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According to the National WWII Museum, approximately every two minutes a memory of World War II – its sights and sounds, its terrors and triumphs – disappears.
That’s because our WWII vets are dying at a rate of 555 a day. By 2036, it is estimated there will be no living veterans of World War II left to recount their experiences.
I am so grateful to have been able to meet and interview so many of these amazing veterans. Their stories are important and deserve to be shared.
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Staff Sergeant Matthew Henrick Stiltz
His face stared out me from the photo album. Dark hair with straight bangs falling across huge green eyes. A goofy grin and a Nintendo controller clutched in his hands.
Taking a sharp breath, I blinked rapidly as my eyes filled with tears. He looked so much like my son Alex they could have been twins.
Not all stories can be told in 1,000 words or less. Sometimes the nuances don’t match allowable column inches. Every once in awhile, the rest of the story stays with me – an unwritten, but ever-present ghost.
Today’s story about Matt Stiltz, for example.
When a local credit union decided to name one of its scholarships after the Shadle Park grad who was killed while serving in Afghanistan, I called his parents, Mark and Terri Stiltz, to see if they’d be willing to be interviewed.
They agreed, but during the course of our conversation I learned that it wasn’t an easy decision for them. After Matt’s 2012 death, he was featured in a flurry of newspaper and television news stories.
Strangers reached out to Mark and Terri, sending mementos, cards, even memorial dog tags. Military specialists shepherded them through the process of retrieving Matt’s body and funeral arrangements. Gold Star families sent a beautiful quilt. “We were embraced by a new family,” Mark said.
All the attention proved both comforting and unsettling. While thankful for the interest in their son, they know he’s just one soldier out of thousands who’ve lost their lives in Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom. Are those stories being told, they wondered?
Having their picture in the newspaper made them feel uncomfortable. Mark said, “We haven’t done anything special.”
Sometimes reporters are accused of journalistic voyeurism – of peering into private moments and broadcasting them to the world. And sometimes it feels that way as I sit with grieving parents or spouses, carefully documenting their heartbreak. But I believe the death of a bright 26-year-old man isn’t just a loss for his friends and family – it’s a loss for the community and for the country he loved and served.
Mark and Terri were so transparent with me that I wanted to be equally frank. I explained the short shelf life of media interest. “Honestly, five years from now it’s unlikely anyone from the newspaper will be calling,” I said. “And the only people who will remember Matt are those who knew and loved him.”
So, we sat at their kitchen table with photo albums and Matt’s baby book in front of us. Stories and memories tumbled out. Some made us laugh. One of Matt’s chores was cleaning up after the dog in the backyard. He developed a special outfit to deal with this task.
Terri said, “He’d put on his scuba mask and snorkel and attach two empty two-liter pop bottles to his back.” That’s right. He’d developed a dog clean-up breathing apparatus.
She continued, “He’d put on gloves and off he’d go. He wore this every time! I wish we’d got a picture of him in it.”
Turning a page, I came to the photo that took my breath away. “He looks so much like my second son,” I said.
The photo blurred as I gazed at it. That grin. That game controller. That glint in his green eyes.
Taking a breath, I quickly turned the pages to see pictures of Matt playing his trumpet or celebrating birthdays. I began to get a sense of the boy he’d been.
A lasting sadness for his parents is that since he joined the military immediately after graduation, they never really got to know the man he’d become. “The military grew him up,” Mark said.
Soon it was time to go. I thanked them for allowing our readers a glimpse of the person behind the Matthew Stiltz Scholarship.
As I drove away the tears I’d blinked back returned. I realized I hadn’t been truthful when I’d said five years from now, the only people who would remember Matt were the people who knew and loved him.
I never met him. But I know I’ll never forget him.
Staff Sergeant Matthew Henrick Stiltz
B. August 5, 1986
D. November 12, 2012
Contact Cindy Hval at dchval@juno.com. Her previous columns are available online at spokesman.com/ columnists. Follow her on Twitter at @CindyHval.
This column first ran in the Spokesman Review, April 3, 2014
He leaned his head against the window as the plane powered up for takeoff, and when the ground slipped away, his face split into a familiar grin.
At 21, our son Alex was enjoying his first flight. While it was fun to share the experience with him, my feelings were decidedly mixed. Derek and I were taking him to his new home in Houston.
