My Father's War

overcame.

July 15, 1999

My father did not die in the Bataan Death March during World War II. Many people thought he had been killed on that infamous death march, as he was stationed on the Bataan Peninsula when 75,000 Filipino and American soldiers were forced to surrender to the Japanese Empire after three months of furious and deadly fighting. Records indicate that 5,000 to 8,000 Filipino soldiers and 1,000 to 2,000 American soldiers died in the five days, sixty miles, forced march without food or water, to a soon-to-be notorious prisoner of war camp.

My father died at an intersection on State Highway 441, just south of Gainesville, Florida, at 2:45 PM, Friday, July 15, 1999. A drunk driver ran a stop sign and entered the main highway. The drunk’s car hit the passenger side of the car and killed my father. Dad’s friend and driving companion, Joe, had a broken wrist. My dad, Marshall Leu Waverly had just turned eighty a week earlier.

Dad was returning to his home in McIntosh, a small town about fifteen miles south of Gainesville. He had taken his dog, Skip, to the family veterinarian in Gainesville to be put down. Skip was twelve years old, blind, and could not walk anymore. Dad could not drive, so his neighbor Joe Bessinger, who was seventy-one, chauffeured him around when needed. It was a sad day for the village of McIntosh, where Dad had been a resident for more than sixty years. It was a tragic day for all of those that knew and loved my father.

At 3:30 PM that day, the Alachua County Sheriff’s Department called me at my office in the Prudential Life Insurance Building in Jacksonville, Florida. They inform me of the accident and my father’s death. I provided them the name of the funeral home in Gainesville that would be handing my dad’s remains.

I sat at my desk for thirty minutes composing myself. I knew Dad was getting old, but I never wanted to miss him. I cried and felt very lonely. All I had now was my son, Fletcher, who was in the U.S. Army and stationed at Fort Hood, Texas, with his family. My wife, Carol, died in April 1997 of breast cancer. Both of our parents were gone; all I had left was my son and his family. Strange as it sounds, I did not have any first cousins, as our parents and grandparents were only children.

I had worked for the Prudential Insurance Company since I graduated from the University of Florida in 1969, with a degree in business. The corporate world intrigued me, and I enjoyed my work in the life insurance business. After thirty years, I had a very senior position with an excellent salary and perks. But since Carol died, I had become sour in my outlook on life and work. Now it was just a job. At five o’clock, I did not want to go home, to an empty house; and, I was too darn old for the bar-hopping of my youth. I usually worked until 7 PM and went to a nice downtown restaurant for dinner. On the weekends, I just cared for my yard and flowers and fished in the nearby St. Johns River that flowed through Jacksonville to the ocean. With my Father gone, now my blah life turned into a blah life, plus.

I drove immediately to the attending funeral home in Gainesville to make arrangements. We would bury dad in the family plot at McIntosh’s local graveyard. Of course, he had prearranged his funeral down to the last detail. I didn’t have to do very much. I drove back to my home in Jacksonville later that night. I called my son, Fletcher, to break the news and made plans for his family to be at his grandfather’s funeral next Wednesday. The death of his ‘Grandpa’ devasted him, as they had been very close. Many the nights they stayed up late talking about their two separate wars.

On Tuesday, I drove to McIntosh, my old homestead. This small rural town, south of Gainesville, was where I was born and grew up in the forties and fifties. We lived on 3rd Street, about one hundred yards from Orange Lake. The two-story house was designed and built in 1915 by my wife’s parents, who were from Boston. Her father was a very successful businessman, specializing in commercial building construction. He wanted a winter home and loved the small town of McIntosh. They spent every January, February, and March in their sunny and warm Florida home. They only had one child, Janice.

July 20, 1999

My dad’s funeral was unique to me. Since I had never served in the military, I didn’t fully realize the honor and closeness veterans had with each other. I had forgotten that dad was very active in the Gainesville American Legion, Disabled Veterans, and Veterans of Foreign Wars. I found out, at the funeral, that he had been the National Commander of the American Legion back in the 1960s. He never talked about these things to my mother or me.

