The Passing Of The Timberwolves

As is our custom now, my wife and I drove out to the assisted living facility where my parents now reside. On the table, along with other mail and magazines was a publication on slick paper, the size of an annual report, titled The Timberwolf Howl. Over the years, in different forms, be it tabloid newsprint or magazine, it would appear in our mailbox from time to time. It is the publication of the 104th (Timberwolf) Infantry Division Association.
The 104th, under the command of a rather flamboyant Maj. Gen. Terry de la Mesa Allen, was originally formed from men from Washington and Oregon and was sent to fight the Germans. My father, 90 day wonder lieutenant, joined it as a replacement while it was fighting in Holland alongside the British. In fact it was attached to the Brits, and so the rations and ammunition they received came through British supply channels. This caused some logistical problems, particularly in ammunition, which was not issued in clips for the M-1, but had to be broken down and individually loaded into the clips. Eventually the division was moved further south to team up with the American Army, fighting across Germany from Aachen, through Marburg, where I would eventually attend school at the university there, liberating the concentration camp at Nordhausen and on to link up with the Russians.
After the war, my father wanted to put what he had seen behind him, and avoided joining any veterans' organization. Nonetheless, I assumed he paid dues, and over the years received the Howl.
As I opened it, I read the inevitable. The 104th Timberwolves had had their last reunion, and the association was being disbanded, its assets being given over to a new one, The Timberwolf Pups' Association. “Pups” is what all us baby boomer offspring of these reluctant warriors were called as they settled back into civilian life.
It had to happen. The youngest of them would be in their mid to late 80's and there were too few physically up to traveling hither and yon about the country to attend.
It struck me as very sad. Not only is a piece of history fast disappearing, but as the generation ahead of you passes on, so too does a piece of your own life.
When I was small, these men were the young adults, the fathers who coached our elementary basketball teams, were our scoutmasters and were the hot dog cookers and burger flippers at those family gatherings that continue in our memory. They drove us to town to see Santa Claus at Christmas and read “A Visit From St. Nicholas,” before we tried to sleep on Christmas Eve. They helped us build tree houses, taught us to swim, how to catch grounders with our Scooter Rizzuto gloves, and how to make telephones out of string and tin cans.
Now those that are left are old, many infirm, and sadly many cannot even remember the great things they accomplished. Soon they will all be gone and the 104th and all the other men of that generation will be nothing more than ranks of moss covered stones. Their army will have passed into the shades of history.
Time passes, and soon my generation will be at that same point in its journey. I doubt that history will mark our passing as it will my parents' generation.