When Pearl Harbor was attacked in December of 1941, my maternal grandfather and grandmother were busy working as barber and beautician in a small South Dakota town. Two years later with World War II well underway, my grandfather voluntarily enlisted in the United States Navy at the age of 37. He shipped off to help in the war efforts, leaving a wife and 9-year old daughter (my Mom) at home. On July 6, 1944, my grandfather boarded the USS Savo Island as the ship’s barber. First commissioned as an escort carrier, the ship’s maiden voyage earlier in 1944 was to ferry aircraft, fuel, ammunition and Marine troops to the South Pacific. From September 1944 through May 1945, the ship narrowly escaped repeated attacks by both the Japanese naval fleet and kamikaze suicide bombers. Frequent and bloody combat and capture as well as climbing death tolls became a regular way of life. During this time, the USS Savo Island played a key role in the occupation of more than a dozen islands in the South Pacific. Military records state that the ship “was under frequent and determined enemy air attacks.” After the Japanese surrender later in 1945, the USS Savo Island began a new and much happier mission. It was assigned “magic carpet” duty, and over three voyages carried thousands of troops home to American soil. For his service and sacrifice, my grandfather was awarded two bronze stars and other honors. Like so many of his brethren who today would be diagnosed with PTSD, the horrors of war forever changed my grandfather. Once home, he abused alcohol, suffered horrible nightmares of combat, capture and death, and was no longer the man that my grandmother and mother remembered. He battled ongoing rage at the millions of lives lost, and at times my mother was so afraid that she stayed the night at a friend’s house. Within a year of his return, grandfather developed an aggressive malignant tumor in the same region of his head and neck where he had sustained injuries during combat. Despite a grueling series of 600-mile round trip drives to the VA hospital in Minneapolis for treatment, my grandfather died in 1948 at the age of 42. He left a widow and 13-year old daughter behind. My grandmother remarried four years later. Grandfather was rarely spoken of again, and the story solidified that he had been an angry man with a drinking problem. While my mother wouldn’t discuss him much, after her death we discovered his medals, the flag from his casket, and other items that she kept in remembrance of her father. It hurts my heart to realize what she locked away in hers all those years ago. A fun loving father went away when she was 9 years old, a very different father returned when she was 11, and by age 13 he had left her forever. Four years ago, I sent away for my grandfather’s military records and was able to piece together the full history of his service. While my mother is already passed on, it has allowed me to have a new perspective on this mystery man. Like millions of others, he was an honorable man who was thrown into complicated times and tragedies that changed him deeply. And the likely real reason grandfather was never discussed is because the pain of those years was just too great for his survivors.

An interesting side to this story is that in the packet of military documents I received from the National Archives, there was mistakenly one sheet of paper with information on a man who is not my grandfather. The information indicated that he hailed from the same small South Dakota town, and enlisted in the Navy the same day as my grandfather. Through some internet detective work I sent an email to a woman I hoped was his daughter, also named Lisa. Imagine my surprise when she responded to say not only was her father still alive, but living in Parker, Colorado. He was indeed a buddy of my grandfather’s when they entered the service, though his assignment took him to Europe. I spent an afternoon at his ranch, heard stories of grandfather before the war, and left with the photograph I’ve shared. I can’t help but feel that perhaps there was an invisible hand nudging me in his direction. Around the globe and throughout history, the cost of one person’s freedom is often another’s life. My grandfather paid the ultimate price for our freedom, and so did his wife and daughter. For that, I bow my head in a mixture of gratitude, sorrow, respect and pride. As a society, we need to do a better job of supporting our veterans and their families in dealing with not just the physical, but the emotional and mental scars of war. I like to believe that somewhere my grandfather knows his story has been re-written with a new chapter now. Lisa Bishop