Family

Its a daunting task to tranverse family history for seldom is it circular, that is , in the sense of a complete story. I suspect I will be chasten for telling the truth as I saw it. The alternative would be the silences of a lie that reinforces a system of illusions and does not call for a change when needed. With a heavy heart of knowing I am going to unveil the fragilities of men and women whose blood I share I write this  piece. With the joy that I will understand the family members who have been set free with the truth I write this piece.
For family history should reflect a reality, it should unveil the cruelties of life without destroying its members, for only then can the healing start. Only then can we understand the struggles and triumphs of those who have gone before us and give reason for their action.

Family

  Its a daunting task to tranverse family history for seldom is it circular, that is , in the sense of a complete story. I suspect I will be chasten for telling the truth as I saw it. The alternative would be the silences of a lie that reinforces a system of illusions and does not call for a change when needed. With a heavy heart of knowing I am going to unveil the fragilities of men and women whose blood I share I write this  piece. With the joy that I will understand the family members who have been set free with the truth I write this piece.  
For family history should reflect a reality, it should unveil the cruelties of life without destroying its members, for only then can the healing start. Only then can we understand the struggles and triumphs of those who have gone before us and give reason for their action.

Saipan part 1

Kiko Delgado

By Frank Delgado

War is a very personal experience, which few if any who have actually gone thru,  would want to share with a love ones , let alone a stranger. But sometimes in unguarded moments the memories leach out, the cruelty : piece by piece and find a voice . Most of the  times we accept  war as a bad experience and something we would rather not discuss. Yet there is a sense of pride in a family member going to war and doing the unspeakable, killing another human being.

   Kiko Delgado , my father,  never claimed to be a “war hero” if there is such a thing. He just wanted to live. Many  times as a child while  watching  John Wayne war movies, my father would enter the room and  tell the four of us  that  only crazy or stupid men would want to go to war, would charge a machine gun nest or throw themselves on a grenade.   He would then change the channel. We looked up at him, silently thinking , “Yea  dad but you are not John Wayne,”  

  Throughout the years, I heard small pieces of my father’s  life in the Navy from him and other relatives. On occasions my father would talk about his boot camp experiences and his interactions with Drill instructors. The stories were mundane, normal, funny, and sometimes sad but he never spoke of the human struggle to stay alive in combat. I took his memories lightly as boring history, not the things war movies were made of. 

  When I was fourteen,  we took a trip to San Diego. I remember riding in a car descending  a bridge on a freeway  looking down on an armada of War Ships. As we approach closer my nose started to burn from the foul  smell of axial grease,  used on ships of war. Some of the ships were in dry dock. My father  pointed  out the destroyers, the cruisers, and the LSTs  troop transports. 

“ See there , those are the ships I was stationed on in the Pacific” he said pointing to a troop transport.

 “ I was a boatsman, I drove landing barges , LVT’s in two invasions. I was nineteen and one hundred-twenty seven pounds back then.” 

Then there was silence and no more talk. He had a sad look on his face. 

When I was nineteen ,  home from college,  I  over heard my father  tell my Uncle Pete about his second invasion.  My father’s ship was one day from approaching the landing zone. An alarm was sent out that there was a submarines in the area. The troops were tense, and total silences was ordered. As dusk approached an all clear was announced , the submarine had left. The troops relaxed . The men lingered topside on the decks, some writing letters to love ones  in anticipation of what tomorrow morning held.  Through out the ship men  gathered  in groups with common interest, singing , playing cards, sleeping but none laughing. My father knew three sailors on board from Southern Texas: Emilio De la Fuente from San Benito , Alberto Montoya from Corpus Christi, and Alonso Cantu from San Antonio. Emilio played the guitar as they sang old songs sung for generations in the Tejano neighborhoods of Texas.  Songs in Spanish sung  in better times,  with families that brought back good memories.  The cascades of  words soothed  their souls  , assuring them that a man would not be alone at his time of death. It was a  lament that no man knows his time, for the forces of nature determine life not men. The comforting  melody of the guitar echoed throughout the ship as the bright orange sun sank into Pacific Ocean.  

Then an ensign ran over and  shouted, “Stop, no more singing in Spanish! That an order. , Damn it !  How many more times do I have to tell you guys to speak English… only. The ensign saw their reaction and felt compassion. Besides , you guys better get some sleep ,you’re going in tomorrow morning.”

“ And no Texas flags on your boats. It that clear ! ” 

“ Montoya , De la Funtes you are in the first wave. Delgado , Cantu you are in the second.”  

Emilio turned pale, his spirit sank,  he had a flush stare . Perhaps he saw his future.

Alberto gave a big sigh, his face turned red, he swiped his mouth with is cupped hand and took a deep swallow. 

The first wave draws out  the enemy fire so the battle ships can zero in on enemy artillery. The first wave get hit the hardest.    

   The men slowly walked away cursing under their breath. .