Oh, Beautiful: An American Family in the 20th Century (60 page)

Dad called Felix in Guam. “Where would you recommend I stay on the island?”

“
With me!” Felix insisted. “It would be my honor to be the host and tour guide for you and your wife!”

“
Zhona,” Dad asked Mom, “would you like to join me on a trip to Guam?”

She hesitated. “Oh, Joe, I don’t know.” She needed time to think about it.

In 1997, Mom was just beginning to lead her own life, gradually emerging from the long shadow of her husband after 47 years of marriage. She was proud of him and his wartime heroism of liberating the people of Guam. And she was glad he could commemorate the occasion. But she was in the midst of liberating herself from
him
and of shoring up her own island of freedom in the world. She didn’t know if she was ready for Guam. It was his time.

Stan called. “Hi, Mom. Could you come take care of Max for a few weeks?”

Stan and Cathie were living in Bakersfield. Their only son, Max, was eight years old. Stan was heading to Honolulu for one of his final tours of army reserve duty. “Cathie really needs someone to help her take care of Max while I’m away and she’s at work,” said Stan. His reserve duty in Honolulu coincided with Dad’s trip to Guam.

“
We’d love it if Grandma could come,” Stan twisted Mom’s arm. “Your grandson would love it most of all.”

“
You go to Guam,” Mom told Dad. “You should go. It’ll be beautiful. I’m going to Bakersfield instead to be with my grandson.” It was her time.

Dad flew standby to Guam in May 1997. He went to the island to pay his respects to his Marine buddies who had died either there or of the wounds inflicted there during the battle for Guam of July and August 1944. His plans for the trip were minimal. He wanted to take a long, slow walk along the beach that he and his buddies had invaded. His only other intention was to arrange for a memorial Mass, at the nearby Catholic church, for the eternal salvation of the souls of his fallen brethren.

On the morning after his arrival, he went to Mass and took his walk along the beach. Eyeing a historical landmark about 100 feet inland from shore, he headed in that direction. The landmark pointed him toward the spot of the original headquarters of the general who had commanded the First Provisional Marine Brigade. Examining the memorial headquarters, a meager but authentic 20-foot-square space with four posts holding up a temporary roof, Dad recalled where he had placed the switchboard.

He then returned to the shore, walking the full length of the 2,000-yard beach where the invasion had occurred, from the southern tip at Bangi Point to the northern tip near the town of Agat. Gazing at the clusters of coconut palms, some of which he very well might have climbed and from which he might have dodged bullets, he heard the sounds of the battle come roaring back to him. Turning toward the sea, he noticed that the coral, which had made it so treacherous for the amphibian tractors to reach the beach, was still very much alive just inches beneath the surface of the water. He recalled that the men in his regiment had been sitting ducks in those tractors, navigating lamely over the jagged reef as the Japanese artillery, hidden in the hills above Agat, pounded the easy prey below. At the age of 73, he could still feel the pounding. He could still see the men.

Everything he had done in his life since then had been a battle to uphold the honor of these men, the honor of their country, and the honor of the faith that had delivered him—and him alone, among his closest buddies—from that living hell. Every day since, he had needed to fight four times as hard—at least four times as hard—to make up for Fleetmeyer, Haas, and Heusel. He had won some battles, and he had lost some battles. But in each case, he had fought as hard as he could to honor these men and their country in the best way he knew how.

The next morning, Felix drove Dad to Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church and introduced him to the pastor. Dad made a donation for a memorial Mass to be offered there two months later on July 21, the 53rd anniversary of the beachhead invasion. “Please dedicate the Mass to the souls of my hundreds of fallen brethren,” Dad requested.

“
Certainly,” the pastor replied. “And in honor of your presence here today, I’ll offer up the Mass right now for the same intention.” The Mass was about to begin.

In the middle of the Mass, the pastor broke from the standard liturgy. “We are honored to have a very special guest with us here today,” said the pastor. “As a United States Marine, he helped to liberate this island from the Japanese more than 50 years ago. Please stand, Mr. Godges, so that everyone here can properly acknowledge you.”

Dad stood up in the pew and looked around him.

The congregation burst into applause.

When the Mass ended, several of the parishioners approached Dad, inside and outside the church. They lined up to shake his hand. “Thank you for liberating our island!” they exuded warmth. Some of them had lived through the occupation.

Wherever Dad went on Guam—the Denny’s restaurant in Agat for the early bird special, the Sizzler restaurant for the senior discount—the managers and customers flocked to him and thanked him for having helped to liberate them. “Semper Fi!” they cheered, shaking his hand and patting him on the back.

The lieutenant governor of Guam, Madeleine Bordallo, invited Dad to her office, greeted him, and thanked him.

The governor of Guam, Carl Gutierrez, invited Dad to his office, greeted him, and thanked him.

When it turned out that Dad’s departing flight was overbooked and he couldn’t get a seat on the plane because he was flying with an employee discount, Governor Gutierrez invited Dad to spend the night in the gubernatorial guesthouse. During dinner at the governor’s house, the governor introduced Dad to one of the island’s leading journalists.

“
Your story is fascinating,” the journalist told Dad. “Please be a guest on my talk show the next time you come to Guam.”

The flight home the next day was overbooked once again. The governor’s chauffeur drove Dad to the airport, accompanied him to the gate, waited with him at the gate, and made sure that he had no problem whatsoever in securing a seat on the flight.

Governor Gutierrez invited Dad back to Guam—and extended the invitation to Mom—for the 53rd Liberation Day celebrations just two months later on July 21, 1997. The governor offered Dad and Mom free food and lodging and invited them to sit with him and other distinguished guests in the Liberation Day Parade Review Panel.

