FORT POLK, La. -- Throughout our lives we all make connections, many of them fleeting and often forgettable. Others remain with us a lifetime, weaving our experiences into a colorful tapestry of lives well lived.
And when fortune smiles upon us, an unforgettable connection is formed, often by happenstance, one that transcends time and distance, one that is forged by love and loss.
Fortune has smiled upon me. It has come in the guise of some unforgettable Fort Polk personnel, a rusted set of World War II dog tags and the hero who once wore them, and a woman in south-central New York State still grieving for the father she lost ….
Several months ago I received an e-mail from Brad Lafitte, Fort Polk Cultural Resources Manager, Conservation Branch (headed by Wayne Farris) of the Directorate of Public Works' Environmental Resources Management Division. During archeological surveys of newly purchased Fort Polk land, Brad and his team (Prentice Thomas and Associates, Inc.), found a rusted set of World War II era dog tags buried in the earth. The dog tags were unearthed miles from anywhere in the midst of the piney woods so prevalent in central Louisiana, a fair distance from Fort Polk proper -- an event as likely, says Brad, as finding the proverbial needle in a haystack.
Not considered an archeological artifact because of their age (less than 100 years), the dog tags bore a legible name: Arthur Barry, New York. That might have been the end of the story. The dog tags could have been placed in the Fort Polk Museum, or another static display detailing some of the installation's 74 year history, but that's not what the Conservation Branch chose to do.
The team went to work with little to work with. Yet they found Arthur Barry's enlistment record and, sadly, his obituary. Mr. Barry passed away on March 1, 2012. Brad and team wanted to do the right thing, to go the extra mile for this World War II veteran. They wanted to return the dog tags to Arthur Barry's surviving family members, if any remained. It was determined that Fort Polk's Public Affairs Office should make the attempt to find those survivors ---- and thus I became involved.
Reading Mr. Barry's obituary gave me a factual outline, the barest sketch of what must have been a rich and interesting life. Born in 1921, Arthur Barry grew up on the family farm in Marlboro, N.Y. He graduated from high school in 1939. Three short years later, in 1942, he was a U.S. Soldier, serving with the Medical Detachment of the 124th Infantry, 31st Infantry Division, also known as the Dixie Division. I can only imagine that he must have trained here at Camp Polk along with the thousands of other young Soldiers preparing to face combat in World War II. Here he lost his dog tags in the midst of the grueling, realistic training that has been a hallmark of this Army installation since men like Arthur first paved the way.
What struck me most about the information in the obituary, and what brought me to tears, was reading that Arthur Barry was not only a member of what we call "our Greatest Generation," but also a war hero ---- receiving both a Purple Heart and a Silver Star while serving his country in the Pacific Arena. Arthur Barry received his Silver Star as a result of his participation in the rescue of several wounded fellow Soldiers during the Battle of Colgan Woods in the Philippines. And because I wanted to know more, I did some research.
I cannot imagine what those men suffered during the Philippine Island campaigns of World War II: The heat and humidity of the jungle, monsoon weather and proliferous fields of "abaca" ---- a word that one chronicler considered a synonym with hell.
He writes: "Countless acres are covered with these thick-stemmed plants, 15 to 20 feet high; the plants grew as closely together as sugar cane, and their long, lush green leaves are in a welter of green so dense that a strong man must fight with the whole weight of his body for each foot of progress … No breeze ever reached through the gloomy expanse of green, and more men ---- American and Japanese ---- fell prostrate from the overpowering heat than bullets." Add to that a formidable enemy desperate to make a last stand that counted. And though I can never presume to know what combat was like for these men, it sounds like hell to me.
On May 6, Arthur Barry's regiment, the Dixie Division, moved into its toughest fight of what was known as the Mindanao campaign. The battle area was later renamed Colgan Woods by the troops in remembrance of Capt. Thomas A. Colgan, an Army chaplain who was killed during one of his repeated efforts to aid wounded Soldiers in the line of fire. This battle was one of the many brutal struggles in the Pacific theater that never made any headlines.
