AZ_Infantry
Active member
I just wanted to share this.
I was at work yesterday (at Ace, not for my company) when an old, frail, shaking man slowly made his way through the doors. My best guess would put him close to 80. But he had no walker nor cane, just a fanny pack and a smile on his face. He was looking at a display of BDU-pattern hats that I have no idea why we have, and I walked up and asked him if he needed any assistance.
He began with wishes that, as a Marine, they would have had the neck scarf attached to the hat to help keep the sunburns at bay they suffered on the beaches.
We talked, and I was to find out that he was one of the Marines at Normandy's landing, on a hill they referred to as "Grenade Hill." This began his lamenting of stories from WWII, his time in the Marines, friends he'd both gained and lost, equipment and its ineffectiveness, and the role the Marines played.
I stood and listened. I've met WWII vets before, but at the VA - they are usually incoherent or refuse to discuss their time in. This gentleman had no such reservations, though I did see some painful, painful memories in his eyes (which welled with tears more than once).
The entire time my district manager, Pam, the lady who hired me, stood behind me stocking shelves. Much to her credit, she never interrupted Ernie and never attempted to hint that I should return to my duties or admonish me for not helping other customers as I listened to this man. In the end, not wanting to take advantage of Pam's respect and generosity, I did excuse myself after about 20 minutes.
I shook his hand, thanked him for all he'd done, asked God to bless him, and returned to work.
Having the honor of 20 minutes' discourse with a man who helped free the world from tyranny and oppression some 64 years ago is one of the most humbling experiences a person can have. It is one of those times where, no matter how much pride you have or what you've accomplished in life, you just feel small and pathetic. Not that he made me feel that way, mind you - he was extremely open and friendly. But how can one not feel humbled in the presence of such history?
I was at work yesterday (at Ace, not for my company) when an old, frail, shaking man slowly made his way through the doors. My best guess would put him close to 80. But he had no walker nor cane, just a fanny pack and a smile on his face. He was looking at a display of BDU-pattern hats that I have no idea why we have, and I walked up and asked him if he needed any assistance.
He began with wishes that, as a Marine, they would have had the neck scarf attached to the hat to help keep the sunburns at bay they suffered on the beaches.
We talked, and I was to find out that he was one of the Marines at Normandy's landing, on a hill they referred to as "Grenade Hill." This began his lamenting of stories from WWII, his time in the Marines, friends he'd both gained and lost, equipment and its ineffectiveness, and the role the Marines played.
I stood and listened. I've met WWII vets before, but at the VA - they are usually incoherent or refuse to discuss their time in. This gentleman had no such reservations, though I did see some painful, painful memories in his eyes (which welled with tears more than once).
The entire time my district manager, Pam, the lady who hired me, stood behind me stocking shelves. Much to her credit, she never interrupted Ernie and never attempted to hint that I should return to my duties or admonish me for not helping other customers as I listened to this man. In the end, not wanting to take advantage of Pam's respect and generosity, I did excuse myself after about 20 minutes.
I shook his hand, thanked him for all he'd done, asked God to bless him, and returned to work.
Having the honor of 20 minutes' discourse with a man who helped free the world from tyranny and oppression some 64 years ago is one of the most humbling experiences a person can have. It is one of those times where, no matter how much pride you have or what you've accomplished in life, you just feel small and pathetic. Not that he made me feel that way, mind you - he was extremely open and friendly. But how can one not feel humbled in the presence of such history?