Dad knew the fog of war. I do not.
In 1944, my dad was in a field between hedge rows in France. His duty had several facets. He was a soldier who was responsible to engage the enemy, drive them back, win the battle and win the war. He was also responsible for keeping the DUKW (also known as the Duck) moving. He was the mechanic and back up driver for the two and a half ton truck that moved from land to water in a smooth motion to ferry men and supplies to the land on the other side of the water they needed to cross.
In that field of France, he was welding a type of cutting blade on the front of the DUKW to help them get through the hedges where the tanks had not already cut a path. The metal turned cherry red and began to move. It flowed together with a sudden pop. Slag from the weld shot from the red flowing metal into his eye. It burned into the cornea with siring pain. Dad dropped to the ground in agony.
Men ran to extinguish the flames and turn off the gas to the torch. As they rolled him over on his back he tried to sit up, but a second lieutenant was running at full speed toward him. Leaving the ground he kicked dad to his back and landed seated on his chest in what looked like one precise move. There was no time for explanation as the lieutenant yelled for a medic while ripping hair from dad’s scalp and ordering another man to hold dad’s eye open. Then he began to pull the strand of hair across the eyeball which pulled the burning slag out of the eye.
As the medic arrived, the situation was over. The eye was saved. The medic filled the eye with a suave and bandaged it around dad’s head.
The next day their platoon came under sniper fire from a grove of trees. “Get in there and eliminate that sniper” was the order given to dad’s squad. As dad reached for his rifle, someone snatched it away. It was the medic who had bandaged his eye the day before. The medic was already taking off his helmet with the red cross indicating that he was a medic. He then handed it to dad and said, “The eye you sight your rifle with is bandaged. You can’t do the job. If you go in there like that, you will be killed.” He then took dad’s helmet and gave dad the medic kit and helmet.
They entered the trees. The fire fight. The confusion. The yells and screams. The fog of war. Did anyone know what was happening at that moment? They only knew what they could see within a small circle where they were at any given moment. The officers outside the trees assessed the overall situation as the smoke cleared.
I walked toward the nurse. My heart raced. “I am not sure I can make it to you,” I said. A nurse. A physician assistant. Two more nurses. I thought I might die. Laying on the floor. I had no idea what was happening. I was in the fog of grief.
Grief can bring on phantom symptoms. Grief can bring anxiety. Grief can stress the body and bring real issues. Grief can intensify existing physical conditions. All of them feel real. Some of them are real. But in the moment it’s all a fog of pain and fear.
The smart medical personnel do not rush to blame the grief which only compounds the fog for the grieving one. They step back and separate the parts one by one to determine what is real and what is stress or anxiety. Then they address the real issues while showing respectful understanding for the fog of grief.
Dad knew the Fog of War. I only know the Fog of Grief.
Outstanding