For many years, he was the local Director of our American Legion. Over thirty Legion members attended the funeral. They all personally knew Dad. Only two Team Six members of WWII, were still alive when dad died. I called both, but they couldn’t come to the funeral because of health problems. One was Doc, and the other was Swede. They sent flowers and a personal letter to my family. The American Legion and the U.S. Army provided an Honor Guard from Fort Stewart, Georgia. Colonel Barton, the Base’s Intelligence Officer, accompanied the honor guard. He was a second lieutenant when he first met and served with my dad thirty years earlier.

Also present were two soldiers from Fort Benning, Georgia: Colonel Bradford and Sergeant Major Larson, the commanders of the Army Ranger School. I talked to them after the funeral and found that my dad and three Team Six members were regular speakers at the graduations of new Rangers. All the members of Team Six were made honorary Army Rangers in 1966. Colonel Bradford informed me that today’s Army Rangers are still using techniques that were perfected by Team Six, to survive and elude capture by the enemy.

Colonel Bradford presented me the American flag that draped my father’s coffin. I cried through the entire ceremony, as did my son, Fletcher, and his family. When a soldier played Taps, everybody cried. The sound of Taps playing was a reminder of the other five hundred thousand American men and women killed in WWII. When the Honor Guard fired rifles in respect, most of us attending were startled. I had never been to a military funeral; I was awe-struck with the formality and beauty of the ceremony. The Army’s motto of ‘Duty, Honor, Country’ was resounding throughout the service.

There were more than a hundred people from the University of Florida and the small town of McIntosh. I was amazed, as I only expected about forty people. I was happy to see Jon Kajita, the gentleman that replaced my father, teaching Japanese history and language at the University. Mr. Kajita was about my age. He was born in an internment camp in July 1942, outside of Los Angeles. His parents arrived from Japan the year before on a work visa. They were from a small town in Japan. After the war, his parents got their American citizenship and remained in the United States. Jon and I were friends for many years. He would help me organize the hundreds of pages of my father’s WWII adventure.

As I was looking at the casket one more time, a voice behind me said, He was my hero, also. My mother thought he was a Saint.

I turned around to see a man about my age. He was tall, lean, with blond hair and blue eyes. He said with a big smile, Hi Leu, I’m Larry Svansajo. You knew my Dad as, Swede. He was sorry that he could not travel. His health has been poor for the past few months. At the last minute, he insisted that I come to his place to pay our respects to a great man, who was truly loved by my family. The man started to cry; we hugged each other. Before I departed, I excused myself and walked over to another gravestone, and paid my respects to a dear family friend.

Sato, take care of Dad for us. He wanted to do some more fishing, but it looks like God has other plans for him. I miss you, Sir.

After the funeral, family members went to the old homestead and spent a quiet afternoon reflecting on their loss. I invited Larry Svansajo and Jon Kajita to join us. After everybody had left, I spoke with Larry for several hours about my dad and Team Six. His father had been more open about talking about his time in Manila, and the Bataan battles. I was astounded by what I heard about my father’s wartime adventures. I could now see the love he had for those team members, and the love they had for my dad. Team Six of Bataan were indeed Brothers.

On Saturday, my son Fletcher and his family drove back to Fort Hood, Texas. Before he left, he told me that he had decided not to make the Army a career. He was going back to the University of Florida to get his master’s degree in mechanical/robotic engineering. His bachelor’s degree from that school, six years earlier, was in mechanical engineering. His goal was to build a company that designed robots for the medical profession.

Fletcher was a hero to us. He received the Silver Star for valor during the Desert Storm battle in Iraq. He also won the Purple Heart, for wounds received during combat. In a firefight, he was shot twice in the upper leg and hip. My father went up to the Walter Reed Hospital and stayed with him for three months. I didn’t realize it, but the military offered families a small government apartment near the hospital so that they could be close to their wounded family member and assist in their rehabilitation. It helped our family, as Fletcher’s wife had to stay at home with kids in school. I just took three months off from my job. It was a two-bedroom apartment, so his mother and grandfather visited the other times. He recovered and returned to duty.

I felt selfish about my son’s decision, as he and his family would be living nearby now. I could start feeling like a Grandpa once again. The old homestead would be alive once again. My granddaughter, Shelia, was nine; and my grandson, Stetson, was six years old. I honestly looked forward to being with my family again. I was tired of living by myself.

