A Remembrance: Armistice Day November 11, 1943

​Armistice Day, Thursday, November 11, 1943, is a day 80 years ago I will
never forget.

That morning my 10th grade English teacher, Miss Ruggles, told us about
America’s role in the Great War. Then she introduced us to the War Poets,
among them Rupert Brooke, Wilfred Owen, and John McCrae. McCrae authored
one of the best known and most easily understood poems, “In Flanders Fields.”
The opening lines read:
In Flanders fields the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row by row.
That mark our places . . .
​
Then, at 11:00 a.m. the town’s factory whistles blew for two minutes,
bringing everything to a halt.

We stood at silent attention to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the
11 a.m. November 11, 1918 end of what has become known as World War I, “a
war to end all wars.” We also stood to honor the more than 50,000 young
American soldiers who died fighting in France.

On arriving home that afternoon I noticed what appeared to be a
telegram addressed to our father. When Dad came home from work, he moved
to his favorite living room chair and started opening the mail. Suddenly he cried
out: “It’s Jim!”

We saw him clutching a War Department telegram that began with the by
now familiar words: “We regret to inform you . . . .” It went on to say that our
older brother Jim had been killed in combat in Italy on October 27, 1943.

How heart-breaking for all of us, trying to take in this devastating news. In
the days that followed, Jim’s death was not something we could easily talk
about with each other, with schoolmates, or with neighborhood friends. We
simply had to live with it and continue with our lives. But the pain never goes
away.

We soon received from the local American Legion Post a new service flag
with its gold star to replace our blue star flag. Letters arrived from several of
Jim’s buddies offering their sympathy. Several months later news came that Jim
had been awarded posthumously a Silver Star for battlefield valor. He served as
a forward observer whose dangerous assignment was to move beyond the front
lines and direct artillery fire on enemy targets.

After the war ended, another letter arrived asking whether my folks
wanted Jim’s remains sent back to the U.S. or buried in the newly constructed
American military cemetery in Nettuno, Italy. My parents wisely opted for his
burial there with his fellow soldiers.
​
My several visits over the years to Jim’s grave are always a mix of sadness
offset by respect for the 7,860 soldiers killed in Sicily and southern Italy who lie
buried there. They rest in the silent beauty of the well-cared-for cemetery. Each
of its white marble grave markers stands in a sea of perfectly spaced and
aligned rows of crosses and occasional stars of David. Each lists the soldier’s
name and rank, military unit, home state, and date of death.

JAMES W. HANSEN
SGT 125 FA BN 34 DIV
MINNESOTA OCT 27 1943

On each visit to Jim’s grave I see fewer American visitors. My two
brothers and I, Korean War veterans now in our nineties, are doubtless the only
living persons who knew our brother Jim. And soon we too will be gone.
We hope on this Veterans Day that younger generations of Americans will
pause to remember and honor the thousands of young Americans who died
serving their country, young men they never knew but who sacrificed so much
for all of us.