Mon
May 29 2006
02:58 pm
Memorial Day Memory
By: R. Neal

It's Memorial Day, so today I will remember my Grandfather, F. A. Neal. From my Dad's genealogy notes (redacted)...

F.A. Neal was born on Nov. 18, 1896 in Byrdstown, TN. His parents were farmers. On July 4, 1917 at the age of 21, he volunteered into the U.S. Army and underwent basic training at Camp Sevier, SC.

In early 1918 his unit boarded the three stack ocean liner USS Leviathan for transport to Belgium. On May 11, 1918, he joined Supply Co. C, 119th Infantry, 30th Division, American Expeditionary Force, under the command of Gen. George C. Pershing.

Pvt. Neal drove a mule wagon, hauling supplies up to the front lines, and he then would haul the dead and wounded back. On Oct. 6, 1918 he was wounded in Belgium, when he and his wagon took a direct hit from German artillery. His wagon and team were destroyed and he suffered severe shrapnel wounds in his legs, arms, hips, shoulders, and head. He was also gassed in France. [Ed. note: I believe this was in Argonne.]

He was sent to a field hospital in Belgium where he commenced the first of a long series of surgical operations to "patch him up". He lost the left kneecap, and as a result his left leg remained stiff for the rest of his life. Much of the shrapnel was never removed. He was honorably discharged on Jul. 18, 1919. He was declared 100% disabled on Nov. 16, 1922.

After the war, he borrowed some money and bought three farms. He was not able to work them, so he got his wife's brothers and their families to tend them and raise livestock, and everyone made it through the Depression. The Army Corps of Engineers took his land when the Dale Hollow Dam was built in 1942. The notes say they paid him for it. The notes don't say how much.

He was a friend of Sgt. Alvin C. York. He always had a sharp pocket knife and could whittle a chain of links out of a piece of cedar wood. The law was spread pretty thin in their community in those days, but they never locked their doors. He did, however, keep a shotgun hanging over his bedroom door and a .38 pistol on the nightstand.

He was also a thrifty man. I remember one summer when I was staying at his place with some cousins. He made us a rifle range in the woods out behind his house. One day we wanted him to take us into town to buy more .22 ammunition and some firecrackers. He said "Boys, for one thin dime you can buy a pack of them firecrackers, or you can buy yourself one square foot of land. Them firecrackers will go up in smoke, but that land will always be yours." We went for the firecrackers. I wish I had been paying better attention.

He was a die-hard Republican. Just like my Dad. But I remember when JFK was shot, and my dad took us over to Grandpa's in Byrdstown. I don't remember why. Maybe he just wanted to be with his Dad. I dont't remember much. I was still in shock from being sent home from school and thinking Kruschev had launched his missiles and we were all going to die. But I remember everyone was upset. Grandpa may have even cried a little with my Dad as we watched JFK's funeral on TV. This was not something Real Men and decorated war veterans like my Grandpa and my Dad did in those days.

The notes don't say so, but my Grandpa never really recovered from the war. After suffering his whole life, he succumbed to his wounds in 1973. He had a full honor guard at his funeral.

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Rachel's picture

My grandfather, James

Submitted by Rachel on Mon, 2006/05/29 - 6:06pm.

My grandfather, James Crawford (Doc) Quarles, Sr. of Jefferson City, also served in World War I.  He was lucky enough not to get wounded, and he would tell stories about the ship going over, but he never would say much about the war itself.  He'd just get this look in his eyes like he remembered more than he wanted to.

He came home, married my grandmother in 1920, and went to work at the John Sevier trainyards.  He also farmed on the side.  My mother was the third of seven children.  I'm the fourth of 18 grandchildren.

He was a quiet man, very even-tempered.  But he was also restless - if he came to visit you, 30 minutes later he was putting on his hat, ready to go somewhere else.

But he was restless within limits - after he retired from the railroad, he could get a pass to go almost anywhere cheap.  My grandmother loved to travel, but Papaw exasperated her by always wanting to stay close to home.

He died in March 1973, from a heart attack, two weeks after my grandmother died of cancer.  He was 78.  I've always thought that with her gone (they were married 52 years), he just didn't want to live any longer.

I still miss him.

Bbeanster's picture

My grandaddy

Submitted by Bbeanster on Mon, 2006/05/29 - 9:35pm.

