As the family walked up the aisle of the Westbrook-Warren Congregational Church for the celebration of the life of a member of the Greatest Generation, the pianist played “America the Beautiful.” It was February 2009, but my mind flashed to 1943, imagining the scene of a 17-year-old boy begging his mother to sign his Army enlistment papers. Jack Gorsuch wanted to free his brother Bill, whose plane had been shot down earlier that year, from a POW camp in Germany.
After the Rev. Dr. Edward DeLong read scripture, I remembered my brother-in-law Jack’s recent suffering and the extraordinary support he received from his daughters. Then I thought back to the first time we met in 1965. He had been stationed overseas and had returned to the States for his mother’s funeral. Physically, he could have been a model for a recruiting poster. Wearing a well-tailored uniform with commendation and battle ribbons on the left side of his chest, he looked like a command sergeant major should. When he held our infant son, he accomplished more in one minute than I had in eight weeks of fatherhood. Charlie stopped crying. With a cooing baby in his arms, the combat veteran looked like Mr. Rogers.
He rarely talked about the war, but one day on Lake Sebago with the assistance of a couple of cans of hops-flavored water, I hounded him with questions. I learned that three months after he joined the Army to save his brother, he was on a troop ship headed to war. But, the ship was sailing in the Pacific not the Atlantic.
In his unhurried manner he said, “Within the first 10 minutes of being on the line in the Philippines, the guy next to me took a bullet right between the eyes. I thought, hey, they said these guys couldn’t shoot.”
Two days later Jack and his squad were cut off from the other Americans and spent one week behind enemy lines. At that time, Jack thought he would never live to be 19, let alone 82.
After the Battle of Luzon, his unit was designated to be in the first wave of the invasion of Japan’s main islands. Instead, he made it back to the States in 1946, and resumed his education at the Connecticut Teachers College. While attending college, he spent the summers in East Hampton, Conn. He and his buddies socialized in their time off with young women guests at a local lake resort. A pretty blonde, who worked in the big city, caught his attention.
Four years later, just as he was recalled to active duty in the Army for the Korean War, Jack married the pretty blonde, Pat. His brother Bill, who had survived the war, served as best man and Pat’s 16-year-old sister Rosemary was the maid of honor. From that day forward he assumed the role of Rosemary’s protector, a tradition he expanded on later as a father of four daughters. As teenagers, when the girls’ dates picked them up, a silent, stern-looking man peered over his newspaper at the young men, discouraging anything but exemplary conduct.
After 26 years of service, Jack retired from the Army and settled in Westbrook. He worked as a business officer for local school districts and municipalities including, most recently, as the finance director of the town of Gorham. His contributions to the community as a volunteer were many, including serving as chairman of the Assessor’s Board for Westbrook and on the School Committee.
Following the church service, we went to the cemetery to bury his ashes. Seven soldiers in Army dress blues fired a 21-gun salute. A bugler played “Taps.” A captain presented a folded American flag to his daughters.
As we left, I fought back tears and said to myself, “So long Jack. See you later, buddy.”
Paul Phillips lives in Sleepy Hollow, N.Y.
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