Stories by Others About the Sixth Division, the Marines, and World War II
Remembrances of General Lemuel C. Shepherd from His Son and Granddaughter
to the Association on the Death of His Father in 1990
|
861 J Avenue Coronado, CA 92118 August 26, 1990 Mr. Raymond J. Schlinder President 6th Marine Division Association Hyatt Regency Milwaukee 333 West Kilbourn Avenue Milwaukee, WI 53203 Dear Ray: My brother, Lemuel III, informed me yesterday the association was meeting in Milwaukee. We both decided to write and request that you express to the association our sincere appreciation for their demonstration of respect and admiration of our father, both here in California and at the ceremonies in Arlington. We were overwhelmed by the members large attendance on both occasions. It was difficult for me to believe that so many men would turn out after 45 years to wish their commander farewell. However, I believe that I can understand it better now after hearing General Krulak, the Division’s operations officer, explain that each morning during the Okinawa campaign, Dad would inquire where the “Hot Spot” had been the preceding night. Upon learning its location, he would set out on foot to walk and crawl to the front to see for himself what the situation was and how his men were making out. Over the years, I had had the pleasure of meeting a number of the men from the California contingent who would visit Dad on those special days such as his birthday and the birthday of the Corps. My father always looked forward to those visits and I am sure that he was smiling down on “his boys” from the Big Barracks in the sky when each of you laid a flower on his coffin at Arlington. I must say that that was the most touching thing that I have ever seen in my 62 years. God bless and keep you all. I have taken the liberty to enclose a copy of an essay that my daughter, Virginia Shepherd, wrote between Dad’s death and the day of the Arlington funeral. [See below.] I think that it expresses better than anything I could say, how much we too will miss the General that you followed in combat and we followed all of our lives. Yours very truly, Wilson E.D. Shepherd |
 Generals Simon Boliver Buckner Jr., Lemuel C. Shepherd Jr., and William T. Clement on Okinawa, May 22, 1945 We thank Sallie Shepherd for providing us with General Shepherd's Address to the 6th Marine Division before the battle of Okinawa. |
Writes About Her Grandfather after His Death
His granddaughters never needed to wear dresses to see him, and his grandsons never needed coats and ties -- unless it was Thanksgiving or Christmas. We never needed appointments; we didn't know any protocol. We grandchildren were bound by no rules of etiquette or appropriateness when it came to Grandad. No one could (or dared) stop us from bounding up to him with a whoop of joy whenever we met, hugging him long enough to assure us that the smell of crushed pine needles still surrounded him and still longer to remember how much we were treasured. We were not old enough then to be frightened by his grandeur, and when we grew old enough to know of it, we were puffed up with the privilege that allowed us to demand of him what others would not dare.
I remember rummagin through his desk drawer one evening as a young girl while the adults were clinking their glasses of ice cubes and bourbon and water in another room before dinner. Nothing was off-limits to grandchildren; we had the run of the house, and I often entertained myself tapping the British drum in the fireplace or taking out and holding the medals in his cabinet, dreaming of gunfire and fearless men. That particular evening, amongst handwritten letters and silver paperweights, I came upon a can of English snuff. Marching into the living room, I boldly interrupted the gathering and demanded of Grandad to explain this mystery of the mustard-colored dust. And in that mumbled drawl of his, that Southerner's tongue that could weave a story out of the tiniest detail, Grandad enchanted me with a tale and instructions on how to properly (in a very British manner) dip snuff. I returned to his den of musty treasures with gold dust around my nose, quite pleased with myself. We alone could give him orders.
Even without intending, the stories always welled up around Granny and Grandad. There was the time not too long ago when they toppled into each other in the kitchen while trying to elbow their way past each other. Granny suffered a broken hip and Grandad a few
Portrait of General Lemuel C. Shepherd, Jr. sent to us by his granddaughter, Sallie Shepherd. It once hung in her parent’s home and now resides in the Admissions Office at VMI. (Note the Sixth Division flag.)
bruises he grumbled about. And the phones started ringing from one coast to the other. "Did you hear what Lem and Virginia did this time?" Grandad caused a great fuss when he fell on a stair and broke his arm bringing pansies to the breakfast table one morning. And, of course there was the time several years ago when all believed that Grandad had seen his final day after a terrible stroke. He had even given out all his farewells, asking all to remember him "as he was." The phones were ringing again, this time to Arlington National Cemetery. Grandad simply opened his eyes the next morning and called for his wife. "Virginia, get me out of here," he commanded. "I'm sick of this goddamned jello." The General still lived.
I look at myself in the mirror and see nothing of Grandad. Not the ears that stuck out, not the lumpy nose or big belly he had when I knew him. In fact nobody in the family, as far as I can tell, looks like him. Who among his grandchildren know if they inherited the color of his hair or the crease of his smile or his stubby knees? These things are not clear in a child's mind, and when you are grown up enough to need such reassurances, age hides the truth under wrinkles and mottled skin. So, instead, I cling to the belief that Grandad gave me my love of swimming and horses and dogs, and I smile when I realize that I, too, have a passion for English teas and French dogs and gray horses, and stories of honor and courage and the truth. But it makes me the slightest bit jealous to realize that these things are not my exclusive domain, that these inheritances are not mine alone like the curve of a nose or an elbow would be, but that anyone who loves and admires might also copy a bit of Grandad and claim the right of kinship...
