Today is Veteran’s Day. Thank you to all the brave men and women who have served in our country’s military. I salute you.

This article was originally published in the Lewisville News September 9, 1998.

I’m a Baby Boomer; a daughter of the World War II generation. Growing up, I listened transfixed as my father told me of his adventures as a communications scout in the war. The stories were so real I could feel the snowy winters of France, I could see Generals Eisenhower, Bradley and Patton as they all met at headquarters. I could smell the sickly stench of boxcars burning asDad stumbled across the newly-abandoned Landsburg Concentration Camp. Dad and his driver were the first people to find it after the Germans had fled. The gates had been broken open and starving Jewish women greeted their American liberators with gifts of cookies. In many of his tales, he spoke of his young driver, Clifford Linley.

“I trained him,” Dad said of his driver. “I raised him from a private. He drove for me for over a year.”

In a way, I knew Linley even though I had never met actually met him. He got Dad to meetings on time. They drank together. They were comrades-in-arms,

Recently, when my dad spoke of the war, he mentioned that he never knew what happened to his driver after Dad assumed a new command in May, 1945. Wistfully, he said he wished he could get in touch with Linley.

I made a mental note and promised myself that someday I would try to track Linley down. A number of times I would watch videos of Dad telling his stories and I would remember the promise to myself. Soon, I’ll do it soon.

Only a day after I had viewed the video, my editor (Kristine Hughes) handed me the assignment to write about people who have tracked down lost loved ones. I began interviewing others that I became so inspired, I knew the time had finally come to fulfill my promise.

The only information my mother had was that his name was “Clifton Lindley.” And after an hour searching the internet, I had gotten nowhere. Surprising Dad was no longer an option if I wanted to achieve any degree of success. Although I didn’t want to get his hope up, I confessed my plan to Dad up and got a little more information. I had misspelled the last name and learned that he came from Alabama. Back to the world wide web. This time I found a host of Linleys listed in his native state. Although there weren’t any Clif or Cliftons listed, I picked out a man whose first name started with C. Why? Why not?

I explained to the lady at the other end that I was looking for one of my Dad’s war buddies. She said she didn’t know him and hung up on me. I have a feeling she must have gotten other strange calls prior to mine. I tried another C. Linley.

This one knew Clifton; he was his second cousin. I couldn’t believe it. Yes, he served in Europe during the war, in a motor pool. He lives in Georgia. And even though this man didn’t know how to reach him directly, he gave me the phone number for Linley’s sister. She was delighted to hear from me; after all, she heard many of the same stories. She gave me his address and number and before I could dial the it, she had phoned him to introduce me.

Lt. Col. Linley greeted my call with true southern hospitality. I told him who I was and about some of the memories my dad had shared. He sounded almost speechless. A Rainbolt out of the blue, literally. He said also had fond memories of their experiences. Linley only lives a few hours away from my in-laws in Georgia and he invited me to come see him next time I visit them. I can’t wait to hear the same stories I heard while sitting at Dad’s feet, this time from the point of view of an 18 year old driver turned Lieutenant Colonel.

At the end of our conversation I I gave him Dad’s phone number.

Hanging up the receiver I could barely contain my excitement. I must have felt the same way Santa Claus feels when he leaves a kid’s first bicycle.

I could only imagine the surprise Dad would finally experience when he answers the phone and hears his old war buddy exclaim, “This is Lt. Col. Clifton Linley.” I wished I could be there to hear the excitement in their voices as they recall familiar tales and share new ones.

About 20 minutes later, Dad called. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “I just can’t believe it!” he kept repeating. “You just don’t know what this means to me.”

I think I did.

He told me that every night when the commercial ran on television about finding lost persons, he toyed with the idea of calling them to find Linley. It was something he, too, would do “someday.”

But, in all things that matter most to us, we must make the decision that someday is today. I never dreamed that a simple newspaper assignment, would make someday—now.

As I watch that commercial on television, I can’t help but smile. Tonight, Dad feels a little more complete and I’ve been able to give him a priceless gift thanks to an ordinary assignment. And also thanks to God for teaching this chronic procrastinator that today is as close as I’m going to get to “someday.”

It’s November 2014 again. Dad passed away in February. I have been unable to find Col. Linley again. He was in frail health when I spoke to him in 1998, and I assume he preceded Dad to the place where old soldiers go. I wish I could hear the stories they’re sharing. Rock on old soldiers. You saved the world.