts with Joe Average at college in 1938.

He joined the service after Pearl Harbor, shipped out for the duration, and came home.

 

My story shows Joe Average at football practice getting knocked around on the field because he doesn’t know where he’s supposed to be.

But he never falls down.

After practice a couple of teammates tell him he could be good if he paid more attention.

That’s a major theme in my story, paying more attention to things than you think is needed.

My guy walks the campus after practice, passing construction sites on one side, and tear-downs on the other.

It’s hard telling the difference, which is another story theme.

He enters a plain looking three story building and puts on a different uniform: his lab coat.

After he gets his work station up and running, he starts messing around under the supervision of an old gray professor.

Aren’t they all old and gray in 1938?

The odd thing about the relationship is the professor is taking notes while the student experiments.

They continue their routine for a couple of years.

One evening the two men attend a ceremony where a smiling rich man hands an over-sized check to the dean of the science department.

The dean starts his thank-you with, “On behalf of MIT . . .” when the professor pulls his student into a side room.

“We have a surprise for the dean before he even puts your father’s check in the bank.”

“We do?”

“Today you finished the final phase of our research on the cavity magnetron.”

“I’m not finished.”

“We have enough to show. And tell.”

“Tell? Tell who?”

“We have visitors from England.”

 

Why WWII Documentaries?

From my time in uniform I came away feeling forgotten, like it never happened, and if it did it didn’t matter.

I’ve been justifying my service ever since, mostly to myself.

From the dates on my discharge I’m a Vietnam Era veteran.

That status comes from serving six months before the Vietnam War was declared over.

Am I a Vietnam Veteran? No.

Did I ever deploy? I was stationed in Philadelphia in the mid-70s if that counts.

All I know is that I’m not the only one who didn’t jump higher, run faster, or get stronger in uniform.

No Citius, Altius, Fortius for me, but I kept up.

 

I think of the sea of green at Boot Camp graduation when I see huge formations of soldier marching in lock-step.

I think of mountainous piles of dead bodies when I see precise formations goose-stepping in WWII documentaries.

My WWII story is important to me as a historian.

We’ll never feel the doomed dread of puking on transport ships waiting to board the landing craft headed for a machine gun raked beach, but we need to feel the motivation that drove it.

A story of hope in a world at war is the idea going forward.

My hero shows his Joe Average face to the world, but his lab work is anything but average.

He struggles with wanting to do more when his football teammates enlist while his professor and father insist his work is vital.

“You’ll be a Captain, not a corporal.”

Jumping rank didn’t help my guy’s need for relevance in a rush to war.

 

I’ll Tell You Why It’s WWII Documentaries First

Social media gives everyone an equal footing to explain themselves, share food ideas, try new fashions.

Any goofball with a story to tell has a platform, a free platform.

The irresponsible among us toss their shit on the wall and call it something else, then get butt-hurt when no one agrees with them, that it’s more than recycled feces.

But it’s still important to them, which presents a choice: Either work with it, or whine about it.

If you work with it a story emerges. It may not be the story you started with, but that’s the exciting part.

You may even hate your story, but you can’t give it up? Call it progress.

If you choose to whine, that’s fine, but the story won’t change.

So change it to one that works better for you.

In my story telling group we tell the stories we’ll keep telling.

Our teacher listens and like a good coach finds ways to reveal the hidden depths.

Call it story therapy.

I can tell it works when I hear class stories and think, ‘I want to learn to play I’ll Fly Away.’

It works when I hear, “I’ve been on so many horrible dates that I look forward to a bad date.”

It works when I watch WWII documentaries and think of the lives lost, the lives saved, and the burden left in figuring out what to do next?

I did the best thing I could think of after I got out of the Army, I followed my plan:

Go back to college as an English major, read a ton, write a bunch, and take it from there.

English and creative writing turned into a History degree and news writing.

Is there a big difference?