Service skips a generation

My father passed away a year ago.  88 years walking this planet as part of the greatest generation America knew.  He never talked about his role in WWII.  I never heard war stories or seen him have old buddies over from his outfit.  In fact, I really never knew nor cared to know what it was he did.

I was the younger brother of a confused hippie brother with all the drugs, anti war and basic sociopathy that goes with it.  His influence kept me from service, as did my love of surfing, and those of you that don't surf stop laughing.  I had an opportunity to join, but was too stupid to understand what was going on.  Out of high school, my Mother asked her Uncle to come talk to me.  He was a retired Air Force general working with the Rockefeller foundation.  Something about setting up economies and infra structures.  Anyway, he flew in, sat down in my living room and asked me what I wanted to do with myself.  My Mom was off standing in the wings barely perceptible.  I looked my Great Uncle in the eye and said...." All I want to do is surf." He got up, hugged my Mother at the door and off he went.  My Mother turned to me and said, " You are an idiot " and walked to her room.

Perhaps I was.  I tell you that small story to put into perspective the evolution that brought me into a place where I can fully value my daughter's life as a sailor.  It was because of her Grand Dad.

Robert Lloyd Dugan. Gunners Mate First Class and a veteran of 32 months service in the South Pacific.  During that 32 months his campaigns were in New Guinea, The Marshalls, Marianas, Saipan and the Philippines. He was a four purple heart recipient. His ship took direct hits on two separate actions. He ribbons included a Presidential Unit Citation and received an Admirals letter of commendation for his role in the Philippines.

His fourth purple heart was awarded after a mission with his unit called the "Beach Jumpers" in a completed mission at Leyte.

That was my Dad.  He never talked about it.  He never mentioned it at all.  He was proud of his Navy tattoo and his service, but he never mentioned it.  And years later I found out why.

For his 80th birthday I did something to honor his service.  I contacted his old Beach Jumper mates, studied the campaigns, talked with veterans about their deeds, got maps, pictures and all the literature I could on his South Pacific campaigns.  I put it all together in a coffee table book, wrapped it up with his grand kids hand made birthday cards and sent it off.

The week waiting for that phone call saying he'd received his gift was an eternity for me.  A few days past what should have been the "hey I just got it" phone call, Pops called and starting talking to me about football.  "Hey Pop, didn't you get my package?"

An awkward bit of silence passed and he said these words that I will never forget, " Son, I want to thank you and your children for those wonderful birthday cards.  They were great."  More silence and I didn't know if I should say something and just as I was going to breach it, " as to that book you made me.  It took me sixty years to bury the memories of those days and you brought it all back to me in one minute.  That book will not see the light of day while I'm alive."

What a fool I was.  Not once did I consider what effect his service had on him.  I didn't get that feeling from his mates as they talked on and on about their missions as Beach Jumpers.  How every year they get together in San Diego and how so many were passing on.  He didn't want to be part of it anymore. 

My pride, respect and fanaticism of his service made me think that he would appreciate my tribute to the hero he was.  Not just to me, but to my children also.  So much so, that in a family of Uncles and Aunts that served in the Air Force, my daughter chose the Navy.

My brother and I skipped service.  My brother because of a consciousness that was anathema to governmental duty and myself, because I was too self centered to deal with a perspective outside of a surf culture.  Service skipped a generation in my family, but that honor is continued with my daughter, now in boot camp.

Hanging on my wall, in the office where I'm writing this, in a frame just above a folded flag is a coffee table book of a hero who never knew.