In 1940s the last of his generation to pass on at age 98.

 In 1940s the last of his generation to pass on at age 98.

 Back I travel in time and space, to people who were full of life, who are now gone. 

The vast Texas vistas beckon. They remain as stark and as beautiful as they are in the memories of my mind's eye.

I wrote about Uncle Hartzell in my book What Unites Us, and his service during World War II, as part of a larger set of ruminations. In his honor, I share an excerpt here

Many memories will die when those of us who remember the Second World War pass on: the shock of Pearl Harbor, the shifting fortunes in the European and Pacific theaters, the dawning horror of the full scope of the Holocaust. 

But less dramatic and more personal memories will also disappear forever, like our emotional response to the American war songs that were produced to comfort and rally a nation. 

To later generations, those songs of the early 1940s, with their simple tunes and lyrics that verge on (or sometimes even surpass) the jingoistic, may at best rise to the level of intellectual curiosity.

 But if I hear just a few bars of many of them, my eyes sometimes dampen, and it’s hard to sing the lyrics without a quiver in my voice. 

The words and music transport me back. I remember so many neighbors waiting nervously for news of loved ones fighting in battles overseas; I remember mourning parents, children left without fathers; and I remember the knocks on doors that changed lives in an instant. 

The world of my youth was engulfed in a desperate fight for the survival of humanity, but these songs remind me that we remained in some ways oddly innocent. 

Simple songs of heroism and sacrifice, with evocative titles like “There’s a Star Spangled Banner Waving Somewhere,” were welcomed and embraced by a grateful public without cynicism. 

There is one song that still strikes at me harder than most, “The Ballad of Rodger Young.

” It tells the story of a young infantryman who gave his life so that his fellow soldiers could live.

 Young was a man short in stature but big in heart. Despite his size, he had been a star athlete in high school, until a basketball head injury left him almost deaf. After dropping out of school, he enlisted in the Ohio National Guard and was sent to the Pacific. 

He rose to the rank of sergeant, but asked to be demoted to private because he could not hear well enough to lead his men into battle. 

In an ambush in the Solomon Islands on July 31, 1943, Young charged a Japanese pillbox. 

The citation for his posthumous Congressional Medal of Honor tells of how he was shot twice by machine-gun fire during his push up the hill, and yet “he continued his heroic advance, attracting enemy fire and answering with rifle fire. . . . He began throwing hand grenades, and while doing so was hit again and killed.

” Young had recently turned twenty-five years old. His is a story of uncommon valor, but in war, I have found, such stories are not uncommon. 

What shakes me to the core in this song is the fourth stanza, which paints a picture of Young’s final resting place: 

   On the island of New Georgia in the Solomons   Stands a simple wooden cross alone to tell     That beneath the silent coral of the Solomons  Sleeps a man, sleeps a man remembered well. 

These words capture the heroism and insanity of war writ large. Who had ever heard of the Solomon Islands?

 And yet young men were sent to die there for a cause much larger than themselves, just as they were sent to die in the deserts of North Africa, the high seas of the Pacific, the mountain villages of Italy, and so many other distant battlefields.

 This is not just the story of World War II, of course, but of all wars, across all time. 

We live in debt to those who have served and died, a debt tallied in blood.

 And too often our political leaders who commit our young men, and now young women, into war do not take this truth into account with an adequate fullness of measure.

 Over the years, I have been to many military cemeteries, and I am always overcome with waves of emotion. 

This is especially true of the cemeteries that are filled, not with the tombs of long-lived veterans who earned a military burial for their service, but with the graves of the young who perished in battle. For me the most striking hallowed ground is the Normandy American Cemetery in France. 

I defy anyone to walk through its more than 170 acres of green grass and white crosses and stars and not feel deeply moved.

 All told, 9,387 American servicemen are buried there, with uniform grave markers, regardless of the rank they held in life. Death strikes us all with the same finality. 

The cemetery is one of the most peaceful and beautiful places I have ever visited — a far cry from the pain and torment that led to its creation.

 Most buried there lost their lives in that fateful landing on the nearby beaches on D-day or in the fierce battles that immediately followed.

 I am struck by their ages. You quickly do the math, subtracting date of birth from date of death, and invariably arrive at a number in the high teens or early twenties. 

You cannot help but think: What might they have accomplished if they had lived? What happened to the loved ones they left behind? 

Another striking cemetery can be found halfway around the globe, in a volcanic crater in the hills above Honolulu.

 Nicknamed Punchbowl, it is a tribute to the sacrifice in our Pacific and Asian wars, not only World War II, but also Korea and Vietnam. 

Above the bustle of Waikiki, it is a place for meditation on the cost of service with the “courts of the missing” — walls of 28,808 names etched in marble of those who went missing in action or were lost and buried at sea.

 As an inscription at the cemetery reminds us: “In these gardens are recorded the names of Americans who gave their lives in the service of their country and whose earthly resting place is known only to God.”

 “Known only to God” is a phrase that epitomizes a level of service beyond our full comprehension. In war, most deaths are lonely, and leave loneliness behind.

War turns upside down the normal order of life; being young makes you more likely to die.

 The attack on Pearl Harbor took place on a Sunday, and I remember my father and his younger brother John going immediately to the recruiting office in downtown Houston.

 When they arrived, the lines were already long and the office hadn’t yet opened. Most were eventually told to just wait and that the military would be in touch.

 My father, already in his thirties with three young children and doing what was deemed essential work in the oil fields, would not end up on active military duty (he later volunteered for the civil defense units and became our neighborhood civil watch).

 My uncle John, already in his late twenties and with flat, slightly deformed feet, also didn’t go off to war. Their offers to volunteer for active military service were declined. 

My uncle Hartzell Sherrill, who was young and single, volunteered for the navy. He was the quintessential taciturn Texan, and he ended up in the merchant marines.

 It was the kind of service that did not get the attention or glory it deserved, although as I have since learned in my years reporting on wars, some of the bravest members of our military are the ones who serve in a role supporting those on the front lines.

 My uncle carried out “suicide runs” to Murmansk, arctic convoys that sent desperately needed supplies to our then allies in the Soviet Union. 

These were dangerous assignments and dozens of ships were sunk.

Uncle Hartzell survived, but he didn’t get many medals for his courageous service, and when he returned he didn’t talk about it much. That was common as well.