Tom Brokaw by The Greatest Generation

it with me when she came home that evening, and we have talked about it often. It was so representative of how quickly times had changed for young people.
    Gordon is now seventy-three. He’s retired from the Army Corps of Engineers after thirty-five years, having moved on from fixing furnaces to operating the sophisticated control systems in the powerhouses of dams in South Dakota, North Dakota, and Washington. He was surprised when I told him my mother and I remembered that moment in the post office. “I didn’t talk about the war much,” he said. “I spent most of my time trying to forget it.”
    Gordon quit high school in Omaha to join the Marines in 1941, following the path of his older brother, Jim. He trained in San Diego with the 3rd Marine Division, 9th Regiment, and immediately shipped out for the Pacific, where he carried the heavy Browning automatic rifle ashore at Guadalcanal, Bougainville, Guam, and Okinawa, participating in some of the heaviest fighting of the war.
    He hooked up with Jim, then nineteen, in the 3rd Marines, and they went ashore together at Bougainville. It was a bloody, unforgettable day for Gordon. His brother was hit almost instantly, severely wounded, on the beach. Gordon remembered it vividly. “He bounced around,” he said. “He was really hit.”
    Jim was down in an exposed position, and every time a rescue effort was launched, the Japanese opened up. Gordon’s commander told him they couldn’t do anything until dark. Jim lay there all day, his life draining from him. Finally, once it was nighttime, they were able to get him back to their lines and transported to a waiting ship.
    But too much damage had been done. Gordon’s brother died two weeks later in a Denver hospital.
    As he told me this story, unprompted, on a telephone call across forty-five years, Gordon’s voice grew husky and more distant. “I haven’t”—he hesitated and then went on—“I haven’t talked about this hardly ever.”
    He said he still has nightmares about his days in combat, and when I knew him, in the early fifties, when the memories were especially fresh, he said he thought about it all of the time, even when he was entertaining us while fixing our furnace.
    There were no psychiatrists in our small community for him to see, even if he had been inclined, which he wasn’t. “I just wanted to forget,” he said, “I just wanted to get on with my life.” Gordon said that when he went into a bar in those days and heard guys talking about combat, it made him sick, so sick he’d just walk out rather than stick around and share the painful memories. Besides, he always figured those who were willing to talk about combat had never really experienced it.
    After all the bloody fighting across the island chains leading to Japan, Gordon’s outfit was on Guam, preparing to board ships that would take them to the invasion of the mainland. Then word came of the surrender of the Japanese. Gordon’s shooting war was over.
    He came home with his unit. There had been 240 men in it when he left San Diego three years earlier. Only eight returned alive and uninjured. Gordon says he’s never been in touch with any of them. He doesn’t want to revisit those days.
    He does credit the Marines, however, and that awful experience during his formative years with giving direction to his life. He said he was a wild kid, and he didn’t know what would have happened without the discipline of the Marines and the sobering experiences of war.
    He came home a man, went to school nights to get his high school diploma, and worked days learning the trade of a furnace-and-heating-system technician. “I was never out of work,” he proudly recalled. “I never had to take the 52–20 program”—a government subsidy for returning veterans who couldn’t get work—twenty dollars a week for fifty-two