Unsung Hero

The end of this month marks the ninth anniversary of my father’s death. As I reflected on him, the eulogy I gave at his funeral came to mind. I thought readers might be interested in knowing a bit more about my father. The context of that is my intention someday to write a story using his experience in the Strategic Air Command as a template for a novel. There’s enough true life content from which to build a story. The home page listing for that work, titled “Derby 58”, depicts an image of a B47 Stratojet taking off. That’s what he flew in. I hope to honor him with this remembrance. A man with issues, but a man defined by more than those issues.

My father was a very imperfect and complicated man. I grew up in a household dominated by an authoritative disciplinarian who was given to shouts of rage far exceeding what was appropriate for the level of perceived infraction. He was often in a foul mood after a day’s work and we learned to make ourselves scarce at the words “your father’s coming home.” I remember numerous times the front door would burst open at his arrival with a shout, “I don’t wanna see any children!” Those of us within the vicinity would scatter like cockroaches to safety. It was clear to us that our dad was the king of the castle. He wasn’t really physically abusive, but his thunderous voice was enough to make us compliant. All of us children can recount instances that had long-term consequences for us mentally and emotionally. A couple stand out for me personally.

When my father was out in the driveway tinkering with either of the cars (this was an ongoing activity), he often enlisted my help by holding a flashlight and tools as he worked. He was such a perfectionist. Any little noise or questionable performance a car made was a reason to get under the hood to ascertain the source. Even when one wasn’t found, he continued to tinker. I dreaded it when he announced he was going out to work on the car and needed my help. Whatever I was engaged in at the time was of no consequence. I had to be there. This wasn’t the main reason for my aversion. It’s what would often occur while he tried to “fix” whatever was wrong. As he grew frustrated when things weren’t going well, I’d be the recipient of profane verbal tirades because I wasn’t holding the flashlight where it needed to be or giving him the tools right. “What kind of G-dd–n dummy are you?” Enduring these verbal assaults was bad enough. Hearing them from my father was life crushing. I could feel my spirit wither. And it’s not like I was a kid. I was in high school. There was never an apology or retraction. He was oblivious to any sense of damage he was invoking.

Another experience occurred during my senior year. My father began pressuring me to get a plan for what I would do after graduating. I did very well in school, graduating with a GPA in the top ten of a class of 250. Despite my father’s efforts, I never gave much thought to what I would do next. He insisted I get a college degree. If I didn’t, I “wouldn’t have a pot to piss in.” There were a few problems with this. First, I had saved some money working during school but nothing near what I would need for a degree. Second, my parents didn’t have much to contribute because of the financial demands of a family of ten. The income my father brought in to satisfy this also eliminated much of the funds available for aid. Thirdly, I had no sense of what major I should pursue. The Navy ROTC program at the University of Minnesota had a scholarship available that would pay for virtually all costs for four years ending with a commission as an Ensign. My father pushed me to apply. His own experience probably was an influence. He’d gone through the Air Force ROTC program at the University of New Mexico, though not on a scholarship. I had no interest in pursuing that and put up pretty stiff resistance. This infuriated my father, particularly because I offered no viable alternative. The “pot to piss in” was often thrown at me. I eventually relented. This started the process of nearly daily intense “counseling” sessions and grilling on what I needed to do and say. I felt like a robot. I still had no desire for this. I was only doing it to make my father happy. I put on a good face through it all, and to my surprise, got the scholarship. My father was elated.

I would describe that first year in the program as tortuous. I’d struggled deciding on what degree to choose and finally came up with something in computer engineering, though it had no appeal to me. I attended classes with great disinterest. All of this was in the context of the height of the Vietnam War. One of the requirements of the program was to wear a uniform on Wednesdays and attend drills where we would march in various formations. Antiwar protests on campus were growing more heated. I could hardly have been any more conspicuous. As I walked the campus from class to class, I didn’t feel as much threatened as I felt embarrassed. In class, I could sense sets of eyes directed my way as I took my seat. It was agony and I had a hard time concentrating. As the end of the first year approached, I knew I couldn’t continue. Everything about what I was doing screamed at me that this wasn’t for me. When I told my father I’d be quitting the program, he had a fit. He was nearly beside himself. The “pot to piss in” was prominent in the tirades that ensued. After some time, my mother managed to calm him down. Since the end of the first year was not complete until after a summer training cruise, my father insisted I wait to notify the director when I finished that element. I reluctantly agreed. It was his hope that the cruise would light some kind of fire in me to remain in the program. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Whenever the ship left port, I was subject to extreme seasickness. I couldn’t eat. The lack of food only deprived my body of something to expel as I convulsed in dry heaves. I could barely complete assignments on the ship. Any tiny bit of doubt about my decision to quit was quickly erased.

