Last May I published a blog containing a letter that my great-grandmother had received from the soldier and friend who had been with her son on the day he was fatally wounded during the Second Battle of the Marne in 1918.  Relating the story of my Great-Uncle Harry was a way to honor all the fallen on Memorial Day.

Now, to honor the veterans, the ones that made it home,  on this Veteran's Day 2009 I would like to continue the story by taking a closer look at the writer of the letter.
                      
Although Mr. Elder was later wounded in WWI, he made it home to Indiana in one piece, living on a 120 acre farm and working for General Electric until 1955.  He also built and ran a filling station along the road near his farm.  In his final years he would spend winters in Florida and go fishing nearly every day even though he had become hearing and vision impaired.  Although he never had children of his own, he married a widow with three kids and they all considered him their dad.   He was a month shy of his 101st birthday when he died.  How did I come to know all these details?  Serendipity, I suppose.  A spot of good luck, perhaps.  But, I have come to think of it as a bunch of tiny miracles strung together.  This is the only explanation that gives me satisfaction.


Finding the letter was the first miracle.  It was well hidden in a box of old papers and receipts that normally would have been thrown out upon the death of their keeper.  But, it was not.  And, after I found it and read it, I spent some time thinking about my great-uncle; what a shame it had been to lose him, what a sorrow it had been for my great-grandmother.

Then, my thoughts began to turn toward the writer of the letter.  Mr. Elder, I began to call him in my mind.  I wanted to know more about him.  I wanted to know what had happened to him, to this man who had written such a detailed account of the fatal wounding of a comrade with such calmness and gentleness so as to give some measure of comfort to a mother grieving over a son.  Being the mother of a son currently tied to the military, I could appreciate the effort Mr. Elder made.  The letter he wrote is exactly the kind of letter I would want to receive if I am ever faced with an awful day.

So, I decided to look for Mr. Elder.  I had a name, a date, a location, military data and the internet.  Oh, and I also had my naivete, which if I had been lacking that, I never would have made the attempt to find what I figured, after such a great passage of time, was probably a dead man. After all, dead men don't move much, they are a stationary target, shall we say, and public death notices are a matter of record which can easily be looked up.  Obituaries are goldmines of familial information.  How hard could it be?  I was sure I'd be able to find out a few things about Mr. Elder to sate my curiosity.   Let's call naivete miracle number two.

Three weeks later, bleary eyed and despondent, I was stymied.  Dead end after dead end.  Having exhausted every lead, I was no closer to my goal and had no fresh ideas on how to proceed.  So, I called on my friends...my internet friends specifically, asking for input, ideas, suggestions, anything that would help lift the roadblocks.  I was looking for new eyes to help me see.  I only had one response.  My grumpy old neejekewan, my brother-friend, e-mailed me in return.  'I'll help ya, flower,' was all he wrote.

I thanked him, gave him the few particulars I had found, then promptly left him on his own.  An ongoing family situation had escalated into a kind of breakdown that couldn't be ignored and kept me away from home for several days.  Needless to say, I was a little distracted when I finally got back to what passes for normal at my house, but there in my e-mail in-box waiting for me was four messages from neejekewan.  I welcomed this renewed distraction.

Three of the leads did not advance my search, but they did confirm or eliminate the military information I had gleaned.  The fourth one was looking as though it was yet another dead end, taking me to a genealogy site that included a long list of R. Elders.  Now, I had been through about 300 genealogy pages of Elders already and none had panned out.  Why I thought this one would, I had no idea.  But, I did not want to give up just yet.  Maybe this is called miracle number three.

So, for the next couple of days I went through the list and followed a bazillion links, ending up at a site far, far away from the original point.  To this day I cannot tell you the precise path I took to get there or why I lingered on this one particular site and not any of the others.  I do remember staring at this page for about half an hour.  Just staring.  There were Ralph Elders all over this site, the location was in the realm of possibility, but the comparative dates were not in sync.  It just could not possibly be what I was looking for.  At the very bottom of this lengthy site was the webmaster's particulars and the invitation to submit any questions.

I had a question, alright.  Where the hell did Ralph Elder go when he got home from the war?

