June 16, 1996. He was a handsome young Marine and his friend a Naval aviator, College chums, they had graduated together from Brown University before going off to war in the service of their country. Leaving their young brides behind, they each had found their way to the South Pacific theater of operations in World War II, one as the commander of an anti-aircraft battery, the other as the pilot of a torpedo plane.
Their’s was the common fate of many young men of that time who were called to war: lonely, probably afraid, separated from the women in their lives who were waiting anxiously for their return. They each did return to start their lives and have families, find careers and look to the future together.
Fifty-two years later they were standing together on a comfortable summer’s night, the Naval aviator supporting the handsome not-so-young Marine so he would not trip as he shuffled across the floor, his feet controlled by the same Alzheimer’s disease that created the fog of confusion in his mind.
There were seven of us, all dinner guests of the widow who had been part of the group of three couples who had gone to college together and who had reconnected when the madness of war was over. They had been given the gift of growing old together and though their best days were behind them you couldn’t tell that by their attitude or their conversation.
My wife and I were honored to be in their presence.