Living the Dying Life

In 1918, dad was selected to remain at Parris Island to train soldiers, but instead chose to go overseas with his comrades and join the conflict. This decision is tightly linked with the rest of the artifacts decorating his wall.

My eyes now rest on a purple heart. This particular medal was not instituted until World War II, but those who were wounded in the First World War could receive them upon the recommendation of a congressman or senator. The sage veteran of politics, Senator Strom Thurmond, was instrumental in securing this distinctive medal for dad.

My father never suffered much from the wound he received although his body carried a German machine gun bullet for the rest of his life. It was a bodily reminder of the men who died in his company in one of the bloodiest conflicts of all wars. In just a few short days of fighting in the Argonne Forest, over 120,000 men were killed or wounded. Every man in dad's company of marines died except two and both of them, my dad being one, were badly wounded.

He never should have survived.

The bullet that tore through his intestines should have been fatal given the lack of antibiotics and medical knowledge available in 1918. The fact that he lay in a field hospital for three days before he received the help of any doctor draws me to this conclusion.

Dad had to survive. God had a plan for him and that plan also included me. I was born 18 years later, 1936, right on schedule in God's time frame. What a preposterous thought. "God has my life planned?" You've got to be kidding. He can't even control the weather, much less the . . .

Weigle Living The Dying Life 46 Same thing! It told me to go the opposite way from camp. My mentality was now fluctuating between fear, frustration and just plain anger. The snow storm had virtually eliminated any other means of navigation. I had my senses...and the Imp on my shoulder. It was then I was reminded of my military suffusion in officer's training classes. Always trust your compass no matter what your 'common sense' tells you. Trust your compass. I had a choice. Die, doing what I thought was right, or die, trusting an inanimate device and what 'someone' else told me.

I followed the compass. I knew it was messed up, but I followed...the opposite direction! The Imp screamed in protest, "You're gonna die." I blocked him out. Maybe someone would find my body before the bears ate me.

I plodded on in darkness, the milky swirl rendering my small flashlight useless. My training and experience had taught me that lost people tend to walk in circles and usually down hill. My magnetized friend was being stubborn. Why was it choosing the toughest route every time a turn-decision confronted us? I could find no rationale to change my decision, so I trusted my resolute ally. I walked on, its needle relentlessly dragging me through a torturous meander.

An hour later, I stepped out of a dark grove of aspens onto a vaguely familiar trail. Rapidly descending --sliding in the deepening snow --I recognized the warm glow...the gasoline lantern in our hunting cabin.

I pulled the compass, its needle scintillating in the darkness, from its cozy spot in my pocket and kissed it.

Somehow, it seemed to have a soul.