MY DAD SAW HIS DAD’S FACE IN ME
When I was growing up, my father, Patrick Roach, was often found in our family's detached garage. Ergo, so was I. The smell of fresh sawdust and motor oil paired well with the stories etched deep into my mind, most memorably about my grandfather, Robert Roach. My father commonly said each generation of Roaches left their legacy. My great-uncle, Joseph Roach, after learning law in prison, defended the infamous gangster Al Capone (though he quit when his price for service wasn't honored), then moved on to prosecute and run White supremacists out of Indiana. My father worked with some of the top car designers for Mitsubishi and Chrysler. My grandfather, simply referred to as “Doc” by the community, was the hero of the family who inspired us to continue the Roach legacy.
Young, married, with a degree in chemistry, Robert Roach quickly moved up in the world. As cost accountant in the corporate office of a multibillion-dollar paint and chemical producer, he was deferred from the draft in World War II. Temporarily, that is. When the CEO's son was next in line to be drafted, he was given top priority by the company, and off my grandfather went to war.
A technician 4th grade medic in the United States Army, he was in the third wave of soldiers to land on the beaches of Normandy, faced with caring for the casualties of the initial slaughter of men. Later that year, he would participate in the Battle of the Bulge, an unsuccessful German counterattack fought in subfreezing temperatures and 10 inches of snow.
Despite surviving some of the deadliest battles, my grandfather did not leave unscathed. In a convoy crossing Europe, a “buzz bomb” was heard overhead, forcing him to jump from his moving truck into a foxhole, fracturing his neck. He valiantly pushed through the pain to stay with his men.
My father said the war was rarely spoken about in the house, but we have a shoebox of patches and trinkets brought back from Germany and a small album of the horrifying images that tell all that's needed to be said. Like many others from the greatest generation, his stories were not only ones of despair. Their stories also brought good times and shaped their future for the best.
In basic training, my grandfather's sergeant had a reputation for being a real jerk. To get back at him, my grandfather secretly peed in his coffee, causing a roar of silent laughter behind the sergeant's back. Later, to offset the sergeant's foul attitude, my grandfather found a mentor in Dr. Warren Morris. My grandfather took Dr. Morris's advice to attend medical school at the University of Indiana, then opened his own office in San Diego. My dad would accompany my grandfather nearly 20 years later in a surprise visit to Dr. Morris' office in Terre Haute, Ind., as they towed their world champion hydroplane race boat, La Cucaracha, across the country.
My grandfather died nine months before I was born, but my father said he saw his face in mine the day I was born. Family friends have said I hold his bright smile. Though I never had the chance to meet him, I hope to continue his legacy as I develop my own.
My father said the war was rarely spoken about in the house.