Sgt David Adams, U.S. Marine (1986-1994)

I only knew him as Ted, a frail ninety-some-year-old senior citizen whom I had met while volunteering at a nursing home. Pleasant and humble, he mostly talked about his late twin brother, who had been a fighter pilot stationed in Pearl Harbor at the time of Japan’s attack in December 1944 and later flew combat missions throughout WWII. His war stories were detailed, and he told them with such heartfelt emotions and passion as if he had been there next to his twin brother. Sometimes he would tear up in the middle of a story and gaze at the ceiling before saying, “Enough for today young man, go enjoy your day!” His thoughts, memories, and emotions seemed so intertwined with his war-hero twin brother that one would think he had not had a life of his own. I contributed this psychological entanglement to the strong bond between twins and did not think much of it.

One Wednesday in November 2011, I visited the nursing home as usual. Ted was not in his room. The duty nurse told me that he had pneumonia and took me to the infirmary. There he was hooked up to a vital signs monitor and IVs. He looked pale and weak. He had a tough time breathing and talking. As soon as he saw me, he pointed to an envelope on his bedside table and said, “Take this!” I asked, “What is it?” He signaled with his hands, “Take it and open it!” So, I did. It was an invitation for the 70th Anniversary of Pearl Harbor, exclusively for Pearl Harbor survivors and WWII veterans. I was confused as to how he had received this invitation, which was most likely intended for his late twin brother. So, I said, “Ted, you told me that your twin brother had passed away years ago. How did you get this invitation, and why are you giving it to me?” Mustering all his energy, he whispered, “I never had a twin brother, it was me, I was the guy in all those stories!”. Baffled by this revelation, I asked, “Then why didn’t you tell me?” He said, “I had to get things off my chest, but I didn’t want you to think of me as a hero. I was just there and did my job, that’s all!” I asked, “What do you want me to do with this invitation?” He said, “Go in my place!” He then waved away his hand and said, “Young man, go enjoy your day and let me get some rest!” and closed his eyes.

Ted passed away a few days later. I did not attend the Pearl Harbor Commemoration in his place because I believed it would be arrogant of me to sit among those old-timer heroes. Nonetheless, I treasure this invitation as a symbol of a powerful and lasting lesson in humility and honor. Rest in peace, Ted!

Read the Military Memories of our Runner-Ups.