I’m not a newbie when it comes to kids leaving the nest, but I’ve never had a son fly so far. Alex and his older brother, Ethan, 24, have always lived within a few miles of the family home. Houston is 2,123 miles from Spokane by car. I know. I checked.
The fact that this is the right choice for Alex and a great opportunity for him didn’t dull the ache in my heart. Flying is expensive and time-consuming, and it will probably be a year before we see him again.
The trip wasn’t all gloom and despair. We laughed at the airport when Derek got flagged for special attention by the TSA agent. “Sir, do you have anything in your crotch area?” the agent asked.
Derek looked bewildered. I could see so many possible – but inappropriate – replies flashing through his mind. Alex and I collapsed in a fit of giggles, while Derek calmly endured his pat down. “I’ve had Army physicals,” he said. “That didn’t even come close.”
Soon we were buckled in and on our way. It doesn’t surprise me that this son is the first to move so far from home – I’ve spent many years chasing him. I yelled “Slow down, Alex!” so much he thought Slowdown was his first name.
He’s always been fearless. He never found a tree high enough, a skateboard ramp steep enough, a roller coaster fast enough. Unfortunately, that same fearlessness propelled him headlong into some bad choices, and now at last he’s ready for a fresh start.
While I wish he could have that new beginning closer to me, I’ve supported and encouraged this move. He won’t know the strength of his wings until he tests them.
After a long day of travel we found an Italian restaurant within walking distance of our hotel. We laughed and traded stories and remembrances throughout our meal, trying our best to not make it seem like a last supper.
The next day, we loaded the rental car with all our son’s worldly goods – at least those we could afford to fly out with us, and delivered Alex to his new digs.
We spent some time touring the area, but we all knew we were putting off the inevitable. At last, Alex wrapped his arms around me in a fierce hug. “I love you, Mom,” he said. “Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
Derek and I walked to the car and sat there for a long time. Neither of us felt confident enough to navigate a strange city with tear-filled eyes. I turned to my husband, “Can you believe he said, ‘Don’t worry, Mom!’ You’d think after 21 years, he’d know me!”
My husband shook his head. “It’s time to let him go, Cindy.” And with that he started the car. “Let’s go to Galveston!” he said. And we hit the road.
Less than an hour later we were on a ferry watching dolphins play and pelicans swoop in to catch fish in the bay. We took a long walk down acres of sandy white beach. We walked in silence for the most part – each lost in our own memories of our dark-haired boy.
Watching the waves crash and break along the shore soothed our tender hearts. We stood on a jetty for the longest time until the wind picked up and the spray sent droplets our way. I took Derek’s hand. “This was a good idea,” I said. And I didn’t mean just the Galveston outing – I meant our decision to help our son launch into a brave, new life.
We spent the next day in San Antonio. And at each stop from the Alamo, to Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Odditorium, to the delightful shops and restaurants along the famed Riverwalk, we’d turn to each other and say, “Next year… .” Or “Alex will love this … .”
If baby birds need to fly from their nests to strengthen their wings, then perhaps mommy and daddy birds need to strengthen their hearts by letting their little ones fly.
All I know is my heart didn’t break when our flight took off and circled the sprawling city. How could it? I willingly left a piece of it in Houston, and it will still be there for me next year when I return.
This column appeared in the Spokesman Review, May 15, 2014.
This story from the Huckleberries Online newspaper blog broke my heart. That one of our heroes should die alone and destitute seems unthinkable. Bless the generous donor who paid for his fune
A brave combat veteran of the storied 10th Mountain Division who recently died destitute will be honored with a “Beer and Brats” fundraiser on November 2, 2014 at St. John the Baptist Orthodox Church in Post Falls. Jim Ayers, who served in the 10th Mountain Division during World War II as the United States Army fought its way across Italy, recently died destitute and without any surviving family members and his funeral costs were paid by a generous anonymous donor. St. John the Baptist Orthodox Church is holding a memorial “Beer and Brats” fundraiser to reimburse this donor for those costs/Jennifer Dancy, of St. John the Baptist Orthodox Church, Post Falls. More here.
This fundraiser will be held on Sunday Nov. 2nd from 1-3 PM at St John the Baptist Orthodox Church in Post Falls located at 4718 E. Horsehaven Avenue. Visit http://www.stjohnorthodox.org/directions.html for directions.
