Bugle Boys of Company B Died to Keep America Free
My sisters and I probably met face to face with more soldiers in World War II than any general or field marshal. The Andrews Sisters entertained tens of thousands of GIs at bases here and abroad throughout the war and I can still see so many of their smiling American faces. I sometimes wonder how many of those faces made it home safely and how many are now just faint memories. I’ll carry their memory for as long as I live. But then what? With nothing to publicly commemorate those GIs, their deeds will be forgotten.
The faces of the survivors are now creased and seasoned by the years--but they still smile when they see me. And I see them all the time, in airports and shopping malls. The veterans of global war are living their autumn years happily, oblivious to the fact that they are walking history.
We have a common bond. We were all soldiers in the greatest war ever. And we share a knowing wink--if you weren’t there you’d never understand the terror of total war or exhilaration of saving the world from evil incarnate. I guess I remind the veterans that it all really happened, that it wasn’t some hazy memory, that they answered the call and succeeded beyond all expectation. They won a victory so complete that we hardly remember a time when America wasn’t a superpower or the most prosperous nation on Earth or one of the few remaining democracies standing against a global gang of dictators. Today we take it all for granted.
Those who died to make it possible for us to forget that brutal era would no doubt be satisfied that their sacrifice was worth it. But they were so young. The soldiers who came to the USO shows were mostly in their late teens and early 20s. So young that the shows had the flavor of a huge high school football game or a Boy Scout jamboree. Nearly half a million of these brave kids would never know if we won or lost the war or how 50 years of peace and prosperity would transform their country. Their faces will always be innocent and brave, but unknowing.
My sisters and I were innocent too, but not for long. We cheered the boys as they left for war but we also welcomed back the wounded and shattered. Those are some of the faces I will never forget. In one San Francisco hospital ward we were briefed about what we were about to see, and we were told not to show too much emotion. Behind the doors of that dire ward were young faces contorted with pain or frozen and mute. The sight of these boys--no different than the thousands of others we entertained except that they had been chewed up and spat out by the maw of war--brought home to me the absolute horror of war and the enormity of our debt to them.
In that frightful infirmary we talked, sang and tried to do something--anything--to bring a moment of pleasure, maybe a smile or a look of hope that life will somehow be better. I tried but could not begin to match their contribution. None of us can ever fully repay those boys who sacrificed their youth so we could forget such horror existed. But we need to try.
Today, before the memories fade and before the last veteran dies, we need to enshrine their courage. We need a permanent place to honor the generation that gave so much so long ago. We need a memorial that matches their monumental sacrifice and their towering devotion to freedom. In short, we need an official World War II Memorial on the National Mall in Washington. The site has already been selected--all we need now is the will to build it.
Helping to build morale and comfort the wounded through our music changed and fulfilled my life, as it did the lives of my sisters, Laverne and Maxene. We were privileged to know so many courageous men and women willing to give their lives for freedom. It’s ironic that because of their sacrifice, we can use words like “freedom” and “democracy” today without having to measure their cost. We must honor those brave young people who paid the price.