Throughout my internet adventure I had sent off a couple dozen e-mails inquiring after more detailed information.  No replies. Snotty people on the internet make my teeth grind together.   But, I sent off one more, asking the webmaster if they knew of any members of the Elder family currently residing in this particular part of Indiana who might know of a Ralph Elder that was a veteran of WWI.  I was becoming used to rejection and figured I might as well go for the world's record.  I did not expect an answer.

Ten minutes later, I got a reply.  I'll call this miracle number four.

The webmaster gave me a little extra history of the Elder name, none of it pertinent to my cause, but at the end he asked for the reasons behind my specific request.  I figured, I'm desperate, I have nothing to lose, and unloading my woes onto a complete stranger sounded like a good idea at the time, so I sent off a copy of the letter and told him my reasons why I wanted to find out what happened to Mr. Elder.

Ten minutes later, I got another reply.  Turns out Mr. webmaster's websites are just a hobby of his, as is genealogical research.  His real job is in genetics...as in he has a Phd.   From that point on I called him Dr. webmaster with sincerity because I had thought he was signing himself off as Dr. So-and-so like Gene Simmons calls himself "Dr.Love".  

Dr.webmaster asks for permission to send the letter and my questions around to the various historical societies in Indiana that he has done work for to see if they can help.  I gave it and thanked him for his efforts on my behalf  Even though I figured nothing much would result, it was very heartening to know there are such good people sprinkled throughout the webosphere who would help a total stranger.  When I am sent a miracle, I get five star service.

Ten minutes later, I got an e-mail.

This time from a secretary of a historical society in Indiana who, after reading Dr webmaster's e-mail, recalled she has a cousin who's grandfather was named Ralph Elder and is forwarding the e-mail to said cousin to find out if it could possibly be the same Ralph Elder I am looking for.  This is definitely miracle number six.

Ten minutes later, I got an e-mail.

This time from a woman named Delores.  She is the granddaugher of Ralph Elder, a child of one of the children Mr. Elder raised as his own.  We compared notes and specifics and it became quite obvious we were speaking of the same man.  The final miracle in the string.

Four weeks of searching that culminates in one hour of fast and furious e-mailings and I find my Mr. Elder, and over the next few days I heard from the grand children and great grandchildren the details of his life.  How it was so like him to write such a kind letter.  Seven tiny miracles that lead to finding the WWI veteran that had been so generous to my great-grandmother.  I was happy.  People in Indiana were happy.  And, we celebrated this veteran's life.

I reckon if I was any kind of smart I would end this already too long essay right here.  But, I can't.

Veteran's Day.  A day to think about all the men and women that returned from war, that devoted decades to service of country, or even just a few years.  They gave of themselves to serve.  Some of them gave up more than others. 

This day should not pass without thinking of the ones that brought the war home with them.  Many veterans have good stories to tell.  Funny, sad, touching.  But there are some who won't tell their stories.  There are some who make you guess at their stories and you never get it right.  There are some who act out their stories.

Shell shock.  Battle fatigue.  Post Tramatic Stress Disorder.  Complicated by head trauma.  Brains rattling around inside skulls rattling around inside helmets from the sound of repeat gunfire and exploding bombs and the shriek of missiles.  It goes off inside their heads and keeps going off long after they have left the theater.

Isn't it odd they call war 'theater'.

While corresponding with members of the Elder family, I sent out scanned copies of the actual letter.  One of the grandchildren had remarked that Mr. Elder's handwriting was quite elegant in form, rivaling calligraphy.  They were very disappointed however, when they saw the copy.
  
             
The handwriting from 1919 is erratic and uneven. It cannot be mistaken for fancy script.
               

Mr. Elder apparently would discuss the events of the war quite often.  He brought back souvenirs; he had his medals and helmet and gas mask to bring out and show from his trunk full of memories, including a photo album of comrades, alive and dead.   He remembered them all.   He discussed them.  He discussed the war and the battles.  He told his war stories over and over again to a family proud and willing to listen; they embraced the return of their warrior.   By doing so, they helped him to conduct his own therapy of dealing with the thunderous effects of the first truly mechanized war.

We should do no less for our warriors returning now.  

The handwriting of the letter reflects the anguish Mr. Elder was working through.  He was fresh from the fight; he could still hear the battle inside his head when he wrote about that day near Thierry Castle in 1918.  But, he worked it out.  It took him years, perhaps decades, but he worked it out, and at some point along the way, with the help of his family, the tortured scrawl turned into calligraphy.