Ralph Augustus Bean was a Tennessee farm boy and son of a Union Army Infantryman who had been twice wounded, twice taken prisoner by the Confederates and twice escaped. Grandaddy was born in 1892 and lived close enough to the railroad track in Inskip so that when he got on the train to go off to war it took him right by his house, where he could see the light his mother put in the window for him. Her name was Mary Elvira Clementine Casteel Bean, and she would burn that lamp every night until he came home.
He joined the Navy and sailed around the world for awhile, until somebody recognized his prodigious musical talent and put him in the Marine Band (which had been founded by March King John Philip Sousa). Grandaddy ended up in the Philly Navy Yards, where he played a silver cornet, which he passed on down to my brother, John, many years later. I thought it was a wonderously beautiful thing, that solid silver horn.
After the war, he became a postman and a leader of church choirs. He had a big baritone voice, and sang in a gospel quartet called the Dixie Gems. He taught me WWI songs like "Mademoiselle From Armentiers" and "Over There," and "Good-bye, Maw; Good-bye, Paw; Good-bye mule with the old hee-haw... " That one ended "I'll bring you a Turk and the Kaiser, too -- And that's about all a fella can do..."
The day after Pearl Harbor he and his three sons (the youngest of whom was just 17) went down to join up and fight the Japanese. They turned him down on account of his age, but my dad joined the Army, my Uncle Ralph the Air Corps and my Uncle Bob the Navy. They all made it back.
The years rolled on by, and I grew up (sort of) and ran off and married a guy from Nashville I met when I was an 18-year-old freshman at UT (we did that in those days). He was wild as a mink and sweet as soda pop, and I still dream about him. Grandaddy really liked Joe, and was always bringing us stuff -- I sure wish I knew where the little hand-made oak table got to...
I worked and Joe went to school, and was just barely able to hang on long enough to get his degree (in journalism) before Vietnam butted into our lives. He joined up the day before he was to be drafted (he was told he'd get a better deal that way, even if it meant four years in the Army instead of three). He ended up getting shipped off to Germany, where I joined him after our daughter, Rachael, was born. We knew he was going to be rotated to 'Nam, so we packed as much into those months as we could, traveling around the Low Countries and taking it all in.
But one night in December, it ended, just like that. We were on our way home from a Christmas party at his sergeant's house, and a drunken German lost control of his car and hit us head-on. Joe died a few minutes later, sitting right next to me. He was 24. Both my legs were broken, and they Medi-Vacced Rachael and me home (she didn't suffer a scratch, amazingly), and I spent that Christmas in a hospital at Ft. Campbell. Granddaddy came up to see me every week, and attended Joe's funeral in Nashville.
A doctor told me, in an offhand sort of way, that I was pregnant, and the following summer, my son, Joey, was born.
I lived in mortal dread of the next war, but the family's 100-year cycle (longer, actually, since the Beans were a warlike bunch who go back to the Battle of New Orleans and Kings Mountain before that). But somehow, I got lucky, and Joey was spared.
They both got GI benefits to go to college, but never knew their father. Today, they are off being highly successful professionals living large in California.
And, heck, I didn't even get to the part where their paternal grandfather -- their Italian immigrant granddaddy Joe -- got a draft notice from Mussolini, and joined the Merchant Marines
when the US Armed Services wouldn't take him because he wasn't yet a citizen.
As for now, I am just thankful that my kids got to know their great-Granddaddy Bean, that there's no more draft, and the lunatics running this asylum (Meet the new boss -- same as the old boss) couldn't take my son for their latest misadventure.
I already gave.

Tess's picture

Betty, thanks for the (your)

Submitted by Tess (not verified) on Tue, 2006/05/30 - 8:48am.

Betty, thanks for the (your) story. I think you have a book or two in you that I hope to read one day. Smile

 

Brian A.'s picture

Good stories

Submitted by Brian A. on Tue, 2006/05/30 - 9:57am.

My ancestors who were in the military were in earlier wars.  And unfortunately, I don't have any accounts from them; only that information available in pension files.

Brian A.
I'd rather be cycling.

Factchecker's picture

Very nice stories, and good for Memorial Day

Submitted by Factchecker on Wed, 2006/05/31 - 1:27pm.

Very nice stories, and good for a holiday that many (including me) take for granted.  I think it reminds many of us of our own grandfathers or (other) vets in our families. 

My own grandfather emigrated from France as a child by stowing away on a freight ship just after WWI.  He had befriended U.S. soldiers in his native country and found his way to Nashville where he reunited with one of the platoon veterans he had hit it off with over there. 

He was soon adopted by this American hero and later became a marksman and a Secret Service agent, serving as one of only two who covered East Tennessee for a couple of decades or so.  He worked mostly counterfeit money, but did occasionally helped protect Presidents. 

He passed away at 99 on Christmas day, year before last.  Of course he wasn't really a vet himself, only his adopted dad I never met was, but this is another kind of success story that veterans used to produce for this country.  I wonder whether the U.S. of A. will ever again be able to do that. 

 

Factchecker's picture

P.S. ...my Grandpa never

Submitted by Factchecker on Wed, 2006/05/31 - 1:30pm.

P.S. ...my Grandpa never really recovered from the war. After suffering his whole life...

With all due respect, skb, from your account I think your grandpa recovered quite well. Just not from the pain and suffering war caused.

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