Robert F. Clement, U.S. Marine
Sunset over the beach, Lake Superier
My wife and I just got back from three weeks in a cabin on Lake Superior, part of a legacy she and her three brothers inherited from their father, a World War II veteran who spilled his blood 70 years ago at Tarawa, a tiny but strategic atoll in the Pacific Ocean.
We hiked, swam, fished, played with grandchildren and relaxed. And one night we talked about my father-in-law, grandfather to my children.
His name was Bob Clement. He was a tough old Irish Marine who fought at Guadalcanal and then took part in the war’s first amphibious landing, storming the beaches of Tarawa.
It was one of the bloodiest battles of the Pacific Theater. Many of his buddies around him were cut down by Japanese snipers and artillery as they waded through chest-deep water trying to get from landing craft to shore.
He made it to the beach, but the next morning as he manned a machine gun, he caught a bullet that went in one side of his helmet, fractured his skull, but did not penetrate his brain, and then exited the other side of the helmet.
That bullet ended the war for Bob Clement. It was Nov. 21, 1943.
The helmet, with its two holes, collected dust in a closet of his home until he died 64 years later.
He returned to Washington, D.C., trained officers in firearms and married his high school sweetheart in the National Cathedral. They had a little red-haired baby girl whom I married 21 years later.
They returned to their hometown in central Wisconsin. He worked for the post office, raised a family, retired early, and built a cabin in Montana of logs he cut down by hand, using 19th century log-shaping tools and no chain saw.
My oldest son, who bears a striking resemblance to his grandfather, spent some summers with his grandparents in that log cabin.
Later he sold the cabin and had another one built on the shores of Lake Superior, a beautiful piece of God’s creation: woods, water and beach as far as the eye can see.
In his 80s, he gave that cabin to his kids, a precious legacy still enjoyed by his whole family.
Bob Clement never talked about the war, even to his wife. Only in his last days did he tell his story, to a patient nephew who is a World War II buff.
His gruff exterior covered a tender Irish heart occasionally betrayed by a tear while he listened to a sad song or story.
Six years ago my wife and I sat on his bed at his house while he breathed his last breath. I closed his eyes. We both sobbed.
He was part of the great generation. We are all in their debt.
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