A Company of Heroes Read Online Free PDF Page A

in the Army. He was in the Airborne again, but not with the 101st, since it had been deactivated at the end of WWII. He had been a private during WWII, but was a sergeant in Korea because of his experience in WWII. Dad never talked about why he reenlisted other than he enjoyed the discipline of the Army. It was probably also out of a sense of duty, or even fun and adventure.
    He didn’t talk a lot about that period of time, either. About the only story he ever told was on the humorous side. He was in the barracks with his brother, Uncle Jay, when a runner from headquarters came in, stood at the door, and yelled, “Hey Garcia , the lieutenant wants to see you.”
    Dad yelled back down the length of the room: “Which Garcia ? Ya gotta be more specific.”
    The orderly said, “Doggone it, I don’t know,” left, went back to HQ, then returned to the barracks and said, “ Sergeant Garcia.”
    Dad yelled back down again, “ Which Sergeant Garcia?” (He and his brother were both sergeants.)
    The orderly shrugged again, went back to HQ to check again, then finally came back to the barracks and yelled, “Sergeant Tony Garcia.”
    My dad yelled a simple “Okay—be right there,” and went to see the lieutenant. It wasn’t like there was a whole bunch of other Sergeant Garcias in the outfit (just the two of them); they were just messing with the guy for fun.
    After Korea, Dad returned to San Francisco in the late 1950s and lived in a boardinghouse where he met our mother, Nancy, who lived in the same boardinghouse. During their dating, my dad, being somewhat presumptuous, said to my mom, “So, after we’re married . . .” and continued on with the conversation they were having. That was how he “proposed.” They were married in December 1958 at St. Dominic’s Catholic Church. Dad was working for Macy’s then as a warehouseman. He moved furniture around, stocking and restocking, and enjoyed the physical nature of the work. He stayed with Macy’s for about twenty-five years until he retired in the early 1980s.
    Mom had been born in 1938, so there was fourteen years’ difference between them, but the age difference never seemed to affect my parents. Mom wasn’t of Mexican heritage, either. She was of English, Scottish, Irish, and Cherokee ancestry, and had been born and raised in Little Rock, Arkansas. She moved out to San Francisco with her good friend in 1957 where they both worked for Pacific Bell. Growing up, we mostly weren’t aware of our mixed heritage. San Francisco was a strong collection of ethnicities even then, so we weren’t much different than most other families in our community.
    Mom was the classic American housewife. She took care of us kids while Dad worked. She had been very active in high school, played basketball, and was a high school homecoming queen. As we grew older, she worked outside of the home for Pan Am, at the San Francisco International Airport, first in the statistics office, then she switched to being a PBX operator. Dad was a bit slower to adjust to her working outside the home. Once, Mom was working swing shift, and Dad was in charge of making dinner, which he almost never did. He set the table, boiled the spaghetti, and grated the parmesan cheese. He looked so proud. But then when he called us for dinner, he realized he forgot to make the sauce. We got to go to Pan Am that night and have an automat-style dinner with Mom.
    They had four children together, two boys and two girls. We were a typical American family in many ways, just growing up eating macaroni and cheese, watching TV, always having fun among ourselves. One of my sister’s favorite memories is when we were little and went to the city swimming pool. All of us kids took turns climbing on Dad’s shoulders to jump off. He was tireless and could play like that for hours. Dad could be strict on the exterior, but he was mostly a softy inside. If us four kids got loud at the dinner table, his method of discipline was to