My Gran tapped her fingernail on the glass plate covering a large composite picture of the U.S. 115th Infantry Regiment, Company B, dated 1942. “That’s Bud, my brother,” upper right hand corner. “All these guys are gone now, I read that in the newspaper. I don’t think that’s right though,” she said, sliding her finger over to the left side, scanning, pointing to a new face. “I think he’s still alive, he became a police officer. I never saw a correction in the paper.” A pause. “They were gone for so long; they didn’t come back ’til it was over over there, like the song.” A smile.
“Want to see a boy I dated? Look for Ruck, the writing’s small, but, oh there he is! He was good looking, yes that’s him.” She stood and stepped back from the composite and the desk, where she had room to slightly sway, a little dance to the tune of a memory. “He liked me more than I liked him. Ruck liked me; I liked Herb. Herb wasn’t interested in me. That’s how it goes though, isn’t it?” She smiled.
Yes and no.
I looked down at the picture in my hand, my Gran had told me I could take it for my collection. Not Jennie and Herb; not Jennie and Ruck; Jennie and Joe, dated 1943.