As a child, I remember the Memorial Day Parade that marched its way down the main street and around a monument that sat in the center of a traffic circle. There, members of the local VFW Post would lay a wreath commemorating those who died in all the wars up to that time. Just a few doors down from this ceremony was the local Army and Navy Store, a fixture in this small town just north of Philadelphia. And standing in front of that store, more days than not, was a man named John.
John never bothered anyone but if you made eye-contact with him or said hello, he would regale you with a story about World War II. I was in grade school at the time and seeing John wearing his khaki pants, army boots and his sash, decorated with dozens of red poppies, not only made him stand out but garnered the laughter and ridicule of kids and adults alike. John was considered "crazy". Harmless -- but crazy.
As I grew older, I learned that his peers referred to him as Foxhole John, given his predilection for telling war stories. When I was old enough to work a newspaper route, I would run into John at the bar in the local American Legion Post when I dropped off the evening paper. He would sit in the corner by himself, downing beer after beer, wearing his sash of red poppies. If I arrived later than usual in the afternoon with the day's news, I would see him staggering down the street to parts unknown.
It seemed whenever I saw John late in the day, he was drunk or, at the very
least, feeling no pain. This was the case except for the few times a year when I saw him seated outside the local Food Lane grocery store taking collections for veterans and their families, giving out red poppies, and yes, wearing that vest of red flowers over a well-fitting and smartly ironed military shirt. On those days, John was sober, clean shaven, sitting up straight and speaking politely with those who donated.
During the spring in the early 1970s, I joined an American Legion baseball team where I met a friend named Eddie and his father, Bill. I came to find out that Foxhole John was Eddie’s uncle and Bill's brother. One afternoon, I joined them in meeting John in his small room over the local garage. Upon entering, the first thing I noticed was the stale smell of tobacco and beer. The windows were so stained with tar from the cigarette smoke that the sunshine that filtered in was a strange shade of brown.
His room was furnished sparingly, with a couch, table and bed. There was a trash barrel full of beer cans and liquor bottles, some which were still half full. On the wall hung a few pictures and the radio sitting next to his bed loudly played a Yankee baseball game with announcer Phil Rizzuto belting out "Holy Cow" as another home run cleared the fence. In a corner was a coat rack on which hung his uniform shirt and his sash, the one decorated with the red poppies.
The costume of a "crazy man" I thought to myself.
Upon introducing myself to Foxhole John, he remembered me as “the kid” who delivered the newspaper to the Legion bar, his second home, I remember thinking. He then launched into a series of war stories that ended in his pointing out the medals that were on his shirt and, of course, the dozens of red poppies that adorned a sash. He went on and on about those poppies and how they represented the blood of veterans and the sacrifice of "America's young men".
Just turning 13, I didn’t give his stories much thought and just wanted to leave that room, which was uncomfortable, stinky and seemed to be a scene lifted from the "Twilight Zone". Once outside, I asked Eddie why John lived like that. Eddie was embarrassed by his uncle’s behavior, but his father jumped quickly to John's defense.
"My brother is not crazy," he told me. "He's just lost, the war took a piece of him that was never replaced. In some ways, John may have been better off dying over there, he certainly has paid a heavy price since coming home."
Not quite understanding what that meant at the time, I asked Eddie's dad a question that had bothered me since I first became aware of John -- "Why does he wear those flowers all the time?"
"Those flowers are poppies," he told me. "And they have a deep meaning to my brother. Honestly, it's what he lives for and is his passion that probably keeps him alive." He went on to tell me just how John became the “crazy man” living by himself in a barely furnished room over top of a gas station.
His story began in the 1940s in a small town in Northern New Jersey. The
United States had been pulled into World War II just over a year earlier. His brother Phil had already joined the service. John’s dream was to become a veterinarian, a passion he had being raised on a farm and enjoying caring for animals. But like hundreds of thousands of other young Americans at the time, that dream would be put on hold.
