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This is my grandmother’s uncle, Anthony. I never met him; neither did she. He died in France in 1918, at the age of 20. He was a casualty of WWI.
Anthony and his mother were both immigrants. His father died in 1909, when Anthony was eleven years old. His mother struggled to provide for her little family; perhaps that’s why Anthony joined the Army.
Anthony’s first resting place was in a place called Rimaucourt, France. But after the war, his mother applied for a program in which the government would pay to repatriate the remains of fallen soldiers whose families could not afford to do so themselves.
There was a lot of paperwork, and after the paperwork, waiting. But finally, in 1921, Anthony’s mother was able to bring her boy home so she could visit his grave. When she died in 1936, she was buried there as well.
I know that there are some people who would call that program a waste of money. “Why bother; they’re already dead.” Such people have no concept of either sacrifice or honor.
This is America. We honor those who choose to wear our nation’s uniform, and we honor those who died in that uniform. We honor their families. And that is just as true for a lowly private, the only son of a poor immigrant widow, as it is for the most decorated generals.
Anthony’s WWI card and his mother, Mary Podbela. (She remarried in 1923.)
