Paw Paw on a Nazi Plane

This is my grandfather in WWII. It’s not his plane, of course. He was fighting for America. But I’ve always been intrigued by this photo, haunted by it. What was the backstory? Did he capture or kill the pilot of this plane? Did he just stumble upon the plane while on patrol and pause for a photo op? Was the photo intended to serve as proof of his day’s accomplishments? He looks far too relaxed to be taking a break from serious combat, but who knows.

I was not particularly close to my grandfather. Still, I am haunted by what I don’t know about him. He was a gruff man who seemed troubled by his own demons, determined to drink them into submission. In the time I did spend with him, he never told stories from the war. That’s not unlike many men from the Greatest Generation, I suppose. But I didn’t even realize he’d fought in the war until I found this photo and was given a wooden footlocker he carried. The footlocker was filled with military-style medals, mostly German. Had he collected these medals from desolate, war-ravaged fields? Had he stolen those off German corpses? He was German by heritage, so I wonder what the Nazi insignia meant to him. What feelings did he harbor in fighting such an evil empire in his family’s homeland? Was he patriotic toward the US and ashamed of Germany? I simply don’t know.

I was somewhat afraid of my grandfather. He’d rather yell at me to close the door to protect the air conditioning than to put me on his knee and tell me tales of his childhood or his favorite memory of my father or his war-time experience. I never asked my grandfather questions—about any topic. One exception: to request his special talent of belching in a way that sounded like a machine gun. He was happy to oblige on demand.

In some ways, I regret not knowing him better. I regret missing an opportunity to understand a troubled man on a deeper level. I regret not hearing the story of this photo. Perhaps his war experience is the very key to why he was so closed off. But I was a kid. Isn’t it the responsibility of the adult to reach out, to create a relationship, or at least a caring encounter? Plus, there were many layers of trouble to dig through first and no easy way to approach him. Would it have been worth it? He could have been a hero for all I know, storming the beaches of Normandy or marching into Paris as it was liberated. I’ll never know.

Our readers ask the same question of our fictional heroes. Will my time be worth the investment?

I struggled with my main character of my novel—for years. I didn’t know her until I wrote her backstory. That’s where I discovered her richness, her compassion, her motivation, her desires, her fears, her anger, her ability to hide from the complexities of her world. That’s when she emerged as a complex, flawed, and compelling protagonist.

One day, I might indulge in speculation and write a short story about how my Paw Paw ended up atop a Nazi plane. But first, I must ask the questions of my creative subconscious and mine the depths of that fictious backstory. To create that backstory, I must ask questions that will explain and explore and reveal his character. A character I never really knew.

What do you see in this photo? What backstory would you give it?