Upon my return home, I informed my father that my decision had only been strengthened by the experience. The “pot to piss in” reared its head as he insisted I go see the priest at church. It was his last, final effort to dissuade me. I could tell the priest felt hopeless in being thrust into something he had no power to change. He did it more as a courtesy to my father than anything else. After that, I heard about the “pot to piss in” once more. As he spoke, I could see the utter disappointment in my father. In his eyes, I was a complete failure. He took it very personally. When I left home to go my own way, I knew I left a heartbroken man behind. I’d gotten my way but buried deep inside me was a sense of disappointment in myself.

I don’t want to paint a picture of my father as cruel or heartless. Like I said, he was a complicated man. He took pleasure out of doing what he could on the budget that was available for a family of ten to treat his kids with simple pleasures and the occasional splurge. From time to time he’d go out Saturday mornings to procure donuts for us, which was a real treat. When we lived in Colorado Springs there was a buffet that opened up not far from us. It wasn’t often, but my father would gather us together and ask, “Do you kids wanna go to The Red Carpet?” It was an establishment well-suited to the voracious appetites of our horde. He sat and enjoyed watching us with our ‘Kiddy Cocktails’. There was also a trip we took to see my mother’s family in Oklahoma one Christmas. My father rented a trailer and had a hitch installed on the car. Though the trailer carried our luggage, its main function was to haul a wealth of presents to our destination. I remember the pleasure displayed on his face as we opened the throng of packages around us. It was obvious my father loved his children, however dysfunctionally he showed it. As I write this, one more incident comes to mind to show that.

I think I was in fourth or fifth grade at the time. Some of the details are a bit sketchy. My parents took me to see a movie by myself. I don’t remember the movie or the reason I was allowed to be alone. The plan was for them to pick me up afterwards. It’s fuzzy here. Whether it was because they were late, I didn’t like the movie and decided to leave early or I just didn’t want to wait, I ended up walking home. It wasn’t a horrendous distance, maybe a couple miles. When I got home, my mother was very upset. There was a lot of confusion. My father had left to pick me up but here I was at home. My father arrived (I don’t know if he had called my mother from the theater or not), bursting through the door, red faced and screaming at me. He had gone to get me and when he couldn’t find me, walked into the next showing yelling my name. Even now, I can’t imagine how embarrassing that would have been. But for my father, I don’t believe he felt any of that. His only concern was finding his son. When I’ve thought about that day, all I’ve felt is sorrow for having put him through that ordeal.

Another thing about my father was the quirky behavior he exhibited on occasion. Owing to his perception as king of the castle, he would march from the hallway to retrieve something from the refrigerator or go to his desk in the living room in a less-than-appropriate state. It was almost as if none of us who were in visual proximity were relevant. Sometimes this was sans pants in underwear replete with “blow holes” for the frequent flatulent gases to escape. Other times it was going commando. There were even instances of us being exposed to the Full Monty. My mother’s exasperated complaints (when she was present) proved fruitless in stemming the behavior. This, of course, provided an unwelcome conversation with my sisters on the differences between men and women and the ensuing “birds and bees” discussions. After a while, we hardly paid any attention.

Over the next few years events would come to play that would alter the relationship I had with my father. I learned to play the guitar, and in a few years, felt skilled enough to try out for a vacancy for a lead guitar in a Christian band. I got in, along with a friend. We became quite popular in Minnesota and just across the borders. My father was aware of this but didn’t seem to give much thought to it. This changed one day when he decided to attend one of our concerts with my little sister. It was an eye-opening experience for him. So much so, that he was willing to contribute a thousand dollars to creating our album. We didn’t really make much of an income from that venture but that didn’t seem to matter much with my father. I could see something I’d never seen before…a touch of pride in his son. Years later, reflecting on that concert and the album he would tell me, “You guys were really good.”

A couple of years later I married the girl I’d met while in the band. This brought about another change in my relationship with my father. To me, it was rather striking. It was almost as if the act of marriage itself had bestowed upon me the nature now of an equal to him. I was a man, a grown man. This was reflected in our conversations about life, work and family as two adults told stories and talked of things that men talk about. It was here that something entirely new would come.

You see, as long as I could remember to that point, my father was this overweight (too much ice cream and pop), stressed out businessman who would often come home from a hard day’s work and take out his frustrations on his children. I knew he hadn’t always been that way. I’d seen a few pictures when he was younger, but they didn’t match what I saw. He began talking about his time in the Air Force. I was aware of his service but had no idea what he was going to reveal to me in the conversations we began having. They would be a revelation.

My father was a member of the Strategic Air Command (SAC) during the height of the cold war. The photo above shows his crew, designated Derby 58. I found it hard to believe, at first, that this ordinary, over-worked businessman describing his experiences was the man in the stories. The reminiscences of hard work and dedication to task, the prominent place his crew attained in bombing precision (due almost entirely to my dad’s efforts), the painful personal stories during that time and descriptions of heroism (realized and unrealized) were stirring. I found myself caught up in them.

