My father, Asael Tall, M.D., was a peace-loving doctor from Idaho who was sent off to World War II for four years. When he returned home, he put his life and medical practice back together and built a cabin in Island Park -- the year I was born. Being of superior intelligence, he spent the rest of his life living in Idaho. As such, his story is not particularly exceptional—until you read between the lines. As a chemistry teacher in Idaho, he chose to go to medical school during the Great Depression. One afternoon, he was eating his sack lunch as he sat on the steps of the Sugar City High School. He was thinking of going to medical school and envisioned his future if he chose to continue teaching. It was at that moment, staring at a boiled egg, he decided there was something more to life for him than sack lunches and he decided to become a doctor. He went off to medical school, became a doctor, and didn’t have time for lunch. After two years of practicing medicine, his plan for happiness was derailed when the whole world went off to war. He was sworn in and drafted into the military in his office over the Idaho First National Bank in Rigby. The U.S Army needed doctors and they shipped him off to North Africa and Italy for four years. With his surgical training, he spent much of his time working in earlier versions of what became MASH units, working alongside some of the finest surgeons in the world, under unbelievable, trying conditions. When penicillin arrived, the mortality rates dropped by about 50%. Most of his patients were Allied soldiers in their early twenties. He could not save all of them. During battles, many wounded soldiers were brought to the hospital—some died waiting for an available surgeon. When he returned, he did not talk much about the war. When someone could get him to talk about it, he couldn’t sleep soundly and had nightmares for weeks. He recalled treating wounded POW Italian and German soldiers and how grateful they were to him. His surgical skills improved to new levels and by the end of the war, he was a Major with four years of wartime surgical experience. Heartbreaking as it was for him to be a participant in the carnage of war, it was a refining experience. Deeply troubled by the landscape of his first major battle, he consciously chose not to feel sorry for himself and made prayerful commitments not to become cynical or jaded. I saw this quality whenever he faced trying conditions, where he was one of the kindest people I have ever known. In the last decade or so of his life he proudly carried the flag as part of the Memorial Day honor guard ceremonies at each of the cemeteries in Jefferson County. Watching him reverently commemorate these solemn events taught me of the very real bond between those who have served and those who, as young soldiers, died while serving. To honor those who died while serving their country, American flags are raised to full staff at sunrise and then flown at half-mast until noon on Memorial Day. The Memorial Day flags we see next to the headstones recognize those who have served in the military. This year, when a flag is placed near my father's headstone, I don’t imagine that the person placing the flag will be aware of his specific patriotism, service, or great devotion--only that he served. What matters today, five generations later, is that some of us understand and still remember. Ever vigilant, RT
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