Adam Makos - Voices of the Pacific

It was 2010 when Sid Phillips raised his M1903 Springfield rifle in the backyard of his farm in Mobile, Alabama. He was a World War II veteran but handled the weapon as if it were weightless. His cheek met the stock. His pale blue eyes tightened as he zoned out the chattering insects.

The gunshot rippled the pasture.

Sid lowered the smoking muzzle. The shade was heavy beneath the tall southern trees, but the result stood plainly visible. He had hit the cardboard target, center-mass.

Not bad, he said, his voice raspy as sandpaper.

Sid handed the rifle to me.

Not bad? This was the same type of rifle that Sid had used during the warsixty-seven years before our impromptu shooting contest. It was astounding. Was I intimidated? Lets just put it this way: I was happier with him doing the shooting and me doing the watching.

Sometime later, one of us ejected the final shell casing and sent it rolling across the picnic table. We began to tidy up.

Youll want to save those, Sid told me as he palmed the spent brass.

That evening we both sat on wrought-iron chairs on Sids back porch as twilight fell. Far away, thunder boomed. A storm was rolling in over Mobile Bay. Sid lived alone these days near the coast, having lost his wife, Mary, a decade earlier.

Sid took out his pipe, and I took out mine, an old one hed given me made from a corn cob. Sid showed me how to use the spent shell casing to tamp the tobacco into the bowl.

Not too heavy, he said. Gotta let it breathe.

The smell of tobacco lingered in the air as we smoked. Sid puffed smoke rings. He was eighty-five then. I was twenty-nine. It was like an outtake from Gran Torino.

Hed always insisted that I call him by his first name, but even though Id worked with him for several months already, his first name still felt too casual for me. I would have rather called him Dr. Phillips, or even Dr. Sid, which is what his patients called him. Sid had been a rural doctor on the gulf coast, the type whod come calling in the middle of the night when someone was hurting. I felt nothing but respect for the man.

Sid was a Marine in World War II. Hed fought on Guadalcanal and New Britain in some of the wars roughest fighting. Sid was also quite the celebrity by then. The HBO miniseries The Pacific had just come out. Sids unitthe 1st Marine Divisionhad been showcased in the series, and Sid was one of the main characters, portrayed by actor Ashton Holmes. The miniseries had given much of the American public its first exposure to the often overlooked Pacific theater of World War II, and the public was hungry to learn more.

I was Sids editor. He had typed his memoirs on his computer late at night, and Id helped him turn the pages into the book that was eventually titled Youll Be Sor-ree! Sid had chosen the title. It reflected a specific tone he wanted, because his book focused only on the positive storiesthe humor, camaraderie, and hijinks hed found amid the horror of war. The book was already on its way to the printer, but I knew a secret from our work together.

There was more. Sid held other stories.

Id heard some of these stories escape during our previous porch sessions. They were war stories. Violent. Bone-chilling. Accounts filled with horror and raw emotion that sometimes brought tears to Sids eyes. Hed lower his voice when he told them. Any tears, hed swipe them away before they could land.

These were the stories hed left out of his own book.

I listened with reverence. It was humbling to receive his trust. And all the while, the journalist in me was champing at the bit.

People need to hear this.

So that night after our target practice, I finally asked the question. I waited until Sids voice trailed away and it was my turn to talk.

What made you leave all that out?

Who wants to hear that stuff? he said with a snort, as if hed convinced himself of the reason decades earlier. Its all terrible. My grandkids are going to read my book, and I dont want them to know what it was really like. It was a nasty, nasty war.

I understood where he was coming from. I had interviewed any number of World War II veterans by that point, and I had seen how it was easier for some survivors to stay silent. It was easier on their families. Perhaps easier on the world. But this time felt different. Sid was my friend. It could be good for him to get this off his chest. It could be good for us to listen.

What about the guys who didnt make it back? I asked.

Sid chewed on it. He tended his pipe again.

Dont you think its important to tell those stories for them? I knew that time was running out with his generation. How else would we know the cost of freedom?

Sid thought another long moment.

I suppose so, was all he said at last.

As you might have guessed, the book youre holding in your hands today was born from that stormy evening on the porch with Sid Phillips.