This is the last piece that I have written about Warren. There are three other pieces that I have written about...his specific memories of the war and our Veteran's Day parades that we did together. This is pretty long, so I don't expect anybody to read all of it...but here it is. I've got a few more stories about our encounters and endeavors that I need to get down on paper.
This piece is about his funeral, and how it affected me and and how I reacted to it. I think it is a really good representation of "why" I have my jeep. Since his funeral, I still check in with his widow, and I have been trying to do research on Henry Frielingsdorf. I have found out that he is buried near Chicago and that his remains were brought back to the US in 1947/48. He was also married, and I think his widow may still be alive...I'm still debating about sending her a letter...
Anyways, here is the funeral story:
I had been in the garage while Sarah was putting the children down for their evening slumber. It was Monday, July 25, 2011 around 9:30pm. For the last hour I had been wrestling with one of the tail lights of the ’53 M37; trying to disassemble it, clean it up and get it ready to bolt back on the truck. I remember specifically having to work hard to get the ancient, 60 year old miniature bulbs out of the rusty sockets. And it was very hot, and very humid.
I came inside to clean up and settle down for the night after achieving moderate success. Sarah strategically waited for me to wash my hands before telling me. “Have you been reading?, I asked?
“No, not really.”
I could tell by her blasé reaction that something was not right. She always loved to drift away into a good read.
She cautiously approached me. “Warren has died, Bo.”
At first I had no reaction. My mind had achieved a complete lack of thought. I couldn’t respond to the news. And then, as if finally being able to process the information, the repercussions of her statement began to take effect. I purposely kept my distance from her. I have no reasoning for it, but human comfort was not something I wanted at the time. I wanted to be alone. I had no idea what to do, what to say or how to react. I think tears began to roll down my cheek and Sarah came closer to me and touched my arm, but I was numb. I thought that I wanted to retreat upstairs to take a shower, but instead my thoughts ran to the jeep.
“I think I want to take a jeep ride,” I told her. I could see that she really didn’t think I was fit to be alone, much less behind the wheel of the jeep after dark. She was worried but said nothing to dissuade my desire.
“What can I do to help?” she asked.
The car needed to be moved in order for the jeep to get out of the garage and down the driveway. While she went to look for the keys, I made my way to my army field desk where all sorts of “valuables” were stored. Valuables such as the photo album book I made after the 2009 Veteran’s Day parade. Two copies of the book were made: I have one and the second one was in Warren’s possession. The book was filled with pictures of Warren, me and the jeep throughout the parade day as well as pictures from the September day when Warren first saw the completed jeep and we took our first jeep ride together.
I immediately located the book and stole but a brief look at the front cover photo. It was taken prior to the parade while we were awaiting our turn to join the convoy. Warren sat in the jeep and I stood by his side with my arm around his shoulder. We were both grinning like little kids and were wearing our uniforms. Mine was slicked sleeved while Warren’s bore his proud 4th ID patch and his sergeant’s stripes. But it was a quick glance. Although the photograph and its details are etched into my memory, I wasn’t ready to look at it just yet. I grabbed the book and quickly made my way to the jeep. Sarah saw what was in my hand,but didn’t say a word.
She went to move the car. I placed the book in the passenger seat of the jeep, primed the carburetor and then, out of habit, pushed the jeep out of the garage to start it. I try not to start it in the garage because the family gives me so much grief about the exhaust fumes it emits. I hopped into it as Sarah came around the corner. “I wish I could go with you,”she said, but we both knew that was impossible since the two children were fast asleep inside. I understood.
The jeep didn’t start on the first crank, but rather made a stubborn noise from the starter. Romantically, I believed that it knew that its inspiration for creation had passed and from it emerged its own painful moan. And then it started, to my relief. “I’ll be fine,” I called to Sarah and I shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway. I turned the switch for the headlights to shine, shifted into first gear and around the corner we went. I did not get past our house before the heavy tears began to fall.
