Frank Sorensen
Why hello, say can I buy you another glass of beer
Well thanks a lot that’s kind of you, it’s nice to know you care
These days there’s so much going on
No one seems to want to know
I may be just an old soldier to some
But I know how it feels to grow old
Yeah that’s right, you can see me here most every night
You’ll always see me staring at the walls and at the lights
Funny I remember oh it’s years ago I’d say
I’d stand at that bar with my friends who’ve passed away
And drink three times the beer that I can drink today
Yes I know how it feels to grow old
I know what they’re saying son
There goes old man Joe again
Well I may be mad at that I’ve seen enough
To make a man go out his brains
Well do they know what it’s like
To have a graveyard as a friend
`Cause that’s where they are boy, all of them
Don’t seem likely I’ll get friends like that again
Well it’s time I moved off
But it’s been great just listening to you
And I might even see you next time I’m passing through
You’re right there’s so much going on
No one seems to want to know
So keep well, keep well old friend
And have another drink on me
Just ignore all the others you got your memories
You got your memories
Written by Vicki Sorensen
During my adolescence in the 1970’s, my favourite recording artist was Elton John. One song in particular entitled Talking Old Soldiers caught my attention. It seemed to frame the musings and bewilderment I had about my father, a World War II Air Force veteran and prisoner of war.
I knew my father’s struggle with alcoholism was the outcome of his military service, but my understanding was limited. I certainly made no connection between his angry outbursts and wartime trauma, and over the years I came to resent the unpredictability of his mood swings, and the feelings of being let down every time I saw him with a case of beer.
I was fearful of how my father would react if I asked questions about the war, so I just followed what I thought was my parents’ lead. Don’t talk and don’t ask questions about the war. I wanted to play that song, Talking Old Soldiers for my father, but apprehension overrode my wish to reach out. Would he be mad? Would he break down? Would he start drinking? Would he have a nightmare? Then I would have to deal with my mother’s ire for triggering an episode. I had seen a few and didn’t want to be the cause of one.
As a young child, I learned to tread lightly and keep a low profile. One occasion however, poor judgement lured me into sneaking up on my father and scaring him. I got the blast of my life and as I was slinking away to pout, he did something unusual. My father offered an explanation. He asked me to imagine what it would be like to have bombs going off all around you, and once it was over, discovered you had tried to dig a hole in the ground with your bare hands. Lack of knowledge about my father’s war left me wondering how he would have been in a situation to be bombed. A missed opportunity to open Pandora’s Box, but I was only 10.
I thought many times, the song Talking Old Soldiers could be a catalyst. To what, I wasn’t sure. I imagined myself approaching him, asking if he would like to listen to this song. I thought about the lyrics that may ring true for him, as the aging veteran in the song conveys he’s “seen enough to make a man go out his brains” and wonders if “they know what it’s like to have a graveyard as a friend.” He laments about knowing how it feels to grow old and I wondered if my father thought about fallen comrades who did not grow old.
I envisioned my father weeping at the song’s end. “How could you,” I feared he would say. I lacked the courage to be a strong shoulder. Would he have told me about the friends he lost while a prisoner of war after a mass escape attempt from Stalag Luft III. That the anger he wore on his sleeve was a result of the execution of these friends. Perhaps an exposition of painful memories would have also led to an understanding of my father’s aversion to loud noises. Towards the closing stages of the war, POWs were forced to march hundreds of miles west across Germany during the winter and spring. They were targets of friendly fire which included strafing and bombings from the allied Air Force. I can only speculate it was during one of these fly bys my father found himself scrambling in a futile attempt to dig a hole that would offer no protection from the onslaught.
Talking Old Soldiers represents a wasted chance to set right the misunderstandings that marred our relationship. I think about the only Remembrance Day service my father and I attended together, three months before he died. His reticence gave little clue as to what he was thinking, how he was feeling, and I didn’t ask. Knowing now what I didn’t know then, I believe my father was simply going through the motions of laying a wreath at the service’s memorial. In his mind’s eye, he was overseas in Poland, laying his wreath at the Memorial to the 50; “In Memory of the Officers Who Gave Their Lives.”
Drawing by Ley Kenyon – September 1944
Frank Sorensen
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Flight Lieutenant Frank Sorensen 