Today marks the 70th anniversary of the attack at Pearl Harbor. It was horrific--a surprised, unwarranted, vicious attack that killed and injured thousands. And, my grandpa was there.
I do not remember my grandpa, Mike Kutchman, ever talking about his war time experiences growing up. There were pictures of his buddies, his comrades in arms--but he refrained from giving me or my siblings any of the stories. War was and is hard. There are experiences too difficult to share--unless you were there.
It was my last conversation with grandpa when he gave me a glimpse of the sorrow he felt. About thirteen years ago I went with my wife-to-be to Las Vegas to see my grandparents. We had a great time of introductions and sharing stories. Then, as tradition, we went down the hall to a room where my grandpa built radio controlled airplanes (he was a genuine artist). Something seemed different with him. As we went down the hall he stopped me and began pointing to the pictures--to his friends, especially those that died in the war. For the first time I realized the pain he held deep within all these years. These were his friends--and they died--sometimes horrific deaths.
Pearl Harbor and the air field that he was stationed--memories carved into his mind. On Sunday, December 7th, he went to the mess hall to eat breakfast. When he was done, he walked out of the building and it exploded. Friends dead. The war was on.
After our conversation Angela and I left. Three months later he died--in his hobby room. I miss him greatly. May I never forget.
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