One of the early stories regarded one of my brothers. I’m the oldest of eight living siblings. This brother, born second after me, was premature and only survived a couple days. Had he lived, there would be nine of us. I knew vaguely about him because I’d only been given scant details of his story. I discovered why one day as my father recounted the events. Late one night, my mother’s water broke. She wasn’t much past seven months. After rousing my father, they quickly drove to the hospital. My father waited nervously while they worked on my mother in the delivery room (father’s didn’t have access back then). When the doctor emerged, my father got the sobering news that my brother would not live long. He had a pneumothorax and club foot among other things. Before my brother passed, my father pleaded with God to spare his life. When the end came, he was distraught. As he broke down recounting the story, it was evident after all these years the wound was still raw. I’d never seen this in my father.

Lieutenant John E. Manias, Jr. was a navigator/bombardier on a B47 Stratojet during the height of the Cold War. It was their job to deliver the most lethal weapon of the time, a hydrogen bomb. This device had such a devastating effect that all life within a 30 mile radius perished when detonated as intended. My dad was responsible for the delivery of this horrific creation. He described to me a number of times the chills he felt once when he placed his hand on it. The bomb was so large that the bomb bay had to be modified to fit into the aircraft and added lift provided via JATO (rockets added to the wing tips). As my dad described his role, it was apparent to me the important place he held. He laughingly recalled to me how the pilot and copilot described themselves as “truck drivers” for the man who would deliver the payload.

The mission their crew was assigned in the event of war involved a flight over the North Pole deep into the Soviet Union where they would drop the bomb attached to a parachute on the target, a dam. The chute was critical because it slowed the descent of the bomb and allowed the crew to immediately turn 180° and exit the blast perpendicular to its center. This provided the minimal profile to accept the blast that would hit them in retreat. Without this chute, the aircraft would have been incinerated in the explosion. All this was predicated on arrival at the drop site, which was sketchy at best due to antiaircraft fire and intercepting fighter jets. The B47 was afforded no accompanying fighters. They didn’t have enough fuel to make the trip. Even the B47 had to be refueled on the way. Its only defensive weapon was a large caliber gun in the tail operated by the copilot. Leaving the site was nearly as dangerous. It was basically a suicide mission. The crew knew that. They didn’t fight a war, never had to make that mission, yet they were brave men.

The photo above shows my dad in a flight suit holding me. Standing next to him is my mother, Sarajane, holding my sister Melinda. I don’t remember who is in the foreground. In the background is his aircraft with the pilot seated inside and copilot standing in front. Their crew designation was “Derby 58.” As I look at that strapping young guy in uniform in the prime of his life I am moved to remember him that way. What I have described above is a small measure of my dad’s experiences in his time in SAC. I hope someday to take those and write a novel based upon them. They were compelling to me. I believe they would be compelling to others.

In 2011 my father suffered a heart attack and came within 10 minutes of dying. One doctor I talked to said his chances of recovery from that incident were less than 1%. A year after his heart attack we took a trip together to visit relatives in Peoria, where he grew up. It was a wonderful time of recollection and sharing a festive traditional Greek dinner together with extended family, some who had emigrated from my grandfather’s birthplace on the island of Crete. I’m very grateful to have had that time with my father. God graciously granted bonus time to him. Some of which I was able to use to glean historical information from him.

All these years later, life experience and the work of God in my own heart has enabled me to see things from an entirely different perspective. As the images of my father berating me at the hood of the car play through my mind on occasion, I can truly say all I feel for him is compassion. He had a job in which he achieved notable accomplishments yet put him under enormous pressure. The large family he felt responsible for demanded much of him. His parents (immigrants who’d achieved the American Dream) lost much of what they’d built from the sale of their business to an unscrupulous lawyer. A business my father had helped in creating. In the end, all of it took a toll on his psyche and he suffered mentally. I came to a place of being able to forgive my dad in my heart. I realized that, like myself, he was a flawed human being carrying his own burdens and struggling to deal with them. God did a miraculous healing with my heart by showing me just how much I was loved by Him. Oh, and that “pot to piss in”? He’s provided something more than adequate for that.

In all honesty I can say I hold nothing against my father for the neglect and many emotional/verbal abuses I suffered growing up. I came to a place where I could thank God, Himself a father, for the father he gave me. This Creator God knew exactly what he was doing placing me under his care. We’re all so very flawed, myself not any less than my father. Yet the God Who thought of me long before He placed me on this planet was intentional that this would be part of His plan for my life. Despite all of his many flaws, I can tell you I loved my father very much. Whatever you thought of him, he was unforgettable.

John E. Manias, Jr. passed away on the afternoon of August 30, 2015. As I write these words in remembrance of him through tear-filled eyes it is both heart-wrenching and cathartic for me.

I will miss him immensely.

J. Gordon Manias