"Old Glory, I will stand and die by her!"
When I first read this story, it was around the Memorial Day Holiday. It touched me deeply. I wrote to Jan, and she graciously gave her permission for me to use it on a web page. Thank you, Jan! Please read what the flag meant to one soldier!!!
Pride
Won - Patriot Lost
Copyright ©1997 Jan Dennis Philpot
Sgt. Judson W. Dennis
was a resident of Tip Top, Tennessee. He was killed in France on October 17, 1918. The
following article by his great-niece, details how, after seventy-eight years his marker
finally stood in the National Cemetery in Dover.
For seventy-six years, the letters had lain in storage, waiting for someone to recognize
the lessons contained in words written decades ago by a young man far from home never to
return. A thousand wonders they had survived the years at all. They had lain at the bottom
of a trunk through the raising of five children in a farmhouse deep in the hollows of
Tennessee, they had lasted through the "selling out" of the family farm to
T.V.A., found their way into the top of a storage closet in
Kentucky, and at last...at my father's death, they passed into my hands. The letters were
written by my great-uncle, a man my father had never known. Sgt. Judson Dennis, aged 26,
was killed in action one month before the end of The Great War in 1918.
I knew the family legend, though I really knew very little about the man. Judson's picture
hung on the wall of my grandfather's farmhouse throughout my childhood. I was told he was
"Pa's brother, killed in France". Later, as
I grew older I was puzzled that he did not seem to rest in the family's cemetery. And that
too was explained "They never found his body". That mystery piqued my curiosity,
but oddly I can remember none of my aunts, nor
my father elaborating further, or seeming to know much more...and so Judson was just a
picture, "Pa's brother, killed in France, who never came home".
In 1984, I was a grown woman with three children of my own when Jud's legacy came to me. I
found the box of "letters home" when I finalized my late father's estate. There
were some twelve letters, tracing Jud's first
experience as a young soldier in training in South Carolina to his last letter written
some ten months later in France. I sat for hours in another time and another place as I
read the words of a young man suddenly tossed
from the hard but simple life he and all of his family before him had known into a world
that except for some dramatic political upheaval in a faraway place would never have been
of his experience. I read his wonder as he
discovered the countryside he passed through on the train that carried the Tennessee
battalion from Nashville. I heard his delight at the books and "picture shows"
that were available at Camp Sevier. I heard the sadness and
acceptance in his words as he told about the "soldier boy they killed because he
would not obey orders and refused to work." I heard again and again in his words the
newness in his experiences and felt the range of emotion in the letters, one after
another, as they chronicled not only a journey of miles, but a journey of experience and
growth. There were some ten other letters from various government officials indicating
that my grandfather had gone to as great a lengths as a poor farmer with little means of
influence or communication could go in trying to retrieve his brother's body. And there
was the telegram. As I held it, I could almost feel the shock and grief that must have
flooded my grandfather when he received it almost a month after the actual date of his
brother's death, and after the ending of what would become known as the Great War. How
shocked he must have been, probably believing that with the war ended his brother would
soon be home, to farm with him, to raise livestock with him, perhaps to settle down with
his "sweetheart" nearby. And in all of that time he had not known his brother
was dead. The recent grief I had felt was all too fresh and that, coupled with the
multitude of responsibilities that faced me, was the reason at last that I carefully boxed
up the letters and set them upon a shelf to wait for yet another ten years.
It was my thirteen year old daughter, Heather, who next unearthed Jud's letters. She was
searching for a history fair project, something she could research and make a display of ,
and none of my suggestions would do. In
exasperation, I racked my brain for some idea that would grasp her interest, something
that we could find tangible objects to display for...and I remembered a small nondescript
box that had lain in storage with first one member of the family and then another for
seventy six years. I unearthed it from the back of a shelf, and laid it before my
daughter, little realizing that the contents of this box were in fact to set off a chain
of reactions and events that would finally bring closure to a chapter of my family's past
and provide a sense of pride for my "children of the 90's" to cling to as they
faced their future. Her eyes grew large with wonder as I told her where these letters had
come from, who the man was who had written them, and what had happened to him. For two
days I saw her immersed single-mindedly in the letters that I had first read ten years
before, and I understood that she too, was caught in another time and another place. Then
came the questions. And I realized how very different her experience with the letters had
been from my own. I had read them with a grown woman's experience and an understanding of
the past. I had read them with the understanding of another generation and accepted so
much of what Jud said without question. For my young daughter, there were questions.
