The airplane mechanic's father

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The retired airplane mechanic was in a better mood today when Lilith and I ran into him and his dog. The dog is fuzzy, with an almost human face. Not regal like a Portuguese water dog, but mutt regal. I told him about my letter to Arlington National Cemetery and, knowing it couldn't happen, he said he'd like to sit down and talk to my parents for a long time. His father enlisted on December 8, 1942 and was sent to Darwin, Australia in a troop ship that was lucky not to be sunk. In Darwin, they were to protect an airstrip, but the Pacific was so dangerous that no one delivered supplies; they were on their own. Had to drive long distances to find food. "My father said you don't know how completely a person can change until you see someone who is hungry." I said we have a friend who was a Khmer Rouge survivor who had described that state to us. At one point, they were told that the Japanese were coming to take Darwin, which they bombed persistently. His father's group was given weapons, told to hold the airfield as long as possible, and then to scatter. Each one on his own. But the Coral Sea battle ended that, and they remained in Darwin. His father died at 59, before he could retire, and his mother is buried in Punchbowl, because she had all the documents required to prove she'd been married to a veteran. "Gotta go," he said, as ever, and Lilith and I headed to our cemetery to walk.