KNABLE COLUMN: Ripples big and small

Al Knable

If you haven’t done so in a while, drop a pebble into a pond and watch the effects: an audible “ker-plunk,” a small leap of liquid, concentric waves petering out before they even reach the banks. In a matter of seconds, all is as placid as it was before.

Now, heave the biggest stone you can lift as far out as you can: an immense “ker-SPLASH,” a vertical upheaval of water, emanating waves not only hitting the shore but surviving to reverberate back upon themselves. Calm may not be restored for several minutes.

And these are but the effects we can observe from the surface. Have you ever paused to give thought as to what transpires unseen below?

A few months before the world shut down from COVID, I arrived at my office to find a 6” x 9” yellow envelope marked “Personal Gift” on my desk. When I opened it I found a grainy black and white photo of a young U.S. sailor standing at attention as a Japanese officer made his way past him, beginning his descent of a ladder.

The photo was taken on Sept. 2, 1945 aboard the USS Missouri.

Moments later, the officer would be signing articles of surrender on behalf of the Empire of Japan.

A few months later, our sailor would be going home.

My head reeled a little but I had to smile when I recognized just who the young man was and where he was heading.

• • •

In the fall of 1983, I was beginning my senior year at New Albany High School. We were fortunate back in those days to not only have regular Home Room hours but also to have the same teacher assigned for that purpose all three years of high school. (For younger readers who may not be familiar with the concept of “home room” it was a regularly scheduled time slot for general administrative work as well as an opportunity to study, etc. You were also surrounded for three years by the same classmates — assigned by alphabet — so you got to know one another pretty well, which meant that most of the “study time” was generally spent goofing off.)

At first, I was not overly impressed by my home room teacher. He was not thought of as a “cool” teacher per se by the student body, though the other teachers seemed to have an enormous, quiet respect for him, often deferring to him on matters of the day.

He was unassuming, in his baseball jacket; usually ambling in and out of the classroom during our sessions. It was somewhere early in my sophomore year that I learned he had formerly been the school’s football coach and I remember thinking he would look down upon me as a soccer player but I could not have been more wrong on that account as he genuinely took interest in the sport even asking questions about the rules of soccer and game strategy. He used those discussions to get to know me better, and, in hindsight, I believe he fostered similar relationships with most of my classmates.

And so it was that in September of 1983 my home room teacher called me to his desk on a Monday to ask me why I was not running for student council representative for our home room. When I told him, honestly, that I was supporting another student for that position he stated simply, “Then you should run for President.” I conceded that I had thought of doing so, but didn’t think I had much of a chance so was reluctant. He encouraged me to run.

That Wednesday he reminded me that Friday was the deadline to enter the race. Still, I hesitated.

That Friday morning, he presented me with the paperwork to file for the election already filled out, awaiting my signature. “Destiny calls.” he stated theatrically, handing me a pen.

He served as my unofficial campaign adviser for the next few weeks and when I won the race by a narrow margin he quietly said, “Congratulations Mr. President!” Beaming a wide grin, I think he was happier than I was.

As quaint as it might seem, winning that race, and the work that followed, instilled a confidence in me and an interest in politics that carried well beyond my senior year.

When it came time to choose a college he urged me to “Be a Boilermaker!” Turns out he played football at Purdue — who knew? He had been so modest of that fact up until then.

A few years later, seeing him (by chance?) before a football game in West Lafayette, he asked me about my future plans. I told him I was thinking about medical school but wasn’t sure how I’d pay for it. He said “If you’re smart enough to get into that school, you’re smart enough to figure out a way to pay for it” and suggested I look into the military as an option, which I eventually did.

Tailgating before kickoff that day was the last time I ever spoke with him. Sometimes we drift away from people long before we ever appreciate their importance.

• • •

The release of the movie “Oppenheimer” and the recent anniversaries of the use of atomic weaponry over Hiroshima and Nagasaki have rekindled old debate over whether such actions were or were not appropriate.

Between 1996 and 2000 I served in the United States Air Force as a medical officer. In that capacity I had the privilege of seeing thousands of not only active duty personnel as patients but also veterans from World War I through the Gulf Wars. Their stories were as varied as they were astounding.

When it comes to the WWII veterans who served in the Pacific theatre I cannot count how many expressed their belief that the use of “the bomb” was the only reason they had lived to come home.

One such veteran, here in our hometown, stated more recently, “I’m not saying it was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. I’m just saying I wouldn’t be here…or my children…or my grandchildren. Think of the generations saved!”

One patient, a retired General involved in the logistics of delivering the bomb, told me unequivocally in 1998, “I sleep well. I have no regrets. It was my duty.”

After much thought I have come to the conclusion that in 1945 hard men had to make hard decisions to ensure their survival — and ours. I will not second-guess them with the cold luxury of hindsight afforded to me by their efforts.

• • •

The arch of time is both merciless and beautiful in its unyielding, unidirectional form. We are here because of the actions — and inactions — of our predecessors. I will paraphrase a line from the movie “Amadeus” in an attempt to describe its perfection. Displace one hour and there would be diminishment. Displace one day and the structure would fall.

The General who told me he slept well at night was Paul Tibbets, pilot of the B-29 Enola Gay that dropped the “Little Boy” atomic bomb on Aug. 6, 1945.

The local veteran who prompted me to think of the generations saved passed on a few years ago. His name was Edward Summers. On that same visit to my clinic he asked me how I ever got interested in politics as well as medicine. I told him my old home room teacher had played a big part in both pathways.

A few days later Mr. Summers dropped off a yellow envelope at my office. Within was a photo of my “old” home room teacher, Forrest McCaffrey, standing at attention on the Missouri, approximately 20 years of age. Forrest — whose life might very well have been saved because of the recent actions of a few hardnosed men — gazing not so much at that Japanese officer but beyond him. Looking toward the future. Looking toward home.

Throw a big enough stone into a large enough body of water and nothing will ever be the same again.