Sixty-eight years ago, the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. It was one of the great defining moments in world history. The aggressive surprise attack left behind 2,403 dead, 188 destroyed planes and a crippled United States Pacific Fleet.

Though it was a tactical victory for the Japanese, it derived at least one unintended consequence – by destroying much of the Pacific Fleet, they had also destroyed American division over the war. It unified our resolve and became a “day of infamy” that abruptly brought the United States into the Second World War as a full combatant. The lives of thousands of American families, including my own, would never be the same.

In light of the above, Pearl Harbor Day was a day of reflection for me, recollecting fond memories of childhood.

My paternal grandfather passed away when I was just a child. One of my earliest memories of death, it was a difficult time for my family, particularly my father. It was the first time I ever saw him cry, and it broke my heart. There are some things a boy never forgets.

I distinctly recall the visitation at an old funeral home in Collins, Mississippi, where a haunting smell of roses filled the room along with an uneasy mixture of cold air and ladies’ perfume. As friendly strangers strolled past his open coffin dressed in their Sunday best, I felt compelled to be strong while fighting back the uncertain tears of a grandson who scarcely knew the man we were honoring.

Just to the right of his simple, unadorned casket, next to a withered and wallpapered wall, was the black and white photograph of a young man in uniform. A proud, beaming fellow, confidently wearing a Navy uniform confronted me from an earlier time in my family’s history. Impressed, I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.

I marveled at the old photograph for what seemed like minutes, before having my concentration interrupted by an uncle of mine. “That’s your pa-paw,” he said. Bewildered by his remark, I focused to take a second look, reminding myself to never forget the young soldier immortalized in a simple photograph enclosed by a rustic wooden black frame.

The next day, I accompanied my parents down to a tiny church graveyard, where we experienced words of eternal comfort from a dutiful Baptist preacher. After he prayed one final prayer, the somber silence of a still Mississippi afternoon was suddenly interrupted by the firing of rifle volleys over my grandfather’s grave, and the haunting melody of “Taps” slowly echoed across the soft air of a cloudy and windswept countryside.

The service was beautiful, melancholy, lonely and inspirational.

Doing my best to emulate the soldiers standing stiffly while tearfully watching Old Glory respond to the cool Mississippi breeze, my unresolved feelings of sadness comfortably morphed into those of a grandson’s immense pride. I had come to understand an important part of my family’s history – that my grandfather was a soldier, a veteran and a hero.

Echoes of that day lingered in my heart long after its sounds ceased to vibrate in the air.

From a financial perspective, he was man of very modest means, unable to accumulate even a smattering of worldly treasures. But like many of the greatest generation, he did not equate monetary worth as the sole measure of a man, since the value of his life was not determined by the mundane accumulation of needless items. To the contrary, his immeasurable wealth of character was born and accumulated amid the fire of duty, honor, patriotism and sacrifice.

Shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor, he left his small home in Covington County to fight against an imperialist empire across a great expanse of unfriendly waters known as the South Pacific.  Heeding the call of those brave souls who suffered in the “Water of Pearl,” he joined thousands of our nation’s finest in marching off to war, effectively memorializing a creed shared years before by President Theodore Roosevelt, “No man is worth his salt who is not ready at all times to risk his well-being, to risk his body, to risk his life, in a great cause.”

With God as their ally in that great cause of freedom, he and his brothers in arms understood that some things are worth dying for, and they chose to fight against tyranny in a massive undertaking unparalleled in history. Just four years after its attack on Pearl Harbor, the Japanese Empire was effectively destroyed.

World War II ended in victory, and our liberating champions returned home to waiting families, as did my grandfather. 

But the ravages of time do not stop for heroes or paladins.

Sixty-four winters have passed since the end of that war, and now with more than one-thousand World War II veterans dying daily, each year there are fewer of them to bear witness to the day the attack on Pearl Harbor changed them from children of the Depression to what Tom Brokaw called the Greatest Generation.

Lest my appreciation be communicated too late, to those honorable living, the dear veterans who have prevailed since that difficult time, you have my highest admiration and gratitude for a job well done.

And to you warriors I share the 1983 whisper of an eleven year old boy to his recently departed pa-paw.

“Thank you.”



Ellisville State Sen. Chris McDaniel can be reached at 601-359-4090.