"John loved bringing life into the world," Bill said. "You could see the joy in his eyes when helping deliver calves, or puppies or even watching chicks hatch. He was one of the most caring kids I knew, something that was missing from others in our family. He was heading for college but that changed."
Shortly after graduating high school, John was drafted into the military. He ended up being assigned to a medical unit, given his understanding of animal anatomy and enthusiasm for providing medical care. Although he was disappointed that his college education would have to wait, he was excited about the prospect of serving next to his brother.
Phil was the oldest in the family and he remembered when he went off to war and how grown up he had looked in his uniform. John idolized him. During his last two years in high school, John would read the letters that Phil sent home describing the warm weather and beautiful palm trees of the Pacific islands. This motivated him to go to the local library and take out books containing stories of the South Pacific.
The photos of the islands and atolls that populated the region made John envious. It was his dream to join Phil in paradise and be together with the brother he so dearly loved. But just weeks before shipping out, the letters from Phil began to take a decidedly different tone. The beauty of the Pacific had suddenly turned ugly.
The letters began to describe how the once white sandy beaches had turned scarlet with blood and the placid and clear waters of the Pacific became polluted with the fuel of sunken ships and floating decomposing bodies of those killed in battle. The warm winds smelled of burning oil and rotting corpses and the sunsets, once fiery and magnificent, were now filtered by an artificial fog of black and gray smoke. Paradise, it seemed, had become hell.
Then came a second disappointment for John, instead of going into the Pacific theater, he was sent to the battlefields of Europe. He consoled himself by writing letter after letter to Phil but never received an answer. John chalked this up to the fact that there was significant distance between them and a little thing like a raging war that stood in the way. But he went on knowing that it would be over soon, and they would once again be together on the farmlands of New Jersey.
But back home on that quiet and serene farm, his family received word that Phil was missing in action. They decided not to share this information with John, fearing how he would react, but he eventually found out, hoping against hope that he would be found alive. But Phil was never found. This was the reality of war.
John continued his work as a medic, writing letters home where he described
his duty as being “an undertaker” rather than a healer. Instead of saving lives, he was picking up pieces of bodies, trying to match arms with torsos so that family members back in the States would receive as much of their loved one as he could give them.
When he returned home, his family remarked that he was not the same, but no one dared to say this out loud. Few returning veterans at the time spoke about the horrors they saw and even fewer would admit that they were scarred by the experience. For John, he lost his brother, his friends and even more importantly, he lost himself.
Gone was the dream of being a veterinarian. He had no interest in the family farm anymore and was repulsed by the sight of a birthing cow. During the day, he was too tired to find a job and at night he was too awake to sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, he relived the horrors of the war, the loss of friends, his bare hands holding together gaping, bleeding wounds hoping for the best while in reality just delaying the inevitable. The backfire of a car, the smell of burning leaves and even a summer thunderstorm caused John’s heart to race and stomach to convulse. He was back home but it seemed like he never left the field of battle.
In those days, it was called “battle fatigue” or “shell shock”, today we know this as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Returning veterans did not talk about this for fear of being ridiculed.
“Be a man,” they were told. For John, being a man meant pulling up a stool at the American Legion Post where he drowned those thoughts with whatever liquor he could afford.
"A lot of vets committed suicide," Bill said. "But it was never publicized or talked about. My brother was killing himself with alcohol, slowly, but killing himself just the same. Like many other guys who came back, already dead and used the bottle to complete the act."
As John aged, he was unable to hold down any meaningful employment but did work from time to time at a local gas station owned by his cousin doing menial tasks that made enough money to keep him in alcohol. His welfare check helped pay the rent for a room in a local flop house.
Bill said that he and John’s cousin suggested that he move into a room above his garage, which would be made over into a small living area. All John had to do was give him a portion of his check and he would be provided with three meals a day, a place to live with all utilities included. John jumped at the chance.