" Why did our own army kill a soldier because he did not obey orders and did not
work? Why didn't they just send him home? Why was Jud so excited about all the books at
the camp? And what are moving pictures? And what did Jud mean when he said "Old
Glory, I will stand and die by her"? Wasn't he scared? Why did he keep telling Pa
what to do about his things? Did he know he wasn't coming back? If he did, why didn't he
ever talk about anybody getting killed? Why does he keep asking for mail from home? Didn't
anybody ever write to him? Why does he keep saying he cannot tell his family where he has
been and what is going on? Does he really mean it when he says that the 'mothers and
sweethearts and
friends' shouldn't grieve, they should be proud to have a soldier?"
The questions came in a flood and I struggled with some surprise to answer them, realizing
that this child had not indeed grown up in a world of unquestioning patriotism, of
appreciation for the means of an education, of unwavering loyalty. The world that had
begun in my own childhood, the Vietnam era, a time of riots and assassinations, of
protests and marches and sit-ins had somehow tapered into this world, and our children are
accustomed to dispute, the fall from grace of political officials, the cynicism of a
cynical age where there are no heroes and few ideals. Somehow they have no connection to
the past that my generation, with our parents and grandparents of another time and way of
thinking, did. And so, I think, it should not be surprising that a soldier such as Jud,
such as the thousands like him, not heroes and yet heroes just the same, came as such a
shock to my young daughter. I tried to paint his world for her, as best I knew it from the
link of a previous generation. She tried to imagine a world without media, a world without
travel, and something else, a world in which people simply "did what they felt they
had to do". She held his wallet in her hands and marveled at the picture of the two
little girls he carried in it and asked about frequently in his letters. The tiny girls
are now her great-aunts, loving ladies in their eighties that she eagerly visits several
times a year. She read and reread the tattered letter from a comrade who had been present
telling my grandfather how his brother had died. We searched atlases of maps of the time
frame, trying to locate the approximate vicinity this man said Jud's body had been buried,
and I tried to explain to her the impossibility of doing anything about locating him now.
Then, she and her younger sister wanted to know, why doesn't he at least have a marker?
And that question hung in the air between us, as I wondered myself.
Her project was a winner. It took first prize at the history fair. She had traced in
excerpts from his letters the simple and tragic story of a young man, like thousands of
other young men, who left a simple existence to answer duty, and die for it. She displayed
his pictures and his medals. But it was his paper that told me what she had learned from
Jud. " I found this story of Judson Dennis (my great-great uncle) a story of heroism.
Out of all his letters, he not once complained, nor told half of what he saw. He fought to
his death for his country, not because he had to, but because he felt it was right. He
went off to war as a man with guts, leaving his family and friends and girlfriend. Just
receiving a letter seemed to probably make him grin from ear to ear for days. I feel that
in this country today we take things that are important for granted. That's what Judson
had shown me by just reading a few of his letters." Heather's words were not empty
ones. I had watched her wonder, her emotions, listened to her questions. She truly was
amazed at the bravery and loyalty of this man. And she was in awe at the idea that Jud was
not unusual for the time. She titled her project "Pride Won - Patriot Lost".
The story did not end here. I could not seem to hang Jud's story up once my daughter had
unearthed it, and an unanswered question still lay between us. I asked my aunt, the only
one who can remember Jud at all, just what she did remember. She told me snatches of
memories, of being bundled up in a wagon and trekking to Dover, Tennessee to watch Jud
drill with the other soldiers, of his final visit home before he was sent overseas. She
showed me postcards he had mailed her from faraway places. I typed Jud's letters and gave
them to my aunts, I saw the pleasure they took in these and realized that somehow a wound
existed in my family that I had not known of. Jud's body had never been returned. And my
daughters wanted to know why he did not have a marker in his memory as did the rest of our
family. Jud had been dead for over seventy years, and belonged to another world, but
somehow in his letters he had become real to us, we felt we knew him, and somehow this did
not seem fitting that he had no place among his own, no marker to prove he had ever been.
