Wednesday October 10, 2001

Editor's note: This is part one of a two-part series by Zack Armstrong concerning his recent experiences and reactions to the war in Afghanistan. Part two of this series will run tomorrow.

Illustration by Josh Hagler

His name is Herndon "Hard Rock" Newman, but everyone calls him Rock. He's not my real grandfather, but he's the only one I've ever known. Grampa Rock. He married my grandmother, my mom's mom, 30 years ago last Monday, and they've been happy ever since.

"Thirty years and not a cross word between us," Rock says.

This is his mantra, impossible to believe unless you see them together. He is 84 years old, she 79, yet when they are together, the years fall away. And if not for the wrinkles and gray hair, you would think they were teenagers. It is as though since they met in the middle of their lives, they unconsciously decided to capture and live out the youthful, painless romance they missed out on.

He calls her "sweet thing" with a twinkle in his bright blue eyes and a chuckle.

"Oh, Rock," is her standard reply, but he's always a "sweet old man" when he's out of earshot.

I visited them at their home on the coast of North Carolina this weekend for a surprise anniversary party devised by my mother and uncle. Needless to say, they were both rather surprised, though thankfully not enough to induce heart failure - as my mother feared. I was in for a few surprises myself, mainly a fact about Rock of which I was previously unaware.

"Come over here. I want to show you something," he said as he pointed to a frame on the wall. "The president of France sent me this." Behind the glass of a plain, wooden frame was a certificate awarded to Herndon Newman from the president of France, thanking him for the liberation of Normandy. "It only took them 56 years," he said laughing.

"You were at D-Day, Grampa?" I asked.

This is something I could have been told before, but I was only 15 the last time I saw him, and facts like that held no interest for me.

"Yes, sir 30th Infantry. Got off the boat at Omaha Beach and didn't stop 'til Germany. Yes sir," he replied nodding, hands hanging and clasped in front of him. His usual smile ran away from his face. He is 84 years old, and he remembers every single detail of his time in the war. Every town, mountain, river, unit and person that he encountered is safely locked in his memory. He has other relics of the war, too.

The Army let him keep a pistol that he took from an SS officer. He keeps it wrapped in a soft white cloth in the bottom drawer of a dresser in the little house that he still owns in the country. He also has his nerve pills. These were picked up after the war - a direct result of it.

"Let me know if your nerves get you. I've got some pills for that," he said jokingly. "I don't take them all the time, you know, but I have them if I need them. Sometimes I need them, but not too often."

He also picked up his nickname in the war. Hard Rock. I can only imagine the exact circumstances - there are too many possibilities. While all of this was interesting, it was particularly interesting to hear him talk about the Germans. It did not meet my expectations at all. He seemed to be fonder of them than any of the other nationalities he met.

"The Germans are a good people," he said. "Smart people. They were just brainwashed, you see, they were brainwashed. Hitler brainwashed them all real good. Yes sir. That man knew what he was doing."

The day after that conversation - the day after the party - the family and I went to a seafood festival. Everyone went but Grampa, who would much rather sit at home and watch the sound or any ballgames that might be playing. It was there that I first heard about the retaliatory attacks on Afghanistan. I was standing next to the beer tent with a plate overflowing with fried seafood in my hands, while the family I rarely see stood around me listening to Osama bin Laden talk about how the ease and comfort of the American way of life would never be the same again.

I felt concern for the innocent people who would inevitably be hurt, the fact that bin Laden is so wrong and the idea that fried shrimp never tasted so good.

What I really wanted to know, though, was what ol' Rock had to say about all this.