I can’t recall specifically what raced through my mind, but I know powerful thoughts of regret were there. I had not talked to Warren in several months. I regretted that. I think the last time I actually saw Warren was the Veteran’s Day week in 2010. I regretted that, too. I didn’t know where I was heading to that night, but I needed to find Warren. I turned onto one of the main roads in Summerville and headed downtown. I wasn’t sure if it was my highly emotional state or if the jeep just wasn’t handling very well. Something seemed askew and I just could not pinpoint the occasional odd sound or vibration that would occur. I continued my drive.
I made my way to the town’s center and pulled over beneath alight near the railroad tracks. It was there that I picked up the photo book and began to leaf through it. On each page, my eyes were pulled to every picture of Warren. The tears continued more steadily as I made my way to the last page of the book. When finished, I returned the book to its original place on the passenger’s seat. I reached for my phone and called Brian Mead. Thankfully, I was greeted by his answering machine.
“Brian. It’s Bo.” Pause to check my emotions. “Warren passed away last night. I don’t know anything else, but I knew you would want to know.” Longer pause. I began to cry and could not stop. Through the tears, I said I would talk to him later. I got back in the jeep and rested my head on my arms while my hands gripped the steering wheel. The engine was still running and I could feel its life vibrating through the steering wheel. My hand went to the gear shifter and gently pushed it into reverse. It was time to go home.
Sarah was waiting for me when I pulled into the garage. I went upstairs to clean up. After a shower, we decided to watch a few episodes of Hogan’s Heros in order to send my mind into a thoughtless place and then we retired off to bed. However, a good night’s sleep was not to be had. It was a restless night. I know that there were periods of time where I did manage to sleep, but it felt like the entire night was spent biting my lower lip in vain attempts to cover the sounds of my sadness. My mind would wander to the impending funeral. Would I speak? I wanted to say something. Would I bring the jeep to it? It needed to be there, but where was there? I had no idea when or where the funeral would be. Warren was born in NY,lived a majority of his life in NC and retired to FL. His daughter is in Cleveland and his son is buried in Maryland. I wanted the jeep to lead the funeral procession.
The next day, Tuesday, I was coming home from work around lunchtime to trade duties with Sarah. Patti, Warren’s widow, had been on my mind a lot that morning. I needed to call her, but I just didn’t know if I was strong enough to maintain my composure (which would be a recurring theme in the days to come). However, as I pulled into the neighborhood, I found the number in my phone. Warren’s name came up as the phone dialed.
“Hi, Patti, it’s Bo Turocy.”
“Oh, Bo, I was hoping and wondering when you would call,”answered the loving voice on the other end of the line.
I had just pulled into our driveway and put the car in park. “Patti, I am so sorry,” is all I could get out before completely breaking down. And with her calming voice, she began to talk and like I did so much with Warren, all I could do is listen. She had told me in not so many details of Warren’s last few days. It was a brain hemorrhage that finally did him in. He had been at the Mayo Clinic before moving him into hospice. On Saturday and Sunday, all he could do was occasionally open his eyes squeeze Patti’s hand before drifting back into a comfortable state of unconsciousness. And somewhere in the late hours of Sunday and early Monday morning, Warren died.
Patti told me that when it happened, she was in bed holding his picture. She could feel him there,with her, for a brief while. He had put together a file containing all the information she needed if he should die, and within that folder was a loving poem that he had written for her, intended only to be read after his death. In death, he was still thinking of her.
The service was to be on Thursday, between 3-5pm, she told me. I let her know that it was not a question as to whether or not I would be there. She began to tell me about the ceremony and how beautiful it would be. Warren had been actively employed by the St. Johns County Sheriff’s Department for several years. The department loved Warren as much as he loved them. They were taking care of all of the arrangements and looking after Patti during this time. Patti asked me if I would be interested in speaking at the funeral. Immediately I answered how much I would love to do it, but I did not think I could be strong enough to speak. She understood.
