06/06/2026
My Walking Thoughts for Sunday June 7 2026
Lieutenant Peter Clark
The war ended just before I entered the fourth grade undermining the turf on which so much of my life had been spent. Now I had to search for new avenues of adventure, so frequently you could find me riding my bicycle to the Veteran's Hospital at Sawtelle, commonly referred to as the "Old soldier's home."
During World War Two, its clientele mushroomed along with new structures to provide shelter for the newly maimed servicemen. Most of the residents stayed within the confines of the hospital grounds but a few would come out and sit on the bus benches along San Vicente Boulevard. Many wore uniforms with their medals prominently displayed, and I made it a habit to stop and talk with them.
Most memorable of these men was Lieutenant Clark whose face bore witness to the flames that filled the cockpit of his P-400 fighter, downed over Guadalcanal in late 1942. He had no nose to speak of and his mouth was pulled back into a derisive grin. He spoke unevenly through twisted lips, but his eyes, evidently protected by goggles, were clear and soft.
He had been born and raised in Indiana, had a sister and brother who still lived at home, and a dog who could sense a pheasant in the brush at fifty yards. He had gone back once, but saw immediately it had been a mistake, so he returned to Sawtelle where there were others just like him. It would be his home, he decided, even though he would have to face his fate alone every day for the rest of his life.
I longed to tell him that he could come live with us -- that I wasn't frightened by him and his face -- but I knew it wouldn't work out, so we talked about flying and friends and sometimes other veterans would sit and reminisce with us.
One day he wasn’t there and the small knot of men with whom he routinely sat got up and excused themselves… all except George, a sailor missing both hands whose stumps waved me over.
“Peter won’t be here again,” he said in a voice charged with such tenderness I wanted to bolt away before he could continue. “Last Tuesday he disappeared after breakfast.” After a pause he continued. “At dinner on Thursday we learned his body had been found at the foot of a cliff near the Sepulveda tunnel.”
“It’s steep up there,” I said. “He must have slipped.”
George sat quietly for a bit before nodding. “Yes,” he said. “that’s probably it.”
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