Unsung Hero

he end of this month marks the ninth anniversary of my father’s death. As I reflected on him, the eulogy I’d delivered at his funeral resurfaced, bringing with it a desire to share more of the man he was. Someday, I hope to weave his experiences in the Strategic Air Command into a novel. I’ve already titled it “Derby 58”, his crew designation. The image of a B47 Stratojet taking off can be seen as a preliminary cover on the homepage.  This remembrance is my way of honoring him, a complex man, undeniably marked by his struggles, but defined by so much more.

My father was, to put it simply, an imperfect and complicated man. Our childhood home often felt overshadowed by his authoritative presence, a disciplinarian prone to thunderous shouts of rage that far outweighed the perceived transgression. The end of his workday often ushered in a foul mood, and we quickly learned to vanish at the whispered words, “Your father’s coming home.” I vividly recall the front door bursting open on many evenings, his booming voice echoing, “I don’t wanna see any children!” Those of us within the vicinity would scatter like startled cockroaches. 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 ensure our compliance. Every one of us carries mental and emotional scars from those days, some etched deeper than others.

A Shadow Under the Hood

One particular prominent memory stands out, a familiar ritual played out in the driveway. My father, a meticulous tinkerer, would often be hunched over one of the cars, a wrench in hand, and I’d be conscripted as his reluctant assistant, holding the flashlight or handing him tools. Any whisper of a strange noise or a hint of questionable performance would send him burrowing under the hood, a perfectionist determined to unearth the source. Even when no culprit was found, his tinkering continued. The announcement, “I’m going out to work on the car, and I need your help,” would send a wave of dread through me, whatever I was doing instantly rendered irrelevant. But my aversion wasn’t just about personal interrupted activities; it was about the storm that often brewed. As his frustration mounted, I became the target of profane verbal tirades. “What kind of G-dd–n dummy are you?” he’d bellow, accusing me of holding the flashlight wrong or fumbling with the tools. Enduring these verbal assaults was bad enough. Hearing them from my father was soul-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, never a retraction. He seemed utterly oblivious to the damage he inflicted.

The College Mandate

My senior year brought another significant clash. My father began relentless pressure for me to solidify a post-graduation plan. Despite excelling in school, graduating in the top ten of a class of 250, I hadn’t given much thought to my next steps. His insistence on a college degree was unwavering: without it, I “wouldn’t have a pot to piss in.” There were a few problems with this. First, my meager savings from part-time jobs were nowhere near enough for tuition. Second, with a family of ten, my parents had little to contribute. His income, while supporting our large family, also limited my eligibility for financial aid. Finally, I had no inkling of what major I should pursue.

This is where the Navy ROTC program at the University of Minnesota came in.  It offered a scholarship that covered virtually all costs for four years, culminating in a commission as an Ensign. My father, likely influenced by his own experience in the Air Force ROTC at the University of New Mexico, pushed me daily to apply. I had absolutely no interest and resisted fiercely, a defiance that only infuriated him further, especially since I offered no viable alternatives. The “pot to piss in” became his constant refrain. Eventually, I relented. This decision initiated a grueling period of daily “counseling” sessions, a relentless grilling on what I needed to do and say. I felt like a robot, my actions devoid of genuine desire, solely performed to appease him. Yet, I put on a good face, and to my own surprise, I landed the scholarship. My father was elated.

A Tortuous Beginning and a Firm Decision

I would describe that first year in the program as tortuous. I struggled to choose a degree, finally settling on computer engineering, a field that held no appeal for me. I attended classes with significant disinterest. This was all against the backdrop of the Vietnam War, and as a requirement of the program, I was required to wear a uniform once a week. Anti-war protests on campus grew increasingly fervent, and I could hardly have been more conspicuous. Walking between classes, I didn’t feel so much threatened as I felt deeply 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 first year drew to a close, I knew I couldn’t continue. Every fiber of my being screamed that this wasn’t for me. When I told my father I’d be quitting the program, he had a fit, nearly beside himself. The “pot to piss in” was prominent in the tirades that ensued. My mother eventually managed to calm him. Since the first year wasn’t technically complete until after a summer training cruise, my father insisted I wait to notify the director until I finished that element. I reluctantly agreed. It was his hope that the cruise would light some kind of spark 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 lingering doubt about my decision to quit was quickly erased.

The Priest and the Pot

Upon my return home, I informed my father that my decision had only been strengthened by the experience. The “pot to piss in” reappeared as he insisted I visit the priest at church. It was his last, final effort to dissuade me. I could tell the priest felt helpless 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 saw the utter disappointment in his eyes. In his view, I was a complete failure, and he took it deeply personally. When I left home to forge my own way, I knew I left behind a heartbroken man. I’d gotten my way, but buried deep within me was a quiet sense of self-disappointment.

A Glimpse of Joy

Yet, I don’t want to paint a picture of my father as cruel or heartless. He was, as I’ve said, a complicated man. He found genuine pleasure in using the family’s limited budget to bring simple joys to his eight children, and the occasional splurge. Sometimes, on Saturday mornings, he’d venture out to procure donuts, a truly cherished treat. When we lived in Colorado Springs, a buffet opened nearby. Infrequently, but memorably, my father would gather us and ask, “Do you kids wanna go to The Red Carpet?” It was a place perfectly suited to our voracious appetites, and he’d sit, smiling, watching us devour our ‘Kiddy Cocktails’.

I also remember a Christmas trip to visit my mother’s family in Oklahoma. My father rented a trailer and had a hitch installed on the car. While we were all packed in the station wagon, the trailer carried our luggage. Its main function, however, 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, another incident springs to mind, further illustrating this truth.