“It’s okay, Bo. He meant so much to a lot of people.” She said some other kind words describing how Warren felt about me and then she said, “Warren had said to me that you were like a son to him.” I knew this because Warren had actually mentioned it to me before, too. He meant so much to me, but that is such a powerful statement and I tried to joke it off thinking that he is only saying it because his only son had passed away unexpectedly a few years ago. But now I had found out that not only had he said this to me, but he had also said it to Patti and more than once, at that.
“I will do it, Patti. I will speak at the funeral. I would be honored to do it.” I don’t know where these words came from, but out they came and with a sense of purpose. It made sense. Why couldn’t I speak at Warren’s funeral? I love talking about Warren and telling his story. I do it every chance I get, especially when the jeep is on display--and more often than not, when the jeep isn’t even there. On Sunday, I found myself in Charlotte, NC buying tires for the M37 from a man at a truck stop. He had asked me if I was prior military, and somehow, in my answer, I turned all attention to Warren and our jeep. Never do I miss an opportunity to tell strangers of the jeep’s inspiration, about the man and the men he served with during the war. If ever there was a target audience for me to talk about Warren to, this was it. I would somehow need to find the strength to tell a portion of Warren’s story and convey the importance he had in my life at his funeral.
The next few days were a blur. My daughter’s birthday happened to fall on the day of Warren’s funeral. Since she would be turning two, we decided to celebrate a day early and then drive to Jacksonville Thursday morning. Throughout this 48 hour period, my mind kept retreating into a private area to hash out what I would say at the funeral. I did not want to have a structured speech. I believed that my message would more easily spill out from my heart. So many of Warren’s stories were already memorized in my mind, and all I had to do was pick out a few that depicted the spirit of my friend. My biggest fear quickly turned to speaking too long. How far back should I begin mystery? Should I explain every lasting detail on how we met and then build up to the point to when Warren finally shared his once forgotten secrets of the war? How much background information was necessary? I knew I was going to talk for too long. And those around me in my immediate inner circle were all fearful that I would elongate too much on the jeep, although they would not directly mention this to me. But then with the jeep, myself and Warren all being so entangled with one another, I suppose this was a legitimate fear, too.
However, I knew what I wanted to say and I began to rehearse in my mind. I would talk it through to myself and then get wrapped up in a specific memory of a moment that Warren and I shared together and become emotionally stuck. This would go on through the day and throughout the night.
On Wednesday night, after the birthday party had been put to sleep, I brought up the question to Sarah and my in-laws about what I should do with the jeep: should it come or should it stay? I am not sure if they understood my motivations, but instead thinking that I just wanted to show it off. Thoughts of this moment have honestly been in my head after the first parade I shared with Warren. I knew that this jeep was symbolic of him and although at that time it was a wonderful outlet for him, it would inevitably out live him and naturally become monument or memorial to his quiet achievements from a time so long ago. That is what the jeep means to me. That is why I ultimately decided, against a lot of family opposition, that the jeep would go to Florida. And selfishly, I felt that it would only be fitting that I should drive it to his funeral. I knew that a part of Warren would be with me on that ride.
Wednesday night I decided to load the jeep on the trailer so it would be ready for departure first thing in the morning. I proceeded through my routine checklist prior to starting and the unimaginable happened: it would not start! The starting motor barely turned over…once…twice…and then nothing. Immediately my mind focused on the fact that this was a sign that the jeep should not go. My father-in-law,the Colonel, stood quietly by my side. I hopped out, put a battery charger on and then grabbed the hand crank from behind the rear seat. I turned the ignition key in the on position, closed the choke slightly and pulled out the throttle a bit. I slid the hand crank through the front bumper and felt it grip onto the starting nut that is attached to the crank shaft. The handcrank was already at the twelve o’clock position so I gently turned it to the starting spot at six o’clock. In the back of my mind, I am always a bit hesitant to use the hand crank out of fear of the potential danger of a backlash that could possibly break a finger, hand or arm. This would not be a good time for anything to go wrong.
