The Greatest Generation

Major Edwin W. Giles, U.S. Army Air Corps, WWII.

I've been thinking of my father on this Veteran's Day, 2013. It's difficult to grasp that Edwin W. Giles was born in New Orleans 102 years ago, July 4, 1911.

My dad was teaching flying in Springfield, Missouri, when the U.S. entered World War II in 1941. When the government issued a call for flight instructors to train pilots for the war effort, Daddy enlisted, went to school to become an officer, and began teaching in Ft. Stockton, Texas.

I, of course, was born a year later, but that's neither here nor there, as I don't remember anything about the early years.

Mom was always sad, when she remembered those years, because so many of the students' names were posted later on the bulletin board as killed in action. No sooner did they learn to fly than they were sent to Europe to be shot down in their prime.

I've seen my dad's old 8 millimeter home movies of the young pilots, as they completed their basic training. They had a silly initiation ritual, in which they pretended to be airplanes, their arms outstretched, "flying" in a circle toward the company mascot--a donkey--and kissing the animal on the nose. All their buddies were laughing and happy, little thinking about what lay ahead.

Hundreds of young airmen left for battle, and only a precious few returned in those early days.

After the war ended in 1945, my dad was sent to Europe during the Occupation. He spent some time in Germany, where he picked up some of the language. The main German word he seemed to use on my brothers and me in later years was "Rouse!" From the tone, we gathered what the word meant and would scurry from the room to leave him alone, as he read the newspaper.

Daddy also had a saying we heard often, when he would ask us a question. There were only three acceptable answers, he said: "Yes--no--or no excuse, sir!" We had to use the third choice often.

Though I was too young to remember the war years, I do remember my dad's flight experience in the fifties, when Malden Air Base was reopened. By then, he was a civilian flight instructor with classes of four young men at a time under his tutelage.

My father earned the nickname "Steady Eddie," as a result of an incident which happened on one short flight. For some reason, a fire broke out in the airplane. When he reported it, sirens went off on the flight line, and fire trucks rushed out to greet him, as he landed.

When everyone got there, they grabbed the equipment, and ran to the plane.

"Where's the fire? What did you do?" they shouted.

"I put it out," said my dad, calmly.

That's just the way he was--steady.

When I cut my finger rather badly one year, carving the Thanksgiving turkey, my mother fainted. My dad applied the necessary first aid without a qualm. Steady.

Daddy has been gone since 1995. I regret that I didn't ask him more about his life--and, particularly about his service during the "Great War." Only one of my three children ever met him.

Why do we let those disconnects happen in our lives?

Here's to you, Steady Eddie, on this Veteran's Day, 2013. May your skies always be cloudless, your engine sound, and the wind at your back.