There’s a guy in the senior center band I play in. He was a tank commander in Korea. He has Alzheimer’s, so he tells the same story over and over. He has this harmonica, he plays, and it’s the same one he had in Korea. He told us as long as he was playing the harmonica on a hill named Old Baldy, the Chinese snipers wouldn’t shoot at his tank, and he could stick his head out of the turret. But if he wasn’t playing, he didn’t dare pop up for a look-see, cause he would hear the plink-plink off the tank when they shot at him.
My father fought at Old Baldy. Lost his best friend there. He burned his uniform because it was so saturated with his friend’s blood.
I’ve only seen my father cry a few times in my life; when my nephew died, when my mother died, and when he talked about Korea.