I quickly pulled up and by the time I reached twelve o’clock, the engine gently came to life. Now this was a sign! Never had it started that easily with this method. I knew that I had carelessly run the battery down during my night ride on Monday. And now, Warren was helping me when I needed it. The jeep was meant to be in Florida,this I knew. I quickly got it on the trailer and secured. The last thing I did before retiring for the night was to take a piece of chalk and finally name the jeep. I wrote two words in front of the passenger side of the jeep on the outer skin of the windshield: Warren Peace. I have been jokingly referring to the jeep as this for a few years, but now was finally the time to spell it out.
The drive to Florida was long. The Colonel and my son joined me for the trip while the girls drove in a separate vehicle. Throughout the entire trip, I continued to rehearse my speech to myself and often gazed at the pair of jeep headlights that filled up my rear view mirror. That in itself was somewhat comforting. What was not comforting was that I could never actually perform my whole speech without getting caught upin some detail of it. I would get stuck on a line, over analyzing it and then thinking there had to be a better way to say it. And then I would get sidetracked, getting lost in conversations that Warren and I had. Eventually, the Colonel asked me what I planned to say. I gave him my general outline, saying that there are certain points I wanted to cover and here were the two specific stories I wanted to tell. He approved, and that fact alone provided me with comfort. And probably on purpose on his part, he could tell where I was mentally and he got me talking about Warren and his war stories. The Colonel had heard them all before, from me and from Warren, but he let me go on as if this were the first time hearing them.
We got to Florida before the ladies and unloaded the jeep and all of our bags before their arrival. There wasn’t much time now before the funeral and it finally dawned on me how quickly the hour was approaching. I silently excused myself from everyone and went upstairs to get changed. I brought with me a small selection of treasures that would hopefully give me the strength to talk at the funeral. Tucked in an inside jacket pocket was the copy of Lt. Colonel Mabry’s Medal of Honor citation. There were highlighted lines in it that I planned to read. In the outside lower pocket of my jacket was the garrison hat that I had purchased for Warren,complete with the 8th Infantry Regiment Distinctive Insignia pin. Warren wore this hat as a part of the uniform that I put together for him for the 2009 and 2010 parades. And in my pant pocket was my most prized possession: his original dog tag that he wore while in Europe during WWII. The other dog tag had been given to his son, Michael, many years ago, and Warren had always kept this tag for himself. He had given it to me as a Christmas present in 2009 with an apology for not having much of anything else from the war. He did not have to give me anything, for he had already given me so much by that time. But there was nothing better, more sacred and cherished that he could have given me then that one,single dog tag. And now I was bringing it with me to offer much needed strength and courage to get through the next two hours.
The jeep started marvelously, right on cue, as if this would be its most important mission, aside from taking Warren and me along the parade route twice. After today, although it was only in my mind, the jeep’s status would forever be changed as it is a direct link to Warren. I asked the Colonel if he wanted to ride with me. “I would love to, Bo, but I wasn’t sure if this was a solo flight or not.” Appropriate words from an Air Force man.
“I would like to have you with me,” was my reply. He and I always seem to do this sort of thing together with the jeep. Not that we attend funerals regularly, but the few times I have been asked to bring the jeep to a Birdies for the Brave engagement and such, he always rides with me. I always mention to him that he will get the exhaust and the canvas smells in his nice clothes, and always, without a care, he hops into the passenger’s seat waiting for me to put it into gear. And today was not any different.
The church was only four miles away. We found it easily because there were so many sheriff’s deputies on sight. I pulled in and found a space quickly and shut the jeep down. The Colonel mentioned to me that there was another space vacant and that maybe I should back the jeep in. I know he was thinking that it would offer abetter view for any and all that would be interested in it after the ceremony. I took his recommendation to heart and did it. My only mistake was brushing against the highly sensitive horn button and sounding the signal to all that we had arrived.
