Remembering a Soldier’s Story

Today, Memorial Day, we celebrate and remember those who have died to defend our nation’s freedom. Although he did not die in defending our nation’s freedom, my grandfather, a soldier who served on a battleship before and during World War II, lost much to the war. A few years ago, my dad handed me an apple box spilling over with yellowed black and white photographs. 

“I figured you would want to know some of your grandfather’s story,” he said gruffly. You bet this story girl did want to know.

Since my granddaddy died when I was seven, I had not known him very well. I had asked my Dad about my grandfather, but most of his stories centered around battleships and World War II, not on who my grandfather was. As I leafed through the memorabilia my grandfather had collected as a young man as well as some my grandmother had added to the collection, , I learned bits of one sailor’s story, a complex tale of adventure and ambiguity. I understood my grandfather’s story better, my father’s story better, and the stories of our current soldiers and families who sacrifice to protect our nation’s freedom. Our heroes’ lives may be laced with suffering, but they are also plentiful with redemption.

From Alabama to Australia

My granddaddy grew up in Abbeville, Alabama on an old homestead. My granddaddy’s father made his money in timber but was remembered most by my dad for his remarkable capacity to sit on the porch and drink “liquid fire”. My granddaddy, whose given name was “Charley Jack Reynolds,” like many young men of that time, decided at seventeen years old to run away and see the world as a sailor in the U.S. Navy. He was good with his hands, so he became a machinist.

In the boxes, I found photo albums filled with postcards my granddaddy presumably purchased in places almost as far away from Alabama as he could be, most notably the Pacific. “Natives in Samoa” reads the caption on one; “Pre-Luau” and “Post-Luau” reads another. The Melbourne Art Museum; vast, prickly pineapple fields in Hawaii; and locks surrounding the Panama Canal tell the story of a young sailor who took in culture and keenly observed history even as he made it.

A Love Story and the Next Generation

At home on leave, my granddaddy, upon seeing his future wife acting in a play, famously vowed, “I’m going to marry that girl someday.”  A smart and perky young woman from a family that had lost everything, she worked her way through school and graduated valedictorian from Newton Normal School in Newton, Alabama. She went on to Howard College (now Samford University—she would be thrilled to know her great-grandson graduated from there!), where she trained to be a teacher.

Lala and Charley Jack had one son, my Dad, who was named Robert, after his grandfather. My Dad was given the middle name Charles—after my granddaddy, whose name my grandmother had apparently converted from “Charley Jack” to “Charles Jackson,” a more educated sounding name, a name that might suit a sailor rising in the naval ranks. (I still remember addressing letters to them as “Mr. and Mrs. Charles Jackson Reynolds,” until one day my Dad suggested that “C.J.” would be more accurate).

Happy Times and Sad

From the photos you can see that they enjoyed seasons as a happy family. There were times when both my Grandfather and my Dad smiled when their pictures were taken.

But there were also the days following Pearl Harbor when my grandmother and my father waited in darkness, huddled by a gas stove, fearing that the Japanese would bomb the base where they lived in San Pedro. In those days, naval officers came and went to neighbors’ homes, delivering dreaded news of husbands and fathers killed in the attack. After eleven days of waiting, the card arrived, carried by a mailman. The card was cryptic; the photo says it better than I could:

My granddaddy had been on a supplier ship stationed in Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. As my dad puts it, he had a “ringside seat.” Apparently, his ship sailed quickly after the attack. Just around Christmas that year, my granddaddy finally made it home for a couple of days, bringing with him a gift his buddies had purchased for my dad, who was seven at the time—a Red Ryder BB Gun. That’s what my dad remembers about Pearl Harbor. Apparently, my grandfather never spoke about it much. Apparently, he smiled less often after that.

A diabetic, my granddaddy retired in Pensacola, and my grandmother continued teaching. One day, at the relatively young age of seventy-one, as he was tending his rosebush in the back yard, he was struck down quickly by a heart attack. In a small box I found his death certificate, a list of funeral attendees, the legal announcement in the paper regarding the estate of “Charley Jack Reynolds, a.k.a, Charley J. Reynolds,” and a formal business card with the name, Charles Jackson Reynolds, Lieutenant, United States Navy. Like many soldiers, he had many names to go along with his many stories.