On Friday, I started going through my father’s briefcase in his home office. He was a very meticulous individual and left everything in order. I called the family attorney, John Harrison, and made an appointment to meet with him on Friday to go over my dad’s final will and trust funds. I was not looking forward to this meeting since it signaled a finality to my father’s life.

I decided to take off two weeks from work to settle family matters. When I met with the family attorney, I also got to meet his son, Thomas, who was taking over the family law firm. Thomas Harrison and his father, Fred, had been handling our family legal affairs since 1915. The law firm was in the city of Gainesville and was well-established, and respected.

At 9 AM that Friday, we met in the lawyers’ conference room. The table in that large room would seat 20 people if required. Fred Harrison sat at the side of the table and let his son have the first chair at the head of the table. I sat across from the old lawyer. In front of the senior Harrison was a large leather briefcase, that looked timeworn. There was also a beautiful wood desk sign that was aged. The sign said, Yes, I do Odd Jobs.

Thomas Harrison did most of the talking about my dad’s will and trust funds. It took him over thirty minutes to cover all the details. It appeared that my father was a wealthy man. When my mother died, her trust funds and life insurance went to my dad; then, when he died, all his funds, life insurance, and properties were transferred to my Trust Fund. When my wife’s parents died, their estate went to my wife’s trust funds. Her trust included six major Wall Street stocks that her father owned. Mr. Silverman had bought opening shares in companies like Microsoft, Apple, Intel, Walmart, and TV cable companies, like Turner. Then I also inherited my parent’s estate upon their death.

I had about $240,000 in my 401 savings account at work. Overall, this gave me almost $3,390,000. I was a very wealthy man. I was bowled over. I would have to see my CPA and attorneys to draw up a new trust fund for my son and family. Uncle Sam would not get a penny if could I help it. I would call it, the Team Six Trust Fund.

What came next changed my life; the senior Harrison handed me the large briefcase that he had protected for the last hour. He said he was directed by my father to give it to me upon his death. It was locked. Young Thomas gave me the key along with a verbal statement that they did not know what was inside. I thanked them and told them I would go through it later.

When it seemed that we were winding down, Senior Harrison picked up the desk sign on the table. He said, Sir before you leave, let me tell you a story. Not about your Dad, but his father-in-law, your paternal grandfather, Mr. Wilfred Stetson Silvers.

In 1915 when your Grandfather Silvers built that house in McIntosh, he came to my father’s law firm here in Gainesville seeking an unusual request. My Dad, Albert Harrison had recently received his law degree and was just setting up his office. He was a brand-new attorney and probably looked it as we all do the first year.

As Dad told me the story, he was having lunch from a brown paper sack that his mother had made for him. He was still living at home. A man walked into his office and stood there looking at him. I think Dad said something like, Good Day, Sir. How can I assist you?"

The well-dressed man in his thirties leaned over his desk and said, Sir, do you do odd jobs? My Father said that he looked the man straight in the eye and said, Yes, I do odd jobs."

Your Grandfather Silvers then proceeded to tell him about his new house in McIntosh; and, that he only used three months of the year but wanted somebody to help him watch over it when his family was not there. Your grandfather pulled out $1,000 in cash and laid it on my dad’s desk and said, Ok sir, here is a retainer. Let me know when you need more. Help me find a good caretaker, and you will retain all my Florida business for many years to come."

The older attorney continued, My father found a man and wife caretaker team that lived just outside McIntosh. We hired Inez Waters as the maid/housekeeper/cook, and her husband, Jimmie for repairs and maintenance of the house and the entire two-acre yard. They did an exceptional job and were permitted to plant a large garden in the backyard. They harvested and sold most of the crops, after canning some items for the main house.

Your grandfather allowed them to collect and sell all the nuts and fruit on the property and keep the proceeds. There were orange, grapefruit, tangerine, pecan and black walnut trees. Between the caretakers’ salaries and the profits from the vegetables and other products, they made a good living. The same family of Waters is there today. The current maid, as you know, is Lula Waters and her husband, John.

When I got my law degree and went to work for my dad, I was given this account in 1938 to handle personally. Your father came into my office in late July 1940, along with his father-in-law, your grandfather. I help them transfer the property from Silvers to Waverly. Your father honored the caretaker written arrangement and requested that we maintain it as before. When your Dad returned from the war in December 1945, he asked that we continue the arrangement. We are still managing the caretaker account for the estate.