After his parents died, the siblings sold the family farm for a substantial amount and John's portion of the estate was placed in an account opened by his cousin, who volunteered to manage his money and keep him "safe and healthy."
As time went by, John began to realize the promises of his cousin were lies, but no one believed him. He became known as the drunk in the shed. On a good day, John was lucky to receive a stale sandwich for lunch or a bowl of canned beef stew for dinner from his "caring" cousin. He had very few clothes and even lacked the most basic of hygiene supplies.
Neighbors who saw John wearing flannel shirts in the heat of summer or shorts in sub-zero weather chalked it up to his alcoholism. He became the butt of jokes from the adults in the community to the children who enjoyed teasing him whenever he went out for a walk.
Bill said he had tried to talk John into leaving the room he was renting but he refused to do so. He even refused to show Bill his bank account fearing reprisals from the cousin. Confrontations with the cousin usually ended with John being treated even worse forcing the family looked the other way.
Then, the commander at the American Legion Post asked John if he would
help in collecting donations on Memorial Day at the local market. The first few times, he was uncomfortable, but it seemed those who donated gave him the respect he deserved. John would lecture them on the significance of the red poppy, usually garnering weird looks from those who didn't quite understand.
Bill said of John at the time, “… he takes his role seriously. He understands that each donation can help a veteran avoid the mistakes he made or provide for a family who lost a husband, father, brother or son to war. And when someone refuses the poppy he offers them, he explains the meaning of the red poppy and how important it is to those who sacrificed everything.”
Bill would say that the sash of red poppies that he wore was "not the clothing of a crazy man but a tribute to those who served and gave their lives on a far away battlefield."
"Strange as it seems," Bill would say, "John seemed to love the red poppies more than anything else in his life."
For John, he would wish that Americans saw everyday as Memorial Day and understood that the red poppy represented the friends he lost, his brother who never returned and the good deeds that organizations like the American Legion and the VFW were doing for veterans and their families.
As I grew older and became closer to John, I would listen to his stories, always interesting and always having a deeper meaning. One warm Memorial Day, I sat with John and his nephew outside the Food Lane department store as he told a story about a discovery he made after a bombing raid on a French city.
"We were going in to clean up and I heard moaning coming from a pile of rubble. I found a French woman, hurt really bad and dying. I also noticed she was pregnant and giving birth. Me and some other medics delivered the baby, but she was just too small, we hoped to find a life in all the death but...it just died."
As he told the story, you could see the sadness in his eyes as he stared off into space, reliving the experience -- I’m sure not for the first time. He then said to me, “If I could, I would have gladly given my life to save that baby…I guess things don’t work that way in the real world.”
Those of us who spent time with John moved on with our lives and visited him less and less. As he aged, we would see him sitting outside the local Food Lane every Memorial Day, collecting money and handing out poppies. The vest became tattered and the poppies faded with age, although he would add a few new ones every now and then, and John also began to succumb to age as well.
With each passing year, he looked more tired and sickly. His lawn chair eventually became a wheelchair. His sitting up straight while wearing his uniform turned to a slouch as the abuse he gave his body began to show - and he began to exhibit signs of dementia, or "senility" as they called it at the time.
It ended for John on one chilly March night when he was found dead in his bed, succumbing to a cirrhotic liver. A proud American veteran who gave all he had for the country died lonely and in squalor. To make matters worse, it became apparent that the "caring cousin" had defrauded John of his money. He had battled the enemy in a foreign land to keep America free and returned home only to become a victim of financial abuse by a family member. A collection had to be taken up to pay for his funeral.
The following weekend, his nephew Eddie asked me to help clean out John’s room. Upon entering, even though it looked the same as I had remembered it many years before, I had a different understanding and appreciation for John and what he treasured. I looked closer at those things that decorated his wall.
