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Something's Wrong
By Ray Pavlak, Winsted
I looked out the school window at the bleak November scene and felt a sense of foreboding as I started the class's art assignment. We were to draw something of our own choice. I had no idea of what I wanted to do, so I aimlessly marked the paper, sort of doodling. By the end of the class period, I had produced a battle scene. In 1945 this was not a surprising direction for my sketch to have taken, especially since my brother and brothers-in-law had been drafted into the service along with many others from our neighborhood. Still, I was surprised by its detail.
The broad overview suggested what could have been an idyllic landscape. Hills formed the background of a prairie-like expanse of short grass interspersed with palm trees both individual and in clumps. A stream seemed to run from the hills down the left side of the paper until it abruptly turned and flowed across the lower center of the drawing until it disappeared beyond the right border.
An event was being played out here which was far from idyllic, however. Rather it showed a struggle for military objectives and for survival. Several American GIs were taking cover while attacking a Japanese machine gun nest dug in at the base of a clump of trees across the river. While the Japanese team was focused on the threat posed by these Americans, another GI who had crossed the river was crawling toward them from the right and was about to throw a hand grenade into the Japanese gun emplacement.
At this moment one of the Japanese soldiers saw the threat on their left, motioned towards the danger and one of the guns swung in the direction of the grenade thrower. As bullets began to rapidly whine toward the lone GI, his grenade reached the peak of its flight and arced toward the men in the nest.
I looked up when Miss Klug, our 8th grade teacher, told the class to put away our art work. At that moment Miss Mettling, the principal of Migeon Avenue School, appeared at the door and motioned to Miss Klug to join her in the hall. When Miss Klug walked down the aisle and stopped at my desk, I quickly reviewed my recent behavior for any clue as to what was wrong that might involve me.
We had climbed over the fence after supper the day before to play basketball on the school's outside court. No, that couldn't be it, since we did that regularly and neither Mr. Olson, the custodian, nor the cops had come by to tell us to beat it. As far as I could tell there was no reason for me to be frightened, but I was. My concern grew when Miss Klug bent over to whisper that Miss Mettling wanted to see me.
Wow, what was it? Like all the kids at the school, I liked our new, young and friendly principal. What might I have done to upset her and cause my summons to her office? Well, nothing I could do about it now, so I walked down the hall and stood at her open office entrance. She looked up from her writing and I saw sadness in her eyes. "Come in, Raymond." Then in a quiet, tender voice she continued, "Your family needs you at home."
That statement was sufficient. We didn't expect a reason when we were directed by our teachers to do something. So I hurried to the cloakroom, grabbed my coat, scooted down the stairs and half ran to my sister Regina's house, where I knew Mom had gone to visit.
They were both waiting for me. Mom said, "Sonny, oh, Sonny!" as tears rolled down her face. I reached for her and Re's arms completed the circle. Re said, "Johnny's dead—killed in the Philippines," as she handed me the yellow Western Union message. Both of them mumbled something like, "You're the man here now."
I would have to hold myself together. A man had to accept what was and go on for others like my sister and her young child, Connie. They would need something to hold on to. But what about me? Nowadays this would be of one of the first thoughts. At that time, however, the war effort taught that we have to put aside individual pain while helping each other carry on. The phrase "Carry on" tells it all.
As we went on winning the war, our grief was usually dealt with in the privacy of our home and church through prayer and with the sympathy of others. It wouldn't be until the spring following V-J Day that Johnny's family and friends would be able to celebrate his funeral. It was a sad, but a happy day as well. We were so proud of a fine man, husband and father who could finally be laid to rest in the land among the people he loved and for whom he gave his life.
I was a young teen who was awed by Johnny's veteran friends, whose trim uniforms and medals sparkled in the sun against a bright blue sky. There was Sergeant Izzio "Butch" Zannetti, a B-17 waist gunner who went down wounded in the English Channel; Corporal Edward Pavlak, Army Air Force mechanic, active in the Pacific; and Air Cadet August Nicholas, my brother-in-law, who was about to get his pilot wings when the war ended, enabling him to return to his wife, Genevieve, and young daughter, Nikkie.
At last, our hero warrior was back amongst us and the anxiety and concern which troubled me that November day at school was put to rest with Johnny for eternity.
A tribute to Pfc. John S. Matava and to all those who "carried on" during World War II for us. Johnny was awarded the Bronze Star for silencing an enemy machine gun which was holding up the advance of his unit on Leyte.
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