Operation Chowhound/Manna Delft Commemorative Tile Bud, wearing his veteran’s hat, spoke to the staff on Memorial Day, as he always does. He reminded us of the sacrifices made by men and women in uniform. I listened with a heart still grieving the loss of my father. The first Memorial Day since his death. The first time in a long while that my siblings and I didn’t visit him and thank him for his service.
As a child, I hung his photo on the bedroom wall, Dad looking dashing in uniform, a rare photo of him with a mustache and pipe. I loved the one of him wearing a Scottish kilt taken while stationed in England. I loved them all. I loved my Dad.
He returned from the war a bit quieter than he had been. So I was told. He was a gentle spirit, responding to a need, but not a solider at heart. He was proudest of Operation Chowhound, or Manna, as our Cousins in the Netherlands called it. Near the end of the war, American and British airmen flew over the country devastated by the German army. Bridges had been bombed, fields flooded, canals mined. The Dutch people were starving.
I have heard the story from my father, from family in the Netherlands, and from a couple there who still live by the field where they watched bombers fly low, dropping not bombs, but boxes and tins of food: Operation Manna.
Dad served in the United States Eighth Army Air Force, 490th Bomb Group (H) as an intelligence officer and asked if he might go on one of the Chowhound flights. His Dutch father was one of sixteen children and Dad had lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins in Holland. He watched as boxes fell and people on the ground gratefully waved their thanks.
One Dutchman told me that German soldiers agreed to fire across the fields as food fell from the sky to discourage anyone from dashing out into the open spaces. The containers were heavy and could seriously injure or kill someone driven by hunger who might try to take some. The food was gathered and stored until it could be sent to those most in need.
I thought about my father, his family, and the food drop as Bud spoke to us before our workday began. In the midst of suffering, atrocities of war, and hatred, goodwill reigned for a few hours during the days between April 29 through May 5. Hostilities gave way to humanitarian response to suffering.
I think of Syria, of Afghanistan, of places on our earth ravaged by war where not only soldiers but civilians, children and adults also suffer the consequences today. I pray for Grace somehow to move hearts and minds, armies and politicians to make a way for humanitarian aide to again replace hostilities. I am sure in children’s bedrooms here and around the world, photos of fathers and mothers in uniform hang on the walls. All those young ones will not be as blessed as I was; all their parents will not return.
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