Harvey Shaw at the wheel of the USS Kwajalein, 1944
Just received word that this handsome sailor died October 7. Harvey Shaw was a kind and gentle man who dropped out of high school during WWII and enlisted in the US Navey because he liked to swim!
He was proud to have served his country, but even prouder of his 64-year marriage to his wife, Bonnie and of their six children.
Rest in peace, Harvey. Thank you for your service and for sharing your story with me.
This handsome solidier is In Washington DC today visiting the World War ll Memorial, courtesy of Inland Northwest Honor Flight. Rusty Clemons was stationed on Bougainville Island during the war.The story of he and his bride, Marie, is featured in War Bonds in a chapter titled “Dishpan Hands.”
In 2010, I accompanied a group of Pearl Harbor Survivors during an annual Armed Forces parade in my hometown. The reaction of the crowd to this small group of heros showed me just how much Americans value the men and women who served our country during WWII and solidified my desire to write War Bonds.
Here’s the column I wrote about that event. 
Ray Daves, Cindy Hval and Denis Mikkelsen
When I received an invitation to appear in this year’s Armed Forces Torchlight Parade, I had mixed feelings. My only previous parade experience hadn’t gone well.
In seventh grade I rode on our church youth group’s float in Moses Lake. The theme? Daniel in the Lion’s Den. I had a major crush on the guy chosen to be Daniel, so I agreed to ride on the float. I pictured myself as one of the angels sent by God to shut the lions’ mouths. Instead, they made me a lion, complete with furry suit and painted-on whiskers. My mane was made of cardboard, and I kept poking my fellow feline’s eyes with every turn of my head.
Did you know Moses Lake gets very warm in the spring? I sizzled and sweated through the parade and my black whiskers ran like polluted rain down my cheeks. Then I started sneezing. The “den” was made out of hay bales, those being plentiful in Moses Lake. That’s how I found out I’m allergic to hay. By the end of the parade my eyes were swollen shut, and “Daniel” hadn’t even noticed me growling at his feet.
However, the Torchlight parade would be different. The theme was “Freedom is not Free,” and instead of a float made of hay bales I’d been ask to accompany the Pearl Harbor survivors on a military truck. I’ve written several stories about these incredible folks over the years, and they’ve kind of adopted me. I was so honored by the invitation, I would have said yes even if they wanted me to wear a lion costume.
So on parade day, I boarded the truck with five Pearl Harbor survivors ranging in age from 86 to 93. Among them: Warren and Betty Schott, who were both on Ford Island when the bombs began to fall.
Denis Mikkelsen who was sleeping aboard the USS West Virginia and woke to the sound of chaos. When the order came to abandon ship he dived into the harbor.
Sid Kennedy at the Naval Air Station Kaneohe, watched the planes swoop in. “Look at the show the Army’s putting on,” he’d said. Then he saw the red circles on the aircrafts’ wings.
And Ray Daves was on his way to breakfast when he looked up to see the first bomb hit Ford Island. He prayed, “God, don’t let it get my friend, Jim.”
The memories of Dec. 7, 1941, are seared into the minds of this small band of survivors. Each year their number dwindles, yet those who are able agree to appear in the parade, not for cheers or accolades, but to honor the thousands of Americans who did not survive the attack on Pearl Harbor.
Joining us on the truck were the survivor’s family escorts and Jean Flechel, widow of a Pearl Harbor survivor. The sun warmed us as we waited for the start of the parade and at last we began our slow trek through city streets.
Much has been said and written about the decline of patriotism in America and how younger generations don’t seem to honor the flag and our country the way our forebears did.
This may be true, but it certainly wasn’t what I observed that night. Almost without exception men, women and children leapt to their feet as our truck went by. Teenage boys took off their ball caps, men saluted or put their hands over their hearts and the applause was deafening. Amid the clapping I heard shouts of, “God bless you!” and “We love you,” but mostly what I heard were these words shouted over and over again: “Thank you! Thank you for your service.”
I heard teenage girls scream as if Justin Bieber was in town. I watched grown men weep and small children wave and clap while others stood somberly at attention as the truck passed.
Some may believe our country has lost its way and its citizens no longer value the tenets upon which our nation was built. But what I experienced in the company of American heroes that night, filled me with hope.
Maybe we haven’t forgotten what is most important, after all.
Cindy Hval 