Private McLean was born on August 24, 1919 and was raised in Melrose, MA, the only son of Clarence and Elsa McLean. He and my mother, Helen Frances (Bourque) were married in October of 1939 and did what came naturally, adding three boys to the McLean clan: John, Robert, and William.

Dad volunteered for service in April of 1944, when we three boys were 1, 2 and 3. He was 24 years old. When I was a teenager, my mother told me that my father felt guilty about being home while so many of his friends were serving our country and that he felt compelled to go. I'm not sure she ever fully forgave him his decision to join the Army.

My brothers and I are blessed to have a wonderful collection of letters that our father faithfully, often daily, wrote to his parents. The letters were discovered in the 1970's, in a locked box, long after my grandmother McLean had passed away. They provide a detailed history of his relatively short time (just over a year) in the service to his country, from basic training to his last visits with my mother in New York before shipping out, to his arrival in England in September of 1944, and his fateful decision to join the 82nd, to his arrival in France, his first combat in the Battle of the Bulge and his final days in Germany. I am amazed at all that filled that last year of his young life.

My Dad was so proud to join the 82nd Airborne. He was one of thousands of replacements who were aggressively recruited from among the new arrivals in England, following the decimation of the outfit in the invasion of France and the debacle in Holland. You can feel his pride in being part of the 82nd jump right off the pages of his letters, although he was reluctant to tell my mother that he had joined and asked my grandfather to tell her the news. He thought she'd be impressed that he was making an extra $50 per month in "jump" pay.

Shortly after joining B Company of the 505th in Belgium, the Battle of the Bulge ensued and Dad was wounded in his first combat, taking a shot through his right hip that exited his right "buttock" as he described the wound to my grandmother. Unfortunately, it wasn't a "million dollar" wound and by March of 1945, after recuperating in France, he was back with B Company, which was now in Germany. He wrote about how few faces he recognized and how the few that he did had thought he had been killed in January.

Through March and into April, Dad's unit was mostly kept in reserve and got some pretty cushy security duty in the Cologne area, living in some fancy German homes and doing their own "home cooked" meals. But with the final push across the Elbe River, his unit was called back to the front. On April 30, 1945, in or near the German town of Bleckede, my father volunteered to be part of a patrol that tried to outflank an enemy machine gun position. The subsequent letter from the 505th's Chaplain states that there was no cover and that Dad advanced in the face of enemy fire and was killed instantly.

Dad was killed on my second birthday. His last letter to my grandparents was dated April 19, 1945. Unfortunately, word of his death did not reach home until after VE day, and there was every good reason to believe that he would be coming home. But then came the MIA notice and, within another two weeks, notification that he had been killed in action. Dad was not coming home. In August of 1945, my mother received word that Dad had been awarded the Silver Star for "gallantry in action." I remember the newspaper photos of her receiving his medals. She was 25, a widow, and the mother of three small boys, then aged 2, 3 and 4.

Mom remarried in 1949 to a good and decent man, John T. Harrison, who was very much a father to us. Sadly, their marriage lasted only ten years, as our mother passed away at age 39, when we were teenagers. She passed on her strength; sense of self and independence to us that has helped us all persevere.

Dad is buried at the US Military Cemetery in Margraten, Holland. Two of us have had the opportunity to visit him there, truly one of the most beautiful and peaceful places on earth. We are grateful to the local Dutch family, Guy and Hanneke Kreemers and their children, Roger and Carole, who have adopted our father's grave. To all whose fathers are buried at Margraten, I commend the book, Crosses in the Wind, by Joseph James Shomon, (Stratford House, Inc., NY, NY) which tells the story of the creation of the US Cemetery in Margraten. It was first published in 1947 and reprinted in 1991.

We three "boys," John, Robert and William, are now in our 60's. Time has not healed. We will never forget.