was surprised to see the familiar profile of Father Gaydos, the businesslike pastor at St. Joeâs. No doubt about it: that was his familiar flattop, his unmistakable square nose. I even recognized the sound of his labored breathing. And Iâm sure he knew exactly who I was; heâd known me my whole life.
When he began pronouncing my absolution, though, our familiarity did nothing to undermine the power of the ritual. â Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,â he said, and I felt cleansed. Though my penance was paltryâthree Hail Marys, one Our Father, and a Glory beâthe sensation of grace was intense.
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SHORTLY THEREAFTER, MY FATHER CALLED ME TO HIS BEDROOM for a meeting. This was unusual. Typically Dad spoke his mind around the kitchen table. Iâd never been summoned down the dark hallway on the second floor before. I was filled with anxiety and curiosity alike.
âThereâs something I want to talk to you about,â Dad said gravely, motioning for me to sit down on the bed. He reached into a dresser drawer and removed an old manila envelope, then sat beside me.
I noticed his hands tremble slightly as he opened the clasp and removed the envelopeâs contents, placing a number of letters and photographs in his lap. At a glance I saw that they concerned James Edward McGreevey, my namesake.
He took a breath. âMy father was going to leave the body over there originally in Iwo Jima, but then he found out that the base might be turned over to the Japanese. And he said, âTo hell with that. Weâll bring the body home.ââ
He handed me Uncle Jimmyâs funeral Mass prayer card. âJimmy was my hero,â he said. âThatâs why I named you for him. I always wanted a son to carry on his name, his tradition.â
I nodded.
âBefore he went to the Marine Corps he was a boxer. Ever heard of the Golden Gloves? The Hudson River Dispatch runs it. Not everybodyâs into boxing, especially people like me,â he allowed. âJimmy was an aggressive guy. I was going through some papers and noticed he made corporal within six monthsâfrom private to PFC to corporal that quick. And corporal means youâre on the way up. This was a guy who made a talent of climbing the ladder. He made sergeant before he got blown up.â
I stared at the prayer card bearing my name. We didnât speak aboutUncle Jimmy around the house much. I knew heâd died at Iwo Jima in 1945 after volunteering on what was called a âsuicide mission,â clearing mines from the beach in advance of an amphibious landing in the Volcano Islands. I also knew he was buried with a chest full of ribbons, but Dad felt I was now old enough to know exactly what each one meant. He wanted me to understand the significance of my name, to know the burden and honor it invested in me.
One of the documents was a commendation that accompanied Uncle Jimmyâs Bronze Star, marked with a V to signify combat; he had earned this by carrying his injured squad leader to safety through enemy fire in Saipan. Another letter explained the Presidential Unit Citation, for the seizure of Tinian in the Marianas Islands, âunchecked by either natural obstacles or hostile fire.â
Finally he pulled out a letter to my grandfather from the Secretary of the Navy on behalf of President Roosevelt, posthumously awarding my uncle the highest honor bestowed by the corps, the Navy Cross. As Dad began reading them to me, his eyes welled with tears. I had never seen my father cry before, and at first I mistook his tears for signs of a terrible grief. Only when I listened more closely did I realize that they were tears of pride.
Placed in charge of a mine removal detail, Sergeant McGreevey landed with his men against savage enemy resistance and immediately initiated mine removal operations in an effort to clear a path through the beach area for our