Glory remains among forgotten heroes
By Barry Gabay
Edited by Gina Vasselli
Odysseus returned to his family an old man after a tumultuous 20-year absence. Despite his struggle, he died, as Homer wrote, "a death so gentle ... worn out in sleek old age."
Like the mythic hero, the residents of Veterans' Victory House also hope to spend their remaining days in peace and comfort.
From outside, the $28 million, 126,000 square-foot nursing home in Walterboro looks like a modern middle school. A perfectly even sidewalk encircles the long, single-story building, and a calm fountain lies in the front grounds surrounded by bright green grass patches.
The stars and stripes stand tall near the entrance, front and center, welcoming guests while wafting high in the eastern South Carolina breeze.
Opened in 2006, this 220-bed nursing home is run privately for the state mental health department and exclusively serves military veterans who have lived at least one year in South Carolina. The big brick-and-stone sign at the front entrance reads "Home of the Greatest Generations."
But "the Greatest Generation" is dwindling. The Department of Veterans Affairs estimates 900 World War II veterans die each day, and soon their voices will be lost.
Inside the concrete walls of Veterans' Victory House, some of these warriors live out their final days in repetition - a far cry from their courageous pasts, a far cry from the romantic final rests of our mythical heroes. Some remain in bed until their meals are delivered. Others seek out entertainment through eating, an occasional visitor, a board game, television or a long stare out a window.
Linda Balmer, director of recreation and activities for Veterans' Victory, knows all the residents.
"How you doing, Mr. Carter?" Balmer asks one 82-year-old man with thin, snow-white hair inching his wheelchair down a hall.
"Not so good," he says.
"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Carter."
"Me too."
The man's melancholy is shared by many of his fellow World War II veterans here. They seek ways to pass the time between their prescribed meals. For some, the pinnacle of each day is afternoon bingo, Balmer said.
Over 60 years have passed since the war ended, but many of these warriors still identify themselves above all else as a veteran.
For example, Jefferson Hammond, 90, sits in his wheelchair, alone in the dining hall. His eyes scan the room slowly. His mouth is open, his hair unkempt.
Hammond fought in the Battle of the Bulge, America's bloodiest World War II endeavor. When asked where he was stationed, he faintly said, "Battle of the Bulge." When asked if he had friends who died, he whispered, "Battle of the Bulge." It is an eerie testament to his experiences.
Ask Hammond what unit he was in, and he smiles and proudly says, "U.S. 106th Infantry." But when asked the names of his wife or daughters, he drops his head and stays silent.
Charlton Hanna, 82, lied about his age to serve in the U.S. Navy. He was 15 when he was shipped off to the Mediterranean Sea and 16 when he watched his friend's ship explode after being hit by a torpedo.
Hanna served nearly a quarter-century in the Navy, Army and Air Force, but today he can barely walk. He is cold inside the home, so he sits in his wheelchair wearing a baby blue stocking cap covered with smiling cartoon frogs. Hanna drops his small plaid blanket on the floor next to him. Unable to pick it up, he shoots a desperate look across the room to Balmer, who picks it up for him and places it in his lap.
The men and women of Veterans' Victory House did not fall romantically in battle - they walked home triumphantly in victory. Today, these men and women are weakened and exhausted, but they survived war and have handed their story down to history. These veterans are the cornerstone of the Greatest Generation.
