himself, sailing on the Queen Mary just a few months before V-E Day, but of course as a dental officer he had few perils to contemplate beyond the rumors of U-boats. He was more likely occupied with thoughts of his young wife and, soon after arriving in Europe, of the child she would have in November. But would he have had a chance had that B-17 not been shot down in October? Was my mother really only a close and caring friend to the “boy she used to know who was killed in the war?” Or did her loss and even grief give my father a better chance? I trust what my mother’s cousin and brother said. My mother may have waited and if history had been at least a bit different in that one mission, how else would history have turned? And for the over 415,000 United States military deaths from that war, what of those unrealized futures, those unrealized lives and progeny? Could my mother have been Mrs. Bill Ligon, leaving me and my brother as unrealized alternate history? As Horatio says to Hamlet, “’Twere to consider too curiously to considerso.” But one other item I have, tucked into that scrap book: a souvenir photograph, a 5x7. It is still in its red, thin pasteboard folder labeled Plantation: Dallas, Texas. A restaurant, a night spot. Inside my mother has written, “November 26, 1943: Friday night.” On that day in the Pacific, the number of U.S Marines killed in the just-concluded invasion of the tiny island of Tarawa numbered over 1,000 in just 72 hours — a shock to the country and an omen of what was yet to come. In Italy the 36th Infantry Division, the Texas Division, over two months after the landing at Salerno was stalled between Naples and Casino and in the next four weeks would face terrible lossesatSanPietroandatthedisastrousattempttocrosstheRapidoRiver. But at home, in Dallas, it’s the day after Thanksgiving. Sgt. Bill Ligon is on leave from Concho Field in San Angelo. He has signed the folder with his name and that address. Altogether there are three couples. All three boys are in uniform. The table is covered with beer and spirit bottles. One beer I can identify is Falstaff, an artifact in itself. My mother is at the center of the picture, a lovely young woman of 21, small in the picture, she was just 5-foot-2. At her right is Bill Ligon. He is extraordinarily handsome. Dark hair and eyes, a square jaw, firm chin, gazing directly into the camera as they all are, gazing at the photographer who would sell the photo, sell it to Bill Ligon who would buy a print as a gift to my mother who would keep it for the rest of her life. A man any young woman would wait for if waiting had ever been d i s c u s s e d , or even implied in the giving of those wings. In less than a year he would be dead along with many t abou more we must ok, a notice -17 r e m e m b e r , o b p a r c s s ’ r Latime whose B From Mary Staff Sgt. Bill Ligon, 1944. not just in f 6, the death o n over Berlin on Oct. that war, but w t do was sho
A souvenir photog raph, from the scra pbook of the late M labeled ‘N ovembe ary Latimer. It’s r 26, 1943: Frida y night,’ when she Sloan, 21, still unm was Mary Viol a arried. In the pictu re she is fourth fro her right is Sgt. Bi m the left. To ll Ligon, who woul d die when his B-1 over Berlin on Oct 7 was shot down . 6, 1944.
in the others. They served, they died, and in their dying it would not just be an individual loss. In time they all will become unknown soldiers in that there will be no personal memories, though their names will endure. But what stays is the might have beens, the history of the country and the world that was not written for the absence of so many players. The history of the world would change with their sacrifice. My mother’s history, my father’s. My own, whichmighthavebeenahistorythatmaynothavebeen.Sowememorialize not only the dead, the ones who gave everything, but the loss to the future. Totheworld that wasnottobe.Thechildrenthatwerenottobeborn.Loss begetsloss. ThenthereisLaurenceBinyon’spoemfromthefirstWorldWar“Forthe Fallen” and the one stanza in particular which is so often quoted and which to me gathers power as I look at that young man in that picture, brave, confidentandfullofdestiny,mymotherpressedagainsthisstrongarm.
“They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, We will remember them.” So though I never knew him, I do remember Sgt. Bill Ligon, killed in action on Oct. 6, 1944 — a boy my mother used to know. Our Author, David Latimer lives in Austin with his wife and daughter and works as a policy analyst for the Texas Department of Aging and Disability Services. He also teache s E n g l i s h a t A u s t i n C o m m u n it y C o l l e g e . D a vi d w a s b o r n i n D a l l a s b ut g r e w u p i n Marlin before coming to Austin to attend the University of Texas. He has a masters degree in English. David has also published historic a l a r t i c l e s i n T e xa s H i gh w a y s m a g a z i n e . My sincere thanks for allowing me to publish his story in the VHPA Aviator – David Adams, Editor
David Lat imer o f A u s t i n , Te x a s
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