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| My Grandfather, Joe Karlen, in 2010. The top left is the Bronze Star. The top right is the Purple Heart |
D-Day and the Battle of the Bulge
Like many combat veterans, he rarely spoke of his wartime experiences in Europe. In fact, many of his coworkers throughout his postwar career had no idea of his heroics. We, his family, knew that he was a decorated veteran, but for most of our lives, the picture of his service was incomplete.
But in 2010, Wausau hosted the first Honor Flight of veterans out to the World War II Memorial in Washington. My grandfather was among the many who flew out. Wausau Daily Herald journalist Peter Wasson went along to document the journey. His trip produced a series of four articles. One, titled "Tales of the war: The unyielding soldier," focused exclusively on Grandpa Joe and was the first documented account of what, exactly, my grandfather endured.
The first piece of shredded steel tore into the base of Joe Karlen's neck, ripped through the muscles of his back and lodged behind his left shoulder blade.Lee Storm never came home from France. Nor did John Fisher, who carried my grandfather to shore after he nearly drown getting off the boat on D-Day.
A millisecond later, another piece of shrapnel tore through the muscle of his right leg, just above the knee, all the way to the bone.
A mortar round had detonated in a tree above Karlen, sending jagged hunks of German metal screaming in all directions. It was D-Plus-Eight -- the eighth day after Allied troops landed at Normandy. The land invasion of Europe was under way, and Karlen, a 22-year-old town of Cassel farmboy, was down.
He wasn't out.
He had to make it to an aid station. Problem was, he had to cross an open field to get there. On the other side of that field, German troops were watching and waiting.
Karlen had hobbled halfway across the meadow with a buddy supporting him when a bullet crashed into his right arm.
"So now I'm in bad shape," the retired electrician said with a wry chuckle, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a 66-year-old puckered, white patch of shredded skin, bright as a beacon amid the age spots on his forearm, where the bullet left its mark. "All I got left is one good leg. Well, a guy named Lee Storm from Michigan, he helped me. We got out of that jam somehow."
Grandpa Joe was wounded seriously several more times. A hand grenade nearly cost him a finger, and a "Bouncing Betty" landmine sent shrapnel through his mouth. But because the Battle of the Bulge was beginning, there was no opportunity to seek treatment. He had to fight on.
The injury came closer to killing Karlen than any of the others. By the time Karlen finally made it to an aid station, the wound was badly infected."
It was the first warm room I was in for two months, and I remember the light got all hazy, and then I fell over -- passed out," he said. "That was the best day of my life. No more artillery, no more machine guns. I nearly died, but it was the best day of my life."
About seven months after the Daily Herald article ran, my grandfather went to the doctor with pain in his head. An x-ray revealed a bullet lodged between his skull and his brain. When we visited him for Christmas, my mom remarked, "I heard you had an interesting doctor visit!" With his trademarked wry grin, he responded, "What can I say?"
"Didn't you notice blood coming out of your head?" she asked.
"Those days, we were always bleeding," he responded.
Returning to Civilian Life
In December of 1945, my grandfather returned home. Upon arriving to an empty bus station, he caught a ride home with a stranger. He was too battered from the war to return to the farm so he became an electrician and worked for Wausau Hospital for decades, while also doing freelance work for friends and acquaintances.
He raised eight children. In a private email correspondence, the Daily Herald reporter told me, "He was an extraordinary guy, and bursting with pride that he was able to raise such a great family and send so many on to college. He was far more proud of his family than of his exploits in the service, which I think speaks to his character."
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| Grandpa Joe with my son Peter in 2010 |
A couple years ago, a doctor asked my grandpa if he went out to walk. When my grandpa's response indicated that he thought walking was a waste of time, the doctor asked, "It's important to be active. Do you do any physical activity?"
My grandpa, who was clearly baiting the poor doctor, responded, "Well, last week I took down a chimney with a 12 pound maul. Does that count? I used to use a 16 pound maul, but it made my shoulder sore."
When my wife and I bought a house in the fall of 2011, we hoped to have my grandpa come take a look at it. He couldn't because he had to work that day. Even though my dad, father-in-law and the inspector all gave it their seal of approval, we were a little nervous as to what Grandpa Joe would think when he came to visit for our son's birthday party last spring. We were relieved when he gave it a thumbs up, precisely identifying the age of the roof and noting that with heavy soil, we might consider a dehumidifier for the basement.
When he was diagnosed with a lung tumor last summer, he was told to take it easy. He would have none of it. In his words, he was "too busy." He moved back home and--disgusted by the condition of his garden--outfitted his lawn tractor with his oxygen tank so he could clean things up.
It wasn't long before he further defied orders to scale back. Unbeknownst to his family, he went back to work. A fall from a ladder that broke several bones necessitated his complete retirement in October. He then busied himself with designing his own rehabilitation plan, which astounded the physical therapists.
Saying Goodbye
Four generations gathered for my grandfather's funeral last week Tuesday. While it was a difficult day, it was also a pretty special day. The leaders of the Northern Wisconsin Honor Flight group came to pay their respects. So did Peter Wasson, the journalist from the Daily Herald.
My grandfather was buried with full military honors. As the echo of the salutary gunshots rang out, my dad was presented with a flag by the military honor guard, and my brother and I played Taps as a final tribute.
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| My Dad, Charles Karlen, receives the flag from the military honor guard |
I hope, some day, to be half the man my grandfather was.
May Grandpa Joe's soul and the souls of all the faithfully departed, through the Mercy of God, rest in peace.
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