I was doing just fine, mentally, until I entered the church. One of the deputies made cordial small talk with us and then I went inside only to be greeted by several pictures of Warren. Immediately my gaze went to the photograph that normally hangs in Warren’s home office. He was nineteen and was freshly home from the war. He wore a sleeve full of stripes on his arm and had the D.I. pin on his overseas cap so he had yet to transfer to the 82nd Airborne. This is my favorite photograph of Warren. My hand shook terribly as I signed the guest book. The Colonel sat down to wait for the women and I stood off to the side, burying my eyes in to one of my hands while trying unsuccessfully to stop the tears. And then my wife walked in, took hold of my arm and we entered the chapel to find our seats.
I felt better walking into the congregation room. We picked the four seats at the end of a row somewhere in the middle. Several sheriff’s deputies sat in front of us. In the extreme front of the room, a man sat behind a piano playing a tune and singing. I did not recognize the lyrics, but that is not surprising. The music seemed more to just set the mood and be in the background. My attention was centered upon the larger than life portrait of Warren surrounded by flowers. It was his official PSA picture taken a few years ago. He was wearing his law enforcement uniform and his natural smile just beamed across his face. Behind and above was a television screen with his name and birth and death dates: August 17, 1925 – July 25, 2011. I would look at his picture and then the death date and then I cried again. Somehow I would manage to check my emotions and then it would all start over again. I could feel Sarah’s apprehension and tension growing beside me. She tried to silently console me, but it seemed to be to no avail. I began thinking to myself that it would be impossible for me to standup and talk coherently about Warren. I was going to let him down.
I looked at the bulletin that was handed out and saw that the speakers had not been named. I did not know if they would call us out individually to talk or if it would be on a volunteer basis. I had decided that if it was by volunteer, I would not do it. I did not have the strength.
And then it all began. Slowly, methodically, three deputies came in together and walked down the center aisle. They reached Warren’s photograph and stopped. Again, in slow,deliberate movements, they all simultaneously raised their right hands in an ever graceful motion and paused at the top of a beautiful salute. Then they lowered the salute, smartly turned around and marched away in unison. The pastor of the church rose and began the sermon. I could not concentrate on his words, but instead began focusing on what I would or would not do.
A deputy chaplain then took the place of the pastor and spoke briefly before announcing the first speaker, Deputy Tommy
?. A silver haired man rose from in front of me and walked to the front of the room. He opened with a friendly smile and a soft voice. It was very comforting and he was setting a wonderful tone, I thought. He told a story of when he first met Warren a few years ago. The deputies were having “civilian” ride-alongs and Warren had been chosen to do a shift with Tommy. Tommy knew nothing about Warren prior to him entering into his patrol car. In a few short hours, a friendship had been born. It turned out that they had so much in common: law enforcement,military, family, etc. Tommy went on to say, “And Warren was in the Battle of the Bulge! This was one of the biggest battles of WWII,and Warren was there!” He had known that Warren was in the war, but also said that not many people, if any, had known any of the particulars of Warren’s experience. This was the bolt of lightning, the inspiration that I needed, and brought to me the courage that I had been lacking. Warren had empowered me with the confidence and strength I needed to do the job that he indirectly needed me to perform.
The other story that Tommy told of Warren that struck me with compassion was when Tommy and his wife had lost their first child at an extremely young age. A few years ago,Michael, Warren’s son, had unexpectedly died. It completely caught Warren by surprise, which it would naturally do to any parent. Warren never recovered from this and it seemed to affect him more and more each time I would see Warren afterwards. I had been in Virginia working when I first heard of it. There was nothing I could do or say that could lessen the pain or the burden on Warren’s heart. I knew this for a fact. All I could do was to write Warren a small card, telling him precisely that. There was nothing I could do, Warren, except be there for you. If there was something, anything you wanted,let me know. Until then, I know that Michael will be forever living within your heart. When Tommy’s child died, Warren picked up the phone and told Tommy that he can sympathize with his emotions right now and how difficult it is for a parent to bury his child. It is a statement we all know and most often only think about it when someone else we know is faced with this situation. Warren had already lived through this scenario. And now with Tommy, I am sure Warren’s wounds were again opened. They ran deep to begin with, but it did not stop him from reaching out to someone that could use his words of encouragement.
