Suffering in silence: A short history of Glen G. Earley

It's amazing what you can find when you really start digging.

For years, I've been intrigued by the lack of information about my grandfather and great-uncle, both of whom served in WWII. My grandfather, Glen Earley, is just a whisp of a memory in my life; I was just six-years-old when he died, and I don't recall much interaction between the two of us. His death wasn't seared into my memory like other members of my family, likely because his final wishes specified that there was to be no funeral service. His body was cremated and his ashes committed to the depths of the Pacific. There is no marker, no place to mourn...nothing noteworthy - to me, at least - to record the end of his life upon my mind.

When I think of Glen, the image of an older man sitting in a chair with a drink in his hand flashes into my mind. I don't think I ever saw him get out of that chair. As I learned more about him and what he physically endured in the course of his lifetime, I understood more. The only clear memory I have of him speaking to me was during a visit to his house when I was very young. I remember bringing along some coloring books and crayons. When I proudly showed grandpa my work - which, of course, I thought was exquisite - I recall him looking at it closely, then down at me. "You missed some spots," he said. "You've got to fill in all those holes." That memory, which I later recalled to my father, garnered this response: "That sounds like him," he laughed. "He was a real hard-ass." But even in the way he remembered his father's hard exterior, my dad conveys the utmost respect for Glen, a man who, despite his physical limitations and unfathomable physical and mental pain, never wavered in caring for and supporting his family. I suppose you could call him tough, but it's much deeper than that.

That's the only exchange I can remember with Glen. And to this day, it makes me sad. I was very close, on the other hand, with my maternal grandfather, who lived until I was in my late 20's. Perhaps this is why I felt such a void; there were unfulfilled expectations there.

In addition to the very few words spoken between my grandfather and I, this is the only photograph (that I'm aware of, anyhow) of the two of us together. And by together, I mean in the same frame.

Glen - and the entire Earley family, really - could be looked on the as the epitome of American sacrifice during those tough war years. That sacrifice began with the oldest son, Lyle Calder Earley. Lyle's desire to serve his country fueled a decision to undergo a risky operation to correct the childhood skull injury that had rendered him unfit for service.  Within a month of the operation, the 26-year-old was dead as a result. He left behind a wife and an unborn child.

Lyle C. Earley, August, 1943

Lyle and Joyce Earley, June 1943

As the family mourned for Lyle, their other son, Dorel Lyman, was serving in the Italian campaign as a tank driver with the 751st Tank Battalion. Dorel landed with his outfit in Anzio in January, 1944 and was killed May 28 during the Allied push toward Rome. He was just 21. Compounded with the tragedy of Lyle's death, so fresh in the hearts of the Earley family, Dorel was first listed as missing in action for several months as the army struggled to find his remains, adding uncertainty to the devastation. Glen, who was at that time at the Armor School at Ft. Knox, Kentucky, was optimistic about his brother being found alive, and wrote home to his parents in June, keeping their hopes high by telling them how bad the army was about keeping track of some of its men.

Dorel L. Earley, 1942

After action report from the 751st Tank Battalion, listing Pvt. Dorel Earley as missing in action.

In addition to the grief facing what was left of the Earley family, I can only imagine the sheer terror Glen must have felt as he trained to do the same job that had killed his brother. But if it bothered him, he kept those emotions well-hidden, instead attempting to lighten the mood in his letters by mentioning small, amusing details about life in the army. In a futile attempt to save his sole surviving son, Glen's father, John Lyman wrote several letters to the War Department, asking that he be excused from combat duty. The replies were all the same: Glen could not be spared. "My husband's health broke for several months," Glen's mother, Henrietta Calder Earley would later write. "This was indeed a trying time in our lives."

Glen was sent to the ETO sometime in the fall of 1944, where he joined the 745th Tank Battalion, a well -respected and battle-tested outfit that had landed on Omaha Beach on D-Day, fought its way through the hedgerows of France and through the rough battles of Aachen and the Hurtgen Forest in Germany.

After fighting in the Battle of the Bulge and in several other campaigns inside Germany, Glen was wounded near the town of Uckerath March 24, 1945. It was a day and an injury that, in many ways, shaped the rest of his life.

Now, when I see the image of that older man in the chair, drink in his hand, I think of his story of personal tragedy, and I almost understand. Almost.