There was a picture of John Kennedy - probably three decades old and removed from the magazine section of the Sunday New York Daily News - a photo of his brother Phil in his officer's uniform and two poems, “In Flander’s Field” and “We Shall Keep The Faith” -- both framed and hanging on either side of a dirty and stained American flag. After reading the poems, I wanted to learn more about the red poppy that John loved and the poems that were so important to him that they held a prominence in his room.
What I learned gave me a new appreciation for John's love of the red poppy.
After World War I, the poppy flourished in Europe. Scientists attributed the growth to soils in France and Belgium becoming enriched with lime from the rubble left by the war, other said it was from the blood left behind by soldiers. The flower came to symbolize the blood shed during battle after a wartime poem called “In Flanders Fields” was published. The poem was written by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, M.D. while serving on the front lines.
The opening line of the poem refers to the site of the thousands of crosses laid out to mark where so many soldiers died for their countries. Among these crosses grew the red poppy, a resilient flower that could lie dormant for years and then reappear in great numbers in fields which were bare just years before.
For Lt. Col. McCrea, the poppy signified the bravery of military heroes who would appear in great numbers to assist and fight with their comrades against the oppression and tyranny of the enemy during "the war to end all wars" then disappearing and lying dormant until the call came again.
In 1918, humanitarian Moina Michael wrote a poem as a tribute to McCrea’s accounting of the deaths on Flanders Field and as a result the poppy became the official symbol for the remembrance of our fallen heroes.
On September 27, 1920, the poppy became the official flower of The American Legion family to memorialize the soldiers who fought and died during the war. In 1924, the distribution of poppies became a national program of The American Legion.
Led by the American Legion Auxiliary, each year members of The American Legion family distribute poppies with a request that the person receiving the flower make a donation to support the future of veterans, active-duty military personnel and their families with medical and financial needs. Most of these poppies are assembled by disabled veterans as part of their rehabilitation.
Distributing the poppies was John’s passion. One which he never lost despite the significant physical and emotional pain and suffering he endured until his death. Below are those poems written by Lt. Col. McCrea and Moina Michael and I encourage you to read them and reflect upon their meaning;
In Flander’s Field
by Lt. Col. John McCrae, 1915
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly, Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow. Loved, and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields
Take up our quarrel with the foe To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
Lt. Col. John McCrae is buried in Wimereux, France after succumbing to pneumonia in 1918.
“We Shall Keep the Faith”
By Moina Michael
Oh! You who sleep in Flanders fields, Sleep sweet – to rise anew! We caught the torch you threw And holding high, we keep the Faith With All who died
We cherish, too, the poppy red That grows on fields where valor led; It seems to signal to the skies That blood of heroes never dies, But lends a lustre to the red Of the flower that blooms above the dead In Flanders field
And now the Torch and Poppy Red We wear in honor of our dead Fear not that ye have died for naught; We’ll teach the lesson that you wrought In Flanders field.
This Memorial Day, as you exit the grocery store and see a veteran manning a table adorned by red poppies, remember what these flowers symbolize and how important your donation is. Maybe, just maybe, instead of heading to the doughnut shop to buy an overpriced cup of coffee, drop those few extra cents into the container to help those who gave their all.
And when given the red poppy by the veteran, don't just throw it into the car where it will be stepped on, disrespected and tossed out with the trash, think about the disabled veteran who made it and why it was so important to an American Hero like John.
Attorney Connelly practices in the area of elder law. This area of law involves Medicaid planning and asset protection advice for those individuals entering nursing homes, planning for the possibility of disability through the use of powers of attorney for the both health care and finances, guardianship, estate planning, probate and estate administration, preparation of wills, living trusts and special or supplemental needs trusts. He represents clients primarily in the states of Rhode Island, Connecticut and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. He was certified as an Elder Law Attorney (CELA) by the National Elder Law Foundation (NELF) in 2008. Attorney Connelly is licensed to practice before the Rhode Island, Massachusetts, Connecticut, and Federal Bars.