By Abe Villarreal

My grandfather never talked about the War. In Spanish, he called it "la Guerra." In the 1990s, as a World War II veteran heading into his twilight years, I was a teenager that wanted to know more about the War.
We read textbooks about it and watched short films of it during history class. My history teacher made it sound like the War was the biggest event in the history of the world. Maybe it was, but it was hard to see from someone who fought in it and never said anything about it.

Grandpa Abe was a Seabee. I was named after him. His first name was spelled Abram and his last name is still misspelled to this day on his military headstone. Most people spell our last names with one "r" instead of two.

I remember his funeral. The folding of the flag. The shots fired in the air. The salutes. The solemnity that comes with someone who gets a special kind of recognition for serving his country. I learned more about his service by being at his funeral and by reading about him in the newspaper. I didn't know much from what he said about it because he never said much about it.

I wish he would have told me why he chose to enlist. Most boys did back then. He was a young Mexican-American living on the border. A smelter town where most people were laborers. Maybe he was like a lot of other boys of the time. Boys becoming men, just out of high school. No real work or life experience to tout. A country needed them. They signed up.

Over 50 million boys registered for the draft. Looking at his draft card from 1943, he's listed as an 18-year-old. His father Elias Villarreal died in 1939 when grandpa was 14. He didn't get to see him sign up for the service, be called into service, and to travel overseas. He would become a Navy soldier. The draft card lists him as unemployed and with no phone. His mother Teodora is listed under the section "person who will always know your address."

In March of 1944, his name appeared on a Navy Muster Roll. His service number was 8825425. His rank an S2c, a seaman apprentice. A low rank as he was just getting started. A border boy becoming a Navy man.
For the rest of his time in the service, he must have experienced a life worth talking about. His fighting in a faraway country. His travels and long nights. His growing up faster than the rest of us because that's what happens when you make life and death decisions.

He returned home and married in 1946. He worked for the rest of his life. Worked with his hands in a smelter until he retired. That's what you did when you were a Latino without an education. Society values education on paper more than it does experience.

He knew a lot. I know it to be true because he was a quiet person. Quiet people know a lot. They think about what they know, and they get things done. They raise families. They work. They live and die. They leave a lot behind. He left us a lot behind.

Not through words but through examples. I have pictures of grandpa Abe. An official military headshot. A bride and groom photo. One of him riding a motorcycle, but none of him as a fighter, a Seabee on a boat somewhere in the middle of a vast ocean.

That's ok. I can picture him there, serving our country. Earning his stripes. He earned a couple of medals too. I'll be thinking of him this Independence Day. Thank you for your service, Abram Villarreal.

Abe Villarreal writes about the traditions, people, and culture of America. He can be reached at abevillarreal@hotmail.com.