My Friend Sam...

The first time I walked up to his apartment I was struck by Sam's hat collection.

In the hallway outside his door was a bench, and over that bench was a mirror surrounded by wooden shaker pegs.  Each peg had a hat hanging on it.

"I collect hats," Sam said in that slurred and watery speech of the aged, hunched over his walker and shuffling to his door.

I'm the maintenance manager where Sam lives.  Sam's been here for about 4 years.  If you could stand Sam up straight he'd probably be about five and a half feet tall.  But time has worn him down and now, almost 90 years old, he's stooped and reaches about to the light switch in his entryway.

There were baseball hats with logos of companies and restaurants - obviously each one meant something to him.  And there, hanging on the peg in the top right corner of the mirror was a monstrous gray leather fur lined winter hat.

As we entered his apartment my workers started washing his windows.  That's why we came to Sam's place that day.  It was his turn to have his windows washed.  And I asked, sort of expecting a story but not anticipating Sam's reply, "Where'd you get that gray fur hat, Sam?"

Sam is hard of hearing, so I almost said it in a friendly shout.

Without turning around, still shuffling toward his office telephone desk, Sam's voice was surprisingly firm, "I took that off a dead German tank officer at the Battle of The Bulge."  A pause.  "It used to have a swastika on it."  Another pause.  "I took it off."  Another pause.  "I can't stand those Nazis."

"Were you with Patton's army?" I asked.

"I was with the 75th Infantry Division.  Patton came up from the south.  I don't know where we came from...."

Sam's answer made more sense later when I researched the 75th's history.  They were an American infantry division hastily thrown together in England in the later years of the war.  They were entirely inexperienced in battle.  Even their commanding general was green.

And as the Allies pushed their way back into Europe via the Normandy beaches, the 75th followed along.  Until Christmas, 1944 they didn't see any combat to mention - and then came the critical rescue mission.  The 101st Airborne Division was trapped.  Surrounded by Germans.

The "cherry" 75th was thrown into the thick of the fight.  From house to house and town to town they fought across Belgium.  The division and its men were quickly blooded.  Their determination was proven and the division earned the nickname "Bulge Busters".

Sam was a small, quick young man that winter and he was assigned to a battalion headquarters as a runner.  When artillery or sappers cut the field telephone wires, messages were scribbled on paper and given to guys like Sam.

There were no maps and no one was familiar with the villages they were fighting for.  So when Sam was given a message to run, he delivered it by trial and error.

One day he found a bicycle in town and thought he could travel much faster riding than walking, running and ducking.  As he rode through the battlefield Sam heard the distinctive whistling scream of an incoming mortar round.  He dove off the bike and into a nearby hole.  Just as Sam hit the dirt, the mortar round hit his bike.  It was a total loss and Sam went back to being a foot courier.

Sam talks about the funny things, like that.  He always says, "That was the funny part of it..."  Then his voice trails off and his eyes get a far away look.  When Sam comes back he asks, "So, how long are you going to be here?"  Or, "Where are you from?"  Or some other safe, neutral thing.

Tonight I sat down at a table for two.  I was eating alone and the maitre-de brought Sam over.  The dining room was full and he looked apologetic when he asked, "You don't mind if Sam eats with you, do you?"

Sam has a reputation for being a messy eater.  His hands and his eyes and his mouth don't work so well together anymore.

"Of course not!  Sam's my buddy," was my reply.

Sam sheepishly said, "Forgive me.  My table manners aren't always what they should be anymore."

"Sam, neither are mine," I answered with a sad smile.

And as we sat, Sam told me the stories I've told you here, and some others.

At one point Sam mentioned that his son frequently comes to visit him.  And sometimes his son helps him to eat.  Sam's hands are so weak that he has trouble stabbing a piece of lettuce with his fork.

The waitress knows Sam and she's cut his steak into bite-sized pieces, but Sam still isn't strong enough to stick them.  When he does get a piece on his fork his hand shakes and his lips quiver as the bite makes its tenuous trip across his lap.  Sometimes the bite makes it and he relishes the flavor and texture.

I offer quietly to help him eat.  He ignores me for a few minutes and then says, "You wouldn't mind, would you?"

And I take his fork.

And I think of the honor it is to be able to serve Sam...