With the memorial Mass at the church, the reception afterward at the Knights of Columbus hall, another walk along the beach, the anniversary parade, and the talk show appearance, Dad would have a full schedule on Guam. Therefore, the governor offered Dad and Mom the use of a car and driver.

Dad took him up on his offers. “Zhona, would you like to go with me?”

It was still too soon. Everything still felt too tender inside. Mom knew it was only right for Dad to be feted throughout the island like the conquering hero that he was. “I’m glad you can go. You
should
go,” she urged him.

She looked forward to the day when she could join him. She was almost ready, but not quite. “The next time you go,” she promised, “I’ll go.”

But in July 1997, Mom went to Iowa instead. July was high season in the cornfield, and her sisters needed her help in the garden. It was their time.

Dad’s journeys to Guam at the age of 73 led him to ponder more than the valor of his wartime deeds. The journeys led him to ponder the worthiness of his entire life.

He had many hours for reflection during the walks along the beach, the memorial Masses, the parade, and the long flights back and forth across the Pacific. His introspection led him to a simple conclusion that was equally as humble as it was proud.

He had done his part. On Guam, he had risked his life for his country and for everything good for which it stood. That in itself qualified a life as having been well lived.

But he had also helped to liberate a people, who then went out of their way to laud him. “Few men are so lucky!” he sighed with a smile, his baby blue eyes glinting. The hospitality and gratitude extended to Dad by the people of Guam, first in May and then in July, made his sacrifices on their behalf “doubly worthwhile,” he said. Not only had he done his part, but it also had been abundantly appreciated.

More important still, he had fulfilled his duty to those left behind. He had done so by following their examples of how they had given their all. He had kept their prayers and their fighting spirit alive for 53 years. He had devoted his adult life to those noble causes that were far greater than himself: his God, his country, his faith, his moral principles, his ethical principles, his accounting principles, the right, and the good.

He had fought hardest on behalf of those causes in the context of raising a family to live in accordance with the church. He’d reared and educated six children who’d never begged to be brought into this world. He’d given them extra helpings of food and religious convictions. He’d been a responsible father.

And thanks in considerable part to the power of those religious convictions, he believed, the world was moving very much in the right direction. The Russian flag had replaced the Soviet flag on Christmas Day in 1991. Poland was fast reclaiming its spiritual home in the West. The Polish pope had a lot to do with both of those changes and still had plenty left to do. In the grand scheme of things, Dad surmised, Pope John Paul II was continuing the work performed by the U.S. Marine Corps a half century before in the everlasting battle against the forces of godless totalitarianism.

Without a doubt, Dad felt he had made his sacrifices on the right side of history. He wouldn’t boast about his accomplishments. He wasn’t God, after all.

“
I was simply grateful for the opportunity,” Dad considered the arc of his life, “to have aligned my will with God’s will and to have been of service in some small way.”

In the course of his ephemeral human life with his fragile human powers and his limited human perspective, he had been dropped into one of the country’s most horrific historical episodes. He had been called upon to help redeem that episode. And he had been blessed with the duty of raising a large family long after that episode. Throughout it all, he had survived, thrived, and, more often than not, prevailed.

One couldn’t ask for much more in life.

PART FOUR: COMING BACK TOGETHER

15. The Anniversary

“
I don’t know what I love about him,” Mom said after nearly 50 years of marriage to Dad. “He’s a good, honest, and serious man,” but he could also “live in the past” and “push his beliefs” on others. “When he doesn’t try to get up on his soapbox and change the world, he’s all right.”

“
What’s kept you two together all these years?” I pushed for a clearer answer.

She paused. She then invalidated the question. “Everyone’s an individual,” she said. “We had individual thoughts. He was strong in his. I was strong in mine. You can’t both be the same. If I knew something wasn’t right, I did it my way.”

Dad answered in a similar way. “Although Mom has some rough edges,” he said, “I know down deep inside she’s a good woman.” He accounted for all the things he loved about her: her faith, her devotion to her children, her modesty, her disinterest in excess clothing, her ability to cope with the minimum, her helpfulness to neighbors, her cooking, her joy of cooking, and her wisdom regarding the important things in life.

“
But
her
wisdom sometimes clashes with
your
wisdom,” I said.

“
She likes to be the boss,” Dad raised his eyebrows. “On small matters, I don’t fight it. It’s not that important. On big matters, I stand up for my rights, too.”

What kept them together seemed to have a lot to do with what kept them apart.

We kids wanted a fuller explanation. But we had to look for it inside ourselves.

The 50th Anniversary of Mom and Dad brought us all back together. In organizing the event, we knew that a dinner party for as many as 100 of the most important people in their lives would not suffice. There had to be a Mass before the dinner party. So we divvied up the responsibilities and told the priest not to worry about giving a sermon at the Mass. We kids would deliver our personal tributes to Mom and Dad instead.

Family and friends gathered at Visitation Church in Westchester on October 29, 1999. Big names from the past sat in the pews: Ralph and Mary Di Gregorio, Elsie Di Gregorio, Valletta Huckins Zick, the McCarthys, the Jersins, Dad’s friends from his days as an internal auditor, Mom’s friends from her days at the airport—and even the anonymous angel who had alit at the crosswalk one day with a bulging brown paper bag.

In the middle of the Mass, the priest ceded the pulpit to the children.

Our turns upon the altar showed how we had each changed in recent years. How similar we had become beneath our superficial differences. And how all of us, in going our separate ways in American society, had nonetheless incorporated into our lives the lessons that Mom and Dad had taught us.

Stan was no longer quite the capitalist he once was.

As he took to the altar, the 47-year-old Stan appeared to be unusually content. He needed to lose about 20 pounds, but for the first time in years, he seemed comfortable in his own skin. He relaxed his head on the back of his neck. He projected an easy smile. Even from behind his glasses, his eyes conveyed a message of deep, simple gratitude.