I believe I was in fourth or fifth grade, the details a bit hazy now. My parents took me to the theater to see a movie, and allowed me to see it by myself – I don’t recall the film or why I was allowed to be alone. The plan was for them to pick me up afterwards. This part is fuzzy: whether they were late, or I disliked the movie and left early, or I simply grew impatient, I ended up walking home, a couple of miles at most. 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. After calling my mother, my father arrived, bursting through the door, red faced and screaming at me. He had gone to the theater, couldn’t find me, and in his panic, walked into the next showing, bellowing my name. Even now, I can only imagine the sheer embarrassment of that moment. But for my father, I don’t believe he felt any of that. His only concern was finding his son. Whenever I’ve recalled that day, all I feel is sorrow for having put him through such an ordeal.

Quirks and Transformations

Another thing about my father was the quirky behavior he exhibited on occasion. Owing to his perception as “king of the castle”, he would periodically parade from the hallway to retrieve something from the refrigerator or his desk in the living room in a less-than-appropriate state, as if none of us in his visual proximity were relevant. Sometimes this was just in underwear. Other times, he went commando. There were even instances where we were exposed to the “Full Monty”. My mother’s exasperated complaints, when she was present, proved fruitless in stemming the behavior. This, of course, led to unwelcome conversations with my sisters on the differences between men and women, and the inevitable “birds and bees” discussions. After a while, we barely paid any attention.

Over the next few years, events would unfold that would reshape the relationship I had with my father. I learned to play the guitar, and within a few years, felt skilled enough to audition for a lead guitar vacancy in a Christian band. I got in, along with a friend, and we gained surprising popularity in Minnesota and surrounding area. 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 towards creating our album. We didn’t really make much in that venture, but that didn’t seem to matter much with my father. I could see something I’d never witnessed 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 marked another shift in my relationship with my father, one that was particularly striking to me. It was almost as if the act of marriage itself had elevated me to an equal footing with him. I was a man now, a grown man. This newfound equality was reflected in our conversations about life, work, and family, two adults exchanging stories and talking about the things men talk about. It was here that something entirely new would come.

A Father’s Revelation

You see, for as long as I could remember, 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 align with the man I saw. Then, he began talking about his time in the Air Force. I was vaguely aware of his service, but had no idea what profound revelations awaited me in the conversations that followed.

My father served in the Strategic Air Command (SAC) during the height of the cold war. The photo above shows his crew, designated “Derby 58”. At first, I found it hard to believe that this ordinary, overworked businessman describing his experiences was the same man in those gripping stories. The reminiscences of arduous training 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 completely captivated.

One of the early stories he shared concerned one of my brothers. I’m the oldest of eight living siblings, and this brother, born second after me, was premature and only survived a couple of days. Had he lived, there would have been nine of us. I knew almost nothing about him because I’d only been given scant details of his story. One day, as my father recounted the events, I finally understood why. Late one night, my mother’s water broke. She wasn’t much past seven months. After rousing my father, they rushed 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 received the sobering news that my brother wouldn’t 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 that even after all these years, the wound remained raw. I had never witnessed such vulnerability in my father before.

An Unsung Hero

Lieutenant John E. Manias, Jr. was a navigator/bombardier on a B47 Stratojet during the height of the Cold War. His crew was entrusted with delivering the most devastating weapon of the time: a hydrogen bomb. This device was orders of magnitude more powerful than the bombs dropped on Japan. When detonated as intended, everything for thirty miles would be destroyed. As I looked at my father recounting the details, I found it unfathomable that this man before me, with a push of a button, could unleash such an apocalyptic event. He described to me the one time it was loaded onto his aircraft from the bunker, how the bomb bay had to be modified to accommodate it, and extra lift provided via JATO (rockets added to the wing tips). He said he got chills when he placed his hand on it. As my dad described his role, it was apparent to me the important place he held. He laughingly recalled, in comparison, 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, onto its target: a dam. The chute was critical, slowing the bomb’s descent and allowing the crew to immediately execute a 180-degree turn, exiting the blast perpendicular to its center. This provided the minimal profile to accept the blast that would hit them in retreat. Without that chute, the aircraft would have been incinerated in the explosion. All this was contingent on arrival at the drop site, a perilous endeavor 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 itself required in-flight refueling. 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 never fought a war, never had to embark on that mission, yet they were undeniably 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 gaze at that strapping young man in uniform, in the prime of his life, I am moved to remember him that way. What I’ve described above is but a small measure of my dad’s experiences during his time in SAC. I hope, someday, to take these stories and weave them into a novel. They were compelling to me, and I believe they would be compelling to others.

Compassion and Forgiveness

In 2011 my father suffered a heart attack, coming within 10 minutes of dying. A doctor I spoke with estimated his chances of recovery from that incident at less than one percent. A year after his heart attack, we took a trip together to visit relatives in Peoria, where he had grown up. It was a wonderful time of shared memories and a festive, traditional Greek dinner with extended family, some who had emigrated from my grandfather’s birthplace on the island of Crete. I am profoundly grateful for that bonus time God graciously granted him, some of which I was able to use to glean historical information from him.

All these years later, life experience and the transformative 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 that all I feel for him is compassion. He held a demanding job where he achieved notable accomplishments, yet it placed him under immense 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 create. In the end, all of it took a toll on his psyche, and he suffered mentally. I reached a place where I could truly forgive my dad in my heart. I realized that, like myself, he was a flawed human being, carrying his own burdens and struggling to cope 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 far 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.

I will miss him immensely.

J. Gordon Manias