As Tommy wrapped up, I began to wonder if my name would be called next. I was ready. I knew that I could do it. I turned to Sarah and gave her a small wink and a nod trying to assure her of my stable condition. I was not called, so I began thinking about my speech again.
When I was called, I rose from my chair as if being guidedby a force much larger than myself. I kept a firm grip with my right hand upon Warren’s dog tag. It had a key ring on it which I had looped through my right index finger and kept the tag itself in the palm of my hand. As I passed the chaplain, he gave me a nod of encouragement. My mind was blank, but I kept moving forward. I looked to my left and saw Patti in the front row. Her gaze met mine and I smiled at her while giving her a subtle wave. I stepped behind the podium and looked out across the sea of solemn faces. The lights were bright and I took my time. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out Warren’s parade garrison hat and tenderly laid it across the podium desk top. The8th Infantry Regiment pin shined like a beacon signaling Warren’s story to be told. And then it occurred to me…I had no idea how to begin!
I was silent for probably too long. I could not grasp any words, so I decided to just start talking from the heart. “I am probably the least qualified of anyone in this room to be up here talking about Warren.” Where the hell did that come from? And besides being ridiculous, it was an untrue absurd statement. But I continued, “I haven’t known Warren anywhere near as long as most of you in this room. I first met him several years ago while we were both working at TPC Sawgrass. My future mother-in-law, Julie Stephenson, had once mentioned to me that Warren was a veteran of WWII. This caught my attention, although I did not think Warren was old enough to have served in that war, since he looked much too young. But, I thought, if he has a story, I would like to hear it. I had always been a student of history and it seemed more and more I leaned toward WWII.
I found Warren in the cart barn one day, it might have been in the morning and he may have just been coming into work his shift. ‘Hi Warren, I enjoy learning about history and if you should ever want to tell me about your time in the war, I would love to hear about it.’ I’m surprised he even talked to me at all after that statement. But he did, and he gave me the nickel tour.
He said, “I met Ernest Hemingway. He wanted to find the action so I was assigned to drive him there. When we got close to the front, he jumped off and ran to the sounds of the guns and I hid underneath the jeep. Couldn’t stand the guy. Ernie Pyle came around. Now that was somebody I cared for.” I had found out later that the only decoration that Warren was really proud of was his CIB, Combat Infantrymen’s Badge, and it was because of Ernie Pyle that that award had been given. That meant something to Warren. And that was all he told me.
Within the year, I had moved away, but I think it was my pushy now mother-in-law that brought Warren and me back together. I think she kept working him over in my absence. Sarah and I were just returning from a winter’s vacation in Europe where I dragged her through every battlefield and monument I could find. We had planned a trip to visit her family here in Ponte Vedra. Warren had heard about us coming into town and had invited me over to his house to talk. I brought my camera, thinking he might be interested in some of the pictures. I sat down in his office and behind him was the ‘Wall of Warren”, plaques and achievements from his lifetime and in the center, a shadow box of his military decorations and a picture of him as a young soldier.
He asked where we had been, I told him Belgium, Luxembourg,Germany and he said, “I wish I had known, you were all around places that I had once been.” He then began to talk. The more he talked, the more I listened. Something special was happening. I could see it in his eyes how the memories that had been locked away for so long began to come out. He became 18 again and was telling me some of his most private stories, memories that had not surfaced since 1945 when he came home. This lasted for almost three hours. When I left his house that day,my feelings for him, I have yet to figure out what words can accurately describe it. Admiration, awe, amazement…none of them can adequately describe how I felt.