The senior Harrison stopped talking and turned to his son. Thomas then addressed me at the table. ‘Sir, do you wish that we continue managing the caretaker account for you? We do payroll, collect and pay FICA and pay all property taxes. Twenty years ago, we also started paying health insurance for both caretakers, with no contribution from them. We also act as their family attorney, at no cost.’

I looked at both men at the table and said something like, please continue the caretaker account for me.

I thanked them and drove home, deep in thought. It was raining hard, and the sun was still shining. Suddenly, the rain stopped, and the sunlight brought me back to earth. It was another sad day for me. I wanted so much to talk to my wife and hold her.

That night, I spent over four hours going through my Dad’s briefcase. After drinking two large scotch and waters, I went to bed exhausted and full of memories of my parents. I missed them. I had recently spent a week’s vacation with my Dad at the McIntosh house. We had gone fishing every day and drank Spanish sherry on the porch each evening after supper. We just talked and talked. He was in splendid health and appeared to enjoy retired life. I will never forget his last words to me as I got in my car to leave. He said, Enjoy life, son. Go fishing more and get yourself a dog.

The next morning, I called my boss at Prudential Insurance and let him know that I would be retiring early, like today. After thirty years with the same company, it was time to move on with my life. I was a fifty-three-year-old widower, with a son in the Army. I didn’t even have a dog. It wasn’t the money. The new wealth, plus my retirement pay would make me more than comfortable for life. No, it was the contents of my dad’s briefcase that made me want to change my life’s direction immediately.

My father spoke little about his war years. Mom and I knew the basics, and that he had a tough time on Bataan. He met with his war buddies, who he referred to as Team Six, every five years. When they came to McIntosh, I was only five years old, but my dad allowed me to listen in on their conversations about the war. Of course, I didn’t know what they were discussing. I just remembered how friendly they were to each other. They were happy that my parents had named me Leu. They wouldn’t say why, but just smiled every time I came in the room.

I called my attorney, and my son, to let them know that I was retiring, or as I called it, ‘standing down from the regular work world.’ I also let them know that I would be living at the old homestead in McIntosh. I kept my Dad’s full-time cook/maid/housekeeper and her husband, the groundskeeper. In fact, I gave them a new Ford pickup truck, so they wouldn’t have to walk the one mile to work. I encouraged them to keep the garden and fruit trees producing and to sell all they could.

I called Howard Pittman, a local building contractor, with whom I had gone to college in Gainesville, and started a total upgrade of the old house. It would take about three months, and cost nearly $100,000, but was well worth it. I love my home and the small community.

Later that day, I went to the County Humane Society in Gainesville and picked up a puppy, a Beagle Hound. I called him Skip. Our family had had a series of dogs when I was growing up. They were all named Skip.

My father’s briefcase contained over 500 pages of detailed notes of his adventures in the Army, and especially in Bataan. Every member of Team Six had sent him page after page of their recollections of those years on Bataan. Accompanying all the notes was a cover letter to me from my father. It read:

"Dear Son,

I want to ask one final favor of you. As you know, I did not speak very much about my war in the Pacific. My fellow warriors, whom I called Team Six, were and will always be a part of my life and death. I would appreciate it if you would compile these notes into a book about our struggle on Bataan. I tried to do it, but dislike re-visiting the old memories. We were fortunate and knew it.

If you want to publish it, please do so, with the promise that the profits be divided among all team members, Doc, Scout, Dyna, Cookie, and Swede, or their families if they are not alive. Donate my share to the US Army Old Soldiers’ Home in Washington DC. You, your mother and my team members were my whole life.

My love always, Dad."

Also, in the briefcase was a frame with several medals and ribbons. The Distinguished Service Cross, two Legion of Merit, two Silver Star, a Bronze Star with the V, and a Purple Heart Medal with three clusters, and several WWII and Korea campaign ribbons. The Distinguished Service Cross was the second senior valor award. The Medal of Honor was the highest. The small metal clusters on the Purple Heart ribbon meant that my Dad had been wounded four separate times in the fighting. However, he never talked to me about the wounds. I do remember seeing them when we went