My Dad the Super Hero

Lt. William Rachow, in Italy, 1944

This Veterans Day weekend I thought a lot about my dad, who served in WWII and survived to live out his particular version of the American dream.

His survival made my existence possible, so, of course, I’m grateful he made it home. I wish there were no such thing as war, but that kind of world is still in the making. And perhaps the creation of a peaceful planet in part has to do with generations of men and woman in uniform in the service of that goal.

My father passed away at the age of 87, and a group of serious men in uniform came to his graveside service to give him a full military send off. I was moved at how, after so many years of his civilian life, one airman’s service still mattered so intently to these young men.

Later I was honored to speak at Dad’s memorial. This is the story I shared with family and friends:

B-24 bomber

Imagine it’s September 10, 1944. We’re in a B-24 bomber flying over enemy territory. We’ve dropped our bombs, and Germans are firing back from ground and air. We’ve lost two engines, and then a third is hit.

                 

For the men in this plane, this is turning out to be one terrible, rotten day. But they aren’t dead yet. They’re now over Yugoslav territory when the pilot gives the order:

“Bail out!”

Twenty-one-year old, William Rachow (eventually to be known as my dad), is the bombardier on this mission. He opens the bomb bay doors and helps the crewmen take that leap of faith into the wild blue yonder. Then Lt Rachow steps into space himself.

He pulls the ripcord, and the miracle of the silk canopy is above him.

They say at times like this your whole life flashes before you. Lt. Rachow notices it’s a beautiful September day.

He thinks of the letter he received form his bride Rogene and the way it still smelled of her perfume. She’s expecting their first child. He has a lot to live for.

He looks for a place to set down. The meadow looks good, but the parachute takes him to a tall pine. He tumbles through the branches. It’s not pretty, but he makes it to the ground with only a few bumps.

Will he be met by enemy troops known for hanging all captives? Or by Russians with a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later?

Lt. Rachow is lucky to be found by Partisans sympathetic to American troops. The bad news is, none of them speak English. He must put his trust in hand signals that they will take him to safety.

He’s given a bed for the night, fed bread and eggs in the morning, and he’s taken to a British compound nearby where several days later he catches a C-47 supply plane back to his base in Italy.

The whole crew makes it back alive. One has an injured leg, and another had the seat of his flight suit blown off by flak, but otherwise they’re alive and well and find the courage to carry out more missions and eventually make it home to heroes’ welcomes.

I didn’t hear much about my dad’s war adventures until many years later when I went with him to a reunion of his squadron. There I learned Dad’s buddies called him Rocky. They told stories of his heroic deeds.

He was always there for them, they said. He shared what he had, money, cigarettes, even oxygen. One told me about when his mask froze at 30K feet, and my dad handed over his own oxygen. Apparently Rocky didn’t need extra oxygen no matter how thin the air got.

I already knew my dad was an everyday hero, working hard, helping family, friends and strangers alike. And I knew how much he loved our mom, Rogene, the first girl he ever kissed. From the way he joked around with her, to the way he held her hand the day she died, he made it clear she was a precious gift.

And later, when he was so blessed to find Irene and marry again at 80, he impressed me all over again with the way he appreciated and loved her.

I’d seen these things with my own eyes, but I wondered why he didn’t tell stories of his own heroism.

His buddies gave me the answer. “Rocky was our hero, but he never tooted his own horn.”

This was true.  My dad didn’t brag, but was strong under fire. He was able to take a leap of faith and trust in the unknown.  And he knew how to show love and gratitude for the ways he’d been blessed.

That’s my definition of a super hero.