My father graduated from high school in 1944 when he was sixteen. He was so young because his mother had sent him to school when he was only four. She couldn’t take him anymore. He was a bit of a rambunctious child so his mother sent him to school to give her a bit of relief. After he graduated, he asked his parents to sign permission for him to enlist in the military. They refused. He then bided his ime until December when he turned seventeen and didn’t need permission. He enlisted in the navy.I never asked him why he chose the navy. I wish I had. He certainly wasn’t safer as his ship carried supplies back and forth in the North Atlantic, and it was on one of those trips when his ship was sunk. He managed to find a piece of the ship to hold on to, but his legs were still in the cold water. I don’t remember how long he was there, but I do know he passed out, and when he woke up, his captain, who had been holding on to the same piece of ship was gone.

My father was rescued, but all of his mates from that end of the ship were not. He was transported to a hospital in Plymouth, England. The doctors thought he might lose his legs from the exposure to the cold water, but he didn’t. His parents, meanwhile, had no idea where he was or what had happened so they called the Red Cross who located him. He was seventeen. He hadn’t even thought of his parents. To him the war was a huge adventure.

My dad told us stories about his hospital stay. With both legs in casts, he’d borrow a bicycle and roll down the hill to the pub. When he was ready to go back, they’d have to call an ambulance to come get him. He was in the hospital during the Battle of the Bulge, and the wounded kept coming. They said they were getting slaughtered and were losing, but that changed.

He was sent back to the US still in the navy, was granted leave and went home. My mother had heard my dad had lost a leg, but she found it to be a rumor. When he first saw her, he greeted her with, “Hey, Babe.” He was, as always, his rambunctious self.