It was a flash of inspiration and impulse that sent me to the phone to call the National
Cemetery in Dover. Was there such a thing as a memorial section, for stones to mark the
memories of soldiers never found? Yes indeed there was. And then my heart plummeted as I
heard the next words, "but it is filled now." I have no idea what prompted this
lady to speak her next words, perhaps she sensed my disappointment, but she added,
"Let me check to be sure." And then I felt as if somehow I had been given a
message that what I was doing was for some reason what was meant to be when Judy Bagsby
came back to the phone and said, "There is space for one more." Then began the
process that more than once threatened not to come to fruition. There was information that
was needed, information I was not at all certain I could provide. I had to furnish proof
of his status as a soldier, proof of his death, his birth date, his identification number.
It was the latter two items I feared for. Once again those things were somehow, I felt,
meant to be, because just exactly the right scraps of paper had somehow never been thrown
out. His birth date I found on a tiny torn page in my grandfather's handwriting. I have no
idea why it was written and would not have even known what the date meant, except that
beside it he had penned, "Jud's birthday", and underlined it twice. The
identification number seemed to appear on nothing, not the telegram, not certificates
expressing appreciation to the family after his death, nothing at all. And then in Jud's
wallet, I found a list detailing the items returned to the family. There, at the top, was
a number. And upon confirmation from Judy, I learned that this was the illusive number I
had been searching for.
This summer a crate arrived at the National Cemetery in Tennessee. A simple white stone
like every other white stone in that cemetery assumed its place in a circle. My family and
I made a pilgrimage to visit for the first time what can be considered Jud's resting
place. I smiled as I saw the basket of flowers my aunts had placed there. They never miss
a birthday, never a holiday or change of season with the graves of our family who has left
us. It is important to them, this remembering, this reminding that we all, even in memory
somehow belong to each other and are a part of each other. These ladies do not dwell in
the past, they say their goodbyes to those gone, they go resolutely on with their lives.
But there is a pride and an honor among them that says those who have left us are still a
part of us. Finally, now seventy eight years later, they were able to do the same for Jud.
The story is finished now, I think. Closure has been brought to my family. And yet perhaps
the story is not finished at all. My children learned something from Jud, something about
another time and another way of thinking, and only time will tell if that impression will
matter. I do not want my children to be unquestioning, I do not want them not to have open
informed minds. But I do want them to understand unwavering dedication, and loyalty,
yes..and patriotism too. And I hope they learned something from me, something intangible
that has to do with family and honor and responsibility.
Postscript:
But the story did not end at
this time. Shortly after the above article and Jud's letters appeared in the American
section of a Canadian W.W. I site on internet, a New York researcher and veteran
discovered them. Something about Jud's story caught his attention. Kermit Mercer went to
great lengths to begin a pilgrimage of discovery about Jud's war experiences and story
that would take him all the way to the area of France where Jud was killed. Kermit's
experiences and discoveries are detailed in this site. If this story further interests
you, and you wish to read Jud's letters and see photos, as well as more information
concerning his life and experience, go to http://www.rootsweb.com/~tnstewar/judson.htm
I hope you enjoyed this true story by Jan. If you did, how about letting her know?
The Midi that is playing is:
Jan's story was sent this award from Doc Pardue. It's a great honor to display this special award on Jan's story page, for I feel she truly deserves it!
Doc's words:
The story of your uncle who died
during WWI in France really moved me as
well as how you honor Veterans. I felt very strong and even prouder to be
a Vietnam Vet after going through your site. I hereby award your site my
WOW award for that I feel are the top 10 sites honoring veterans on the web.
Please accept this award for both you and your daughter for making sure your
family member was not forgotten. God bless you both.
I am sitting here with tears in
my
eyes. Please keep the award on your site. The award is not even really
mine. It is Jud's award. It was his story and nothing I could write can
really tell anyone the depth of what he did. Thanks.
jan
Page Created June 8, 2000~Updated August 26, 2001