Madge Blake (Batman's Aunt Harriet) and her son, James Harlan “Harley” Blake
(From Pastor Chris’s brother, about our father)
By Bruce Blake
I’m remembering my dad today—James Harlan Blake.
It’s Memorial Day, and the evidence is that no more ardent advocate for peace exists than a soldier who has witnessed the horror of war.
Such was true of Jim Blake.
In WWII he was moving around the Italian and African “theater” of the war as a high-speed radio operator primarily detailed with Generals Eisenhower and Patton.
He got that job in a round-about way: His body racked with asthma as a child, little Harley” came roaring out into adolescence a fierce scrapper, his slight frame belying a quick-fisted defender of his depression-era downtown turf as street-corner newsboy.
He joined the army when World War II began, a potential rise in the ranks derailed by his propensity for fighting. At one point he knocked a fellow soldier through the wall of the barracks housing. The wall came down, and so did Jim’s rank—”bucked” from sergeant to private.
But you know how these things go. The infantry officer door closed . . . another one opened. One of his commanding officers recognized Jim’s smarts and quick hands, eventually training him in Morse code. Soon he became one of the fastest radio operators (both sending and receiving) in the U.S. Armed Forces, and was posted with the ranking generals of the campaign, often just behind the front lines.
It was close to the combat line in Northern Africa that his world drastically changed. I remember his telling me, with hushed reverence, the terrible details of his humbling transformation. He told me the story only once, but I’ll never forget the sound of his voice, so often laughing, now so solemn.
He had a best friend out there for quite a while—Dan, a fellow who served also in the communications tent. “He could have been a senator,” Dad observed, which in his eyes was a huge compliment. He continued describing.
They are outside getting ready to repair the antenna in the withering African heat, and Jim wants to go up and do the job, but Dan insists on climbing the tower. It’s a somewhat dangerous job, as the towers are quite high. However, they both like the challenge, the view, the break from the pressurized and maddening tap-tap-tapping of their critical daily duty.
The work completed, Dan starts to descend.
Out of nowhere, a German fighter plane comes blazing through the camp, and in a horrifying blast of gunfire knocks Dan off the tower to the ground, where he dies in Jim’s bloody and tear-soaked arms.
As Dad finished telling me this, he was silent.
”I never hit another man again. And since that day, I challenge every assumption that going to war is the only way to solve a problem.”
Jim returned home, married Mom (Marise), became a brilliant history teacher, a writer and artist. But for him his most important role was as a powerful guide for young men. As a basketball coach he regularly led his tenacious, undersized teams far beyond their seeming capacities, eventually winning the top prize of the CIF large school championship with a band of disciplined, enthusiastic, smart, and (would you believe it?) scrappy players.
Many years ago and long after Jim died of cancer, someone I’d never met approached me on the street.
”You”re Bruce Blake, aren’t you?”
Oh-oh, I’m thinkin’, now what have I done?
”I just wanted to tell you that I had your dad for a teacher, and I’ll never forget him. In some ways I owe my life to him. I was heading in a very bad direction. He really inspired me to become more involved with life, you know? I started to think and come at the world in a different way. And he made me LAUGH!”
At this point the man laughed. “Yeah. I never got a chance to thank him. So I just wanted to tell you.”
I thank you too, Dad.
And I remember you.