I dreamed two nights after Grandad died that he was still alive. I knew that he had died, but in the illogical pattern of dreams, he was to visit me the next day. It was to be a hardship, since he was not in good health, but he was coming. And sure enough, he arrived. Even Granny was there, and brought me down to see Grandad. I took her arm as I always did and she chattered away, looking beautiful as always. As we got downstairs, the parking lot turned into a garden and Grandad came up to me, looking quite handsome indeed, in a blue coat and red tie. He was his old self and gave me a great hug. Realizing that he was dead, I tried not to cry as I told him how much I loved him, and then marvelled how the garden became full of people, and a party had begun. Grandad was receiving all kinds of folks, and I was busy asking everyone if they had talked to him yet, making sure they didn't get discouraged by the crowd...
* * *
* *
I am not crying today for the Marine. The Corps has his battles recorded, his medals photographed, his victories remembered. I cry for the fading of our memories, for the stories that will be forgotten, for the people who will read the history books and wonder what it was that made this man so different from the rest. They won't have the great hugs and the tales I've long forgotten that will come back to me sometime when I really and truly need them. They won't have the grandfather about who showed us that man really can follow a path to greatness and still retain his humanity.
I fear that only the myth will remain.
I remember rummagin through his desk drawer one evening as a young girl while the adults were clinking their glasses of ice cubes and bourbon and water in another room before dinner. Nothing was off-limits to grandchildren; we had the run of the house, and I often entertained myself tapping the British drum in the fireplace or taking out and holding the medals in his cabinet, dreaming of gunfire and fearless men. That particular evening, amongst handwritten letters and silver paperweights, I came upon a can of English snuff. Marching into the living room, I boldly interrupted the gathering and demanded of Grandad to explain this mystery of the mustard-colored dust. And in that mumbled drawl of his, that Southerner's tongue that could weave a story out of the tiniest detail, Grandad enchanted me with a tale and instructions on how to properly (in a very British manner) dip snuff. I returned to his den of musty treasures with gold dust around my nose, quite pleased with myself. We alone could give him orders.
Even without intending, the stories always welled up around Granny and Grandad. There was the time not too long ago when they toppled into each other in the kitchen while trying to elbow their way past each other. Granny suffered a broken hip and Grandad a few
Portrait of General Lemuel C. Shepherd, Jr. sent to us by his granddaughter, Sallie Shepherd. It once hung in her parent’s home and now resides in the Admissions Office at VMI. (Note the Sixth Division flag.)
bruises he grumbled about. And the phones started ringing from one coast to the other. "Did you hear what Lem and Virginia did this time?" Grandad caused a great fuss when he fell on a stair and broke his arm bringing pansies to the breakfast table one morning. And, of course there was the time several years ago when all believed that Grandad had seen his final day after a terrible stroke. He had even given out all his farewells, asking all to remember him "as he was." The phones were ringing again, this time to Arlington National Cemetery. Grandad simply opened his eyes the next morning and called for his wife. "Virginia, get me out of here," he commanded. "I'm sick of this goddamned jello." The General still lived.
I look at myself in the mirror and see nothing of Grandad. Not the ears that stuck out, not the lumpy nose or big belly he had when I knew him. In fact nobody in the family, as far as I can tell, looks like him. Who among his grandchildren know if they inherited the color of his hair or the crease of his smile or his stubby knees? These things are not clear in a child's mind, and when you are grown up enough to need such reassurances, age hides the truth under wrinkles and mottled skin. So, instead, I cling to the belief that Grandad gave me my love of swimming and horses and dogs, and I smile when I realize that I, too, have a passion for English teas and French dogs and gray horses, and stories of honor and courage and the truth. But it makes me the slightest bit jealous to realize that these things are not my exclusive domain, that these inheritances are not mine alone like the curve of a nose or an elbow would be, but that anyone who loves and admires might also copy a bit of Grandad and claim the right of kinship...
I dreamed two nights after Grandad died that he was still alive. I knew that he had died, but in the illogical pattern of dreams, he was to visit me the next day. It was to be a hardship, since he was not in good health, but he was coming. And sure enough, he arrived. Even Granny was there, and brought me down to see Grandad. I took her arm as I always did and she chattered away, looking beautiful as always. As we got downstairs, the parking lot turned into a garden and Grandad came up to me, looking quite handsome indeed, in a blue coat and red tie. He was his old self and gave me a great hug. Realizing that he was dead, I tried not to cry as I told him how much I loved him, and then marvelled how the garden became full of people, and a party had begun. Grandad was receiving all kinds of folks, and I was busy asking everyone if they had talked to him yet, making sure they didn't get discouraged by the crowd...
I am not crying today for the Marine. The Corps has his battles recorded, his medals photographed, his victories remembered. I cry for the fading of our memories, for the stories that will be forgotten, for the people who will read the history books and wonder what it was that made this man so different from the rest. They won't have the great hugs and the tales I've long forgotten that will come back to me sometime when I really and truly need them. They won't have the grandfather about who showed us that man really can follow a path to greatness and still retain his humanity.
I fear that only the myth will remain.