It was there that Arthur Barry saved the lives of wounded Soldiers. It was there that defending Japanese -- firing from dugout positions, from camouflaged spider holes with connected tunnels, from virtually invisible pillboxes -- chose to die in place rather than retreat. According to accounts, by battle's end, Japanese Banzai charges, human wave attacks, struck the 124th -- fighting without supporting artillery -- first on May 7 and then on May 14.
Can you imagine the heat, the cacophony of battle, the cries of the wounded, and the perseverance to carry on despite them all? I know I cannot.
Finally, American automatic weapons stopped the attackers, marking the end of the battle. In the fighting for Colgan Woods, the 124th Infantry lost 60 men with 120 wounded ….
It was then that Arthur Barry became real for me, it was then that I felt awestruck by the finding of a random set of dog tags … a random set of dirt-encrusted, rusted dog tags more than 73 years old.
It wasn't hard to find a survivor of Arthur Barry's. A name given in his obituary, a Google search, and I had a phone number belonging to Susan Barry, a woman I believed to be Arthur's daughter, and later I found out, Arthur's only surviving immediate family member.
What I hadn't counted on was the difficulty I would encounter in calling her. How do you begin that conversation? How do you explain why you're calling? How do you ask a family member if they'd like something returned that they didn't even know existed? How do you express the emotion you feel at the heroism of Arthur Barry and the compassion that's sparked at the thought of speaking to a grieving family member? It took me several hours to summon the courage to call …
It was an unusual phone call ---- and I think it safe to say I will probably never make another like it. Susan was hesitant and had many questions and I knew she needed time to process the information I gave her.
After a few days, and the exchange of several e-mails, I learned just how gracious is Arthur Barry's daughter. She writes, "If I sounded hesitant on the phone, it was because I was truly stunned by the information you provided. My immediate family, which included my parents and one sister who are all deceased, have been much in my thoughts lately, so your call was the best gift one could ever imagine."
Arthur Barry's dog tags will be returned to his daughter, where she will place them with his Purple Heart and Silver Star �---- concrete reminders of his heroism, cherished mementos that will be passed to his grandchildren. So, in a sense, those dog tags are going home …
After the war, Arthur returned to his home in New York. He owned his own small business, he raised a family, he was a member of the Gardiner Fire Department, an avid outdoorsman ---- and he loved Margaret, his wife of 49 years, who predeceased him. Susan writes that her father's heroism "extended beyond his military service into how he lived his entire life. He was a wonderful, caring, compassionate human being."
I've related this story to my coworkers and family. Each and every time, the telling of it brings a hard, unyielding lump to my throat and tears that threaten to overflow my eyes. It's hard for me to define my feelings ---- an unusual state of affairs for a writer. Perhaps author William Faulkner's words are fitting. He once wrote: "The past is never dead. It's not even past." And that pretty well explains this poignant connection ---- a full circle completed despite time, death and distance.
I'll never forget the staff at Fort Polk's Environmental Resources Management Division for their devotion and caring, and their desire to go above and beyond to do the right thing for a Soldier. They make me proud to be a member of the Fort Polk team.
I'll never forget Susan Barry, a woman living thousands of miles away, a woman I am unlikely ever to meet, who still feels grief over the loss of her father and wants to preserve his legacy. I know full well that lingering pain and that need. Don't most of us? I feel a connection with her that I think has become part of what defines me.
Most of all, I'll always remember Arthur Barry, a man I will never have the privilege of meeting. This hero trained here at Fort Polk, my home. He served his country bravely, with honor. He returned home, raised a family and lived his life. But for the accidental discovery of a long-forgotten set of dog tags, I would not know his name, I would not know of his existence.
For me, Arthur Barry reflects the bravery, the patriotism, the determination of thousands of men and women who have served this country throughout the years and returned to quiet lives, neither expecting nor seeking reward or recompense. I know his name now. I'll remember his name. And that, to echo Susan Barry's words, "is the best gift one could ever imagine."
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