wheelchair then, and Tom Hanks was at the restaurant, too. Dad couldn’t get in the line where everybody was talking to Tom, but Tom came over to Dad and bent down to his level. They had a good talk.
When we came home, Dad finished his course of chemo and radiation, but grew sicker. He was in and out of the hospital during the next few months. We spent a very enjoyable Christmas together where all the family was together one last time. By the first week of February 2003 his body grew very weak.
We got the call on a Wednesday that Dad had grown very sick. We travelled to be with him, and my brother flew in from Florida. My mother and brother and I spent the day with him in the hospital. It was snowing heavily, and we went home that night. I’ve heard this from several wives of paratroopers before, that sometimes their husbands will jump out of bed in the middle of the night, like they’re dreaming of parachuting again. Dad was extremely weak, but the next morning when we went back to the hospital, a nurse told us that Dad had jumped out of bed during the night. I like to think he was dreaming of one last jump.
On his last day alive, he was in and out, not talking, just resting. As I sat by his bed, I held his hand and prayed. I had this strange spiritual experience; I can’t quite explain it. I saw somebody come into the room—I could just barely see movement in the air—and it was like some sort of spirit moved Dad’s body up to a standing position. I think it was an angel coming to get Dad. I couldn’t actually see anybody, but I could see motion in the room—I don’t know how else to describe it other than that.
When Dad died, we were all in the room with him holding his hands. Again I felt this strange presence, it’s hard to describe, but it was like I touched Heaven when I was holding his hands. I was feeling Heaven through him.
Dad didn’t fear dying. He felt like he had lived a long life and done what he wanted to do. He felt that death was simply going home to be with God.
He passed away on Saturday, February 8, 2003. At his funeral we had two photo displays of him, one with his family, the other with his war buddies. We played the Band of Brothers CD in the lobby for the wake. People told us how beautiful it all was.
The next day at his Mass, we played a song called “On Eagle’s Wings,” based on Psalm 91, that talks about how God will lift you up on eagles’ wings and make you shine like the sun. Then a friend played “Amazing Grace ” on the flute. I wouldn’t call the funeral sad. I would call it joyful, like Dad would have wanted it to be.
Dad’s body was transported to Gate of Heaven Cemetery, where he was buried, and an Army representative came out and played “Taps”. It was a very cold day, it had just snowed, and the sound of a single bugle filled the air. The day was extremely clear, and as the sound rang out across the snow, it seemed to resonate forever.
5
GEORGE L. POTTER JR.
Interview with Daniel Potter, son
I was never quite positive that the stories my father told me about the war actually happened. At least from my perspective as a young boy, they didn’t seem real. We’d watch war movies with Dad, and he’d talk about all these far-flung places and horrific action scenes with familiarity, saying things like, “Yeah, that looks about right,” or “I was nearby there when that happened.” His stories seemed so extraordinary. I just couldn’t fathom how my dad—how anybody—had actually gone through all those experiences and lived.
Dad didn’t help us understand much, either. If I ever asked Dad a question about his combat experiences, he wouldn’t say anything in return. He’d grunt or look away or make it clear somehow that he wasn’t going to answer any questions about the subject. Whenever he talked about the war, it was on his terms, and he talked mostly about the funny parts. I believed those more. He’d have a drink in his hand and
When we came home, Dad finished his course of chemo and radiation, but grew sicker. He was in and out of the hospital during the next few months. We spent a very enjoyable Christmas together where all the family was together one last time. By the first week of February 2003 his body grew very weak.
We got the call on a Wednesday that Dad had grown very sick. We travelled to be with him, and my brother flew in from Florida. My mother and brother and I spent the day with him in the hospital. It was snowing heavily, and we went home that night. I’ve heard this from several wives of paratroopers before, that sometimes their husbands will jump out of bed in the middle of the night, like they’re dreaming of parachuting again. Dad was extremely weak, but the next morning when we went back to the hospital, a nurse told us that Dad had jumped out of bed during the night. I like to think he was dreaming of one last jump.
On his last day alive, he was in and out, not talking, just resting. As I sat by his bed, I held his hand and prayed. I had this strange spiritual experience; I can’t quite explain it. I saw somebody come into the room—I could just barely see movement in the air—and it was like some sort of spirit moved Dad’s body up to a standing position. I think it was an angel coming to get Dad. I couldn’t actually see anybody, but I could see motion in the room—I don’t know how else to describe it other than that.
When Dad died, we were all in the room with him holding his hands. Again I felt this strange presence, it’s hard to describe, but it was like I touched Heaven when I was holding his hands. I was feeling Heaven through him.
Dad didn’t fear dying. He felt like he had lived a long life and done what he wanted to do. He felt that death was simply going home to be with God.
He passed away on Saturday, February 8, 2003. At his funeral we had two photo displays of him, one with his family, the other with his war buddies. We played the Band of Brothers CD in the lobby for the wake. People told us how beautiful it all was.
The next day at his Mass, we played a song called “On Eagle’s Wings,” based on Psalm 91, that talks about how God will lift you up on eagles’ wings and make you shine like the sun. Then a friend played “Amazing Grace ” on the flute. I wouldn’t call the funeral sad. I would call it joyful, like Dad would have wanted it to be.
Dad’s body was transported to Gate of Heaven Cemetery, where he was buried, and an Army representative came out and played “Taps”. It was a very cold day, it had just snowed, and the sound of a single bugle filled the air. The day was extremely clear, and as the sound rang out across the snow, it seemed to resonate forever.
5
GEORGE L. POTTER JR.
Interview with Daniel Potter, son
I was never quite positive that the stories my father told me about the war actually happened. At least from my perspective as a young boy, they didn’t seem real. We’d watch war movies with Dad, and he’d talk about all these far-flung places and horrific action scenes with familiarity, saying things like, “Yeah, that looks about right,” or “I was nearby there when that happened.” His stories seemed so extraordinary. I just couldn’t fathom how my dad—how anybody—had actually gone through all those experiences and lived.
Dad didn’t help us understand much, either. If I ever asked Dad a question about his combat experiences, he wouldn’t say anything in return. He’d grunt or look away or make it clear somehow that he wasn’t going to answer any questions about the subject. Whenever he talked about the war, it was on his terms, and he talked mostly about the funny parts. I believed those more. He’d have a drink in his hand and
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