During the ride back home to SC, I rehashed to my wife for the first time everything that Warren had told me that afternoon. I did this because I wanted to talk about this firsthand account of history and because I was afraid that I would forget it. When we got home, I wrote as much of it down as I could remember. And then I thought I needed to do something for Warren. Right or wrong, I somehow decided that restoring a jeep in his honor would be the appropriate thing to do. Three years and one month later, the jeep had been taken apart and put back together in a historically accurate portrayal. I marked the bumpers with Warren’s old division and unit numbers. Warren was in the 4th Infantry Division, 8th Infantry Regiment,Intelligence and Reconnaissance Platoon attached to Head Quarters. Three years and six months from buying the jeep, I managed to get it to Florida and was going to show it to Warren for thefirst time.
He came over to my in-laws that morning for breakfast. Doubt began to cloud my head. “What if Warren really didn’t want to see this? What if this was a bad idea?” I looked out the window of the garage doorwhen he walked up the driveway that morning. He paused in front of the jeep. And then a small smile graced his face and I knew all was well.
I had the honor of driving Warren in the Veteran’s Day Parade here in Jacksonville the last two years. Both experiences were so gratifying. This was the first time Warren had ever been in a parade. He was taken aback by the sincerity and the patriotism of everyone in the city. He couldn’t believe that so many people cared about what he did so long ago. When coming home from the 2010 parade, he said to me while in a reflective mood, “I did the first parade for you and me. This year, while we rode, all I could think about were all of the guys that couldn’t be here for this. I did it this year for them.”
When I recounted this line, I got a bit choked up and had to pause to regain my composure. While doing so, I noticed I was outlining the edges of his garrison hat with my fingers in front of me. I was gently caressing it as if were something alive. I was ready to continue.
“I have two stories I would like to share with you that Warren told me. After the war, A Colonel George Mabry had invited Warren to accompany him to a radio station where he was to be interviewed after receiving the Medal of Honor. He felt Warren should be there, but Warren did not want any part of it. He reluctantly agreed to go, but only as silent support. Warren told me about this and afterwards I began to think about it. Although they were friends, why would a colonel that was a Medal of Honor recipient insist on a sergeant going with him? There was more here that Warren had not mentioned, so I began to do some research and found Mabry’s citation.
He came to Europe in the fall of 1944 and one of his first baptisms of fire occurred in the Hurtgen Forest which was a prelude to the Battle of the Bulge. The initial attack began to stall out when the forward scouts met resistance from cross firing machine guns from three log bunkers (I had actually failed to mention the need to cross a minefield first) when Lt.Col. George Mabry came to lead his troops. He went forward of the scouts and attacked the first bunker. It was unmanned. He moved onto the second bunker to find 9German soldiers. He bayoneted one and began to fight the others when his scouts arrived to assist him. Together, they moved on to the third bunker and defeated it. The attack was able to resume. For this action, Mabry was award the Medal of Honor.
I couldn’t believe it. The citation mentioned specifically that Mabry was assisted by the scouts. When I saw Warren next, I asked him about this. “Warren, the citation mentions that Mabry was assisted by some scouts. Were you one of these scouts?”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Eventually he gave that patented chuckle ofhis and said, “Yeah, I suppose I was.”
The other story I would like to relate is one that Warren began to tell a lot these last few years. It is the one where the jeep he was in hit a landmine. He would begin the story, but I do not think he ever told anyone how it ended. There were four of them in the jeep and they were returning from a mission. O’Donnell was driving, Warren was in the Assistant Drivers seat, or shotgun, and two soldiers were in the rear of the jeep sitting on the wheel wells, facing outwards with their rifles in their lap. Warren couldn’t remember the man behind O’Donnell, but his dear friend Henry Frielingsdorf, from St. Louis, was behind him. They were on a road that they were unaware contained landmines since the engineers only marked it if you were headed towards the enemy’s lines, not approaching from their lines. The rear driver’s side tire hit the mine and that soldier was killed instantly. Everybody was thrown out of the jeep. When Warren came to, he was in an ambulance. Henry Frielingsdorf was lying beside him,both legs were gone and he had tourniquets in their place. He looked at Warren and said, “Warren, how am I ever going to dance again?” And then he died. For 65 years, Warren had been carrying the burden of this memory with him and then he shared it with me. He picked me to talk to.
