The other day, I glanced at an obituary in a local paper and noticed that an 88-year-old Wakefield native had passed away and read that he was a recipient of the Bronze and Silver Star, having served with the American Division E Company 2nd Platoon in World War II. This resonated with me, for my brother, also a World War II vet, had recently passed and it got me to thinking how things were back then.

Back on a steamy mid-August evening in 1945, I was in the Vickers Theater in Chicago's Loop with my two older sisters watching a double feature when all of a sudden we heard some noise coming from outside the theater, a low rumble building to a loud roar. The movie screen went blank and the ushers told us to go outside. Something big was going on. The American people had been anxiously waiting for this moment. There had been rumors and speculations for several days. How much longer could it take? The time had to be be near; maybe this was it.

Victory over Europe Day, the day on which the surrender of Germany was announced, officially ended the European phase of World War II on May 7, 1945. But the Pacific phase was still going on and the thing American dreaded most was that our troops likely would need to attack Japan in a land invasion to force surrender, but at a great loss of life. Thankfully, Japanese resistance on Okinawa ended on June 22 and this created a surge of hope for an end to the war. Then, on August 6, the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima by the Enola Gay. Three days later, another superfortess dropped "fat boy" on Nagasaki. Four hundred thousand human beings perished in just these two attacks. But incredibly, these horrific bombings (the necessity for which will be debated for years to come) did not bring an immediate surrender and there was a growing and aching frustration for the War's end. There were more and more reports of possible capitulation. West Coast ham radio operators claimed they had intercepted a Japanese radio broadcast stating that Japan was ready to surrender. Radio listeners, inured to false rumors, moaned and tried to put this prospect out of their minds. My parents went about their workdays keeping a firm lid on hope, though I remember my mother going to church each day praying for peace and the safe return of my brother, who had enlisted for the duration and was poised to go to Japan with the invading troops. Newspapers dwelled on what seemed to be a maddening hesitation on the part of Japanese leaders. Angst was not a word in those days but if it had been, there was plenty of it in our household. Hell, like everyone else, we were just plain scared to death!

Then the news crackled over a radio from 221 Group headquarters, Royal Air Force, to a primitive U.S. Airstrip at Kinmagon, near Pagan, in Burma. The Japanese had surrendered. At 7 p.m., Eastern time, President Harry Truman officially announced around the world the following: "I have received this afternoon a message from the Japanese Government... I deem this...a full acceptance of [the terms of] the unconditional surrender of Japan...arrangements are now being made for the formal signing of surrender terms at the earliest possible moment." He went on to say, "This is the day we have been waiting for since Pearl Harbor." Cities, towns, hamlets, homes, workplaces and streets of the United States erupted into pandemonium. It was over, and somehow the news trickled down to Chicago's downtown area and to just about every other place in America and the world. Victory over Japan Day (V-J Day) was on August 15, 1945, the day when fighting with Japan ended, though the surrender was formally signed was on Sept. 2. The day is technically commemorated on August 14 in the United States since the news of the surrender broke on that date in our time zones.

Well, when my sisters and I got outside the theater, there were thousands of people dancing in the streets as far as the eyes of an eight-year-old boy could see. While still very young, I had some minimal grasp of what all this meant. So did my sisters, both of whom were soon dancing with strangers and screaming at the top of their lungs. So did everyone else. This was a spontaneous celebration the likes of which I may never again witness in my lifetime. People all across America took to the streets to indulge in total and uninhibited silliness. Responsible and "sober"citizens turned fire hoses on each other and engaged in spontaneous conga lines, wriggling, kicking, and screaming. We did the Bunny Hop before anyone knew there was such a dance. Confetti and signs, soda pop and beer, kisses and hugs. Music and dancing. It was wild.

But what did all this mean to me? Well, for one thing, I knew I would no longer have to help my mother tend to our victory gardens which provided us with food in place of those items which were rationed by the government and which also helped cultivate morale by demonstrating civilian support for the war effort. I sensed that just maybe, I might now be able to get my hands on some Fleers Double Bubble gum made with real sugar, a scarce and much-wanted commodity during the war years. But most of all, we knew that my brother, Arthur, would not have to go to Japan. We knew that he, unlike so many of the young men on our city block in Chicago, men like Billy Gebhart and Bobby Hubert, would soon be coming home and that was indeed cause for great celebration. We could finally remove the star from our window. Too many others were not so fortunate and that was cause for profound sadness.

So now, whenever I happen to hear a tune by Bob Eberly, Glen Miller, Harry James or the Andrews Sisters, or when I hear George Shearing and Mel Torme do "Mel and George Do World War II," I think about those members of the "Greatest Generation" who fought so valiantly. Whenever I read an obituary about someone who served during that time, I think about how I wish I somehow could have acknowledged their sacrifices in a better way. I think about that man born in Wakefield. I think about my brother. But most of all, I think about all those other fellows like Billy Gebhart down at the end of our block who left at such a young age in 1942 and never returned. So with moist eyes and heavy heart, I can only say thank you.