A Veteran’s Day Story

I took my father-in-law to IKEA for lunch today. He prefers to eat there, but never on Sunday because the store is so busy. The eatery is by far the most hectic area, with little kids running round and little seating to pick from. He had asked me to choose where to dine, and I decided to challenge the masses. The man also likes a good deal, and the retailer advertised free food for Veterans from November 9 to 11. But we got something better: A cashier’s thoughtfulness.

My father-in-law was 18 years-old when Germany invaded Poland and set World War II in motion. The young man started his active military career in 1943; he already was a reservist because of ROTC. Seventy-one years later, the elder gent is reluctant to discuss his service—and he is no fan of war movies. 

According to the National WWII Museum, in the United States, there are more World War II veterans living here in California than any other state but one, Florida; 93,157 and 96,967, respectively. Sixteen million Americans served, but little more than 1 million are alive. About 555 die each day. Their ages are advanced. An 18 year-old serviceman in 1945 would be 87 in 2014.

At IKEA, we saw no veterans of any age taking advantage of the free meal, which doesn’t mean there were none others; of course. The sign advertising the promo indicated that a military ID would be required, so after seating my father-in-law, I walked up to one of the two cashiers seeking clarification.

The store was as crazed as expected. I love it. My father-in-law went to eat a meal, but activity and packed people nourish me. As a country boy, I should prefer quiet, open-space. Instead, I thrive on bustle—in part because human beings so interest me. Sometimes, I wish to be God. Not because of any desire for power but to experience anyone and everyone—to be, even briefly, in every house and head. The closest I’ll ever come is city living.

A woman fumbled for payment as I approached the cashier, and her delay provided opening to ask about the promotion. I explained that my veteran didn’t have a military ID, being 92 years-old. I turned and pointed: “He’s the man all the way in the back wearing a baseball cap”. Any entrée qualified, the cashier said. I nodded thanks.

I weaved through the crowd, which rushed randomly like eddies of water flowing on dirt, without collision. Standing before my father-in-law, where my chair had been and should still be, I explained that he could choose anything, including the priciest entrée—BBQ ribs. He asked for a kids meal. I smiled: “We can do better than that, Bob. You can take the leftovers home”.

I made my way back to the front of the restaurant and stood at the end of the long line snaking up to the serving area. “Hey, XYZ”. I turned to see the cashier approach. “Does he know what he wants?” Meatballs, I answered. The young man walked up to the servers and requested a meal—15 meatballs, potatoes, gravy, and lingonberries. He handed me the plate and asked if I planned to get anything else. Dessert. Cake, perhaps. Chocolate. “We have one that’s free with the IKEA card”. “I have one of those”, I said. He brought back a plate with two cream-filled, coconut-covered chocolate balls and pecan pastry. “Anything else?” Coffees. “Grab two mugs”.

He sent me away, no checkout line; I trailed behind profuse thanks, while cautiously carrying the tray through the flowing crowd. My father-in-law expressed surprise at my swift return, and I explained what happened. Between us, the cashier’s thoughtfulness meant more to me, being its direct recipient. Remember, the eatery was crazy busy, so the young man made extra effort to leave his station even for a minute, which is about how long the transaction took.

These aged WWII veterans sacrificed much to preserve the freedoms we all share. A victorious Nazi nation could have thrust the planet into chaos, and who could even guess how many more men, women, or children would have been gassed. Every day the war continued meant more lives lost, whether on the battlefields or in the concentration camps.

We owe a debt to everyone who served, in that war or any other. IKEA offers a free meal, in recognition. At the San Diego store, one employee did more. I will remember every time I walk through the doors.

Editor’s Note: I took the photo during the National Cherry Blossom Festival parade, Washington, D.C., April 2007.