Just a few months ago, my wife and I and our two kids were driving in our car and I think I was talking about Warren. I tend to do that a lot. From the back seat, my son who was four at the time said, “Daddy, who is Henry Frielingsdorf?” I am proud to say that Warren’s story will not be forgotten, at least for another generation.The thing that I am most grateful that Warren gave to me are his memories. Thank you.”
I grabbed his hat and slowly walked off the stage. The chaplain rose, thanked me and shook my hand that still held Warren’s dog tag. I found my seat and shortly thereafter began to cry again. Somehow, these tears were different,though. I dearly wished Warren had been there to see what I had done for him. I know he would have been proud. There was so much more I could have talked about, but I still felt that I did his memory and his service to our country justice, and gave him the credit that he so richly deserved. I would have given anything, though, if he could have been there to receive the thank yous.
The sheriff, himself, spoke after me as did the chaplain again. They offered me praise and recognition for a job well done and also incorporated parts of the stories thatI had told into their own speeches for Warren. The chaplain spoke of Henry Frielingsdorf, which made me proud. After all of these years, an unknown man from St. Louis has been remembered and I can think not of any other setting that would be more appropriate for this to occur. We filed outside for the flag folding and 21-gun salute. A solitary bag piper played Amazing Graze and then taps was heard. Throughout it,friends and strangers approached me to thank me for a wonderful speech. I almost felt awkward receiving this praise,for it wasn’t my story, it was Warren’s and I was just the vessel that now carried just a part of it.
When it was done, I had to find Deputy Tommy
to thank him. I firmly believe that if it was not for his opening words and for setting a beautiful tone, I could not have spoken with the ease that I did. I do not think that I could have spoken at all. Several more deputies came to me and told me how they all tried to get Warren to talk of the war but he never would. They also said that Warren spoke of me a lot to them. I couldn’t believe it-as much as Warren meant to me, as much as I took great pride in telling people about Warren and his accomplishments, he was doing the same for me! And then a deputy approached and handed me two black and white photographs that I immediately recognized. They were of a jeep with three soldiers in it, obviously taken in the winter months based on the dress of the soldiers. The man in the driver’s position was Brian Mead and it was his jeep. I was seated in the Assistant Driver position and Bo Landry was in the rear with the mounted .30 caliber machine gun. I had emailed this photograph to Warren a few months ago to show him what we were up to and to see if we were historically accurate in our portrayal. Evidently he enjoyed the picture and was proud of it. They had been in the sheriff’s office for the deputies to see.
More tears flowed as other friends and strangers approached. I completely broke down in the arms of Bill Hughes, the General Manager of TPC Sawgrass. Others offered their condolences and drifted away. The Colonel had excused himself to the jeep, thinking people might be interested in learning about it and he could offer up information. Eventually,I made it there, too, and it was a comfort to be near that “old” friend again. Warren’s daughter and daughter-in-law found me there. Evidently, my words from earlier had been an encouragement for them. Like most others, they had not heard any of the memories of Warren that I knew. That wanted to learn more about the father that had kept hidden away these secrets. I felt this to be wonderful. In Warren’s death, I could still keep his memory alive. Maybe this was his plan, directly or indirectly, or maybe this was just an unimagined byproduct of our perfect friendship. No matter what, though, I am comfortable to wear these shoes and keep Warren’s memory and the memories of those he served with in my day-to-day travels.
I think the Colonel and I were the last ones to leave the church that afternoon. I hopped into the driver’s seat, the Colonel beside me and switched the key in the “on” position. My right foot tapped the starter button on the floor and the jeep instantly came to life. It never has sounded stronger before. I slid it into gear and we waved good-bye to the last two remaining deputies. Once we pulled out onto hwy. 210, I said to the Colonel, “I did it. I think I would have made Warren proud today.”
“You did, Bo, and he is.”
