My Dad
Writing is a very personal project, and after a while it becomes easy to work through your feelings by committing them to paper for others to read. It seems that bad things always happen in groups of three, and so it is that last month I lost my good friend John Lingenfelter, followed closely by John Raffa (a friend and past publisher of Car Craft), and then my father, who passed away suddenly in January of this year.
Gerald Hague Smith, Major USMC (retired) passed away from a heart attack at a still-young 71 years. It was too soon for all of us in the family, and it will be some time before his loss is truly felt. I am a bit numb right now. But it also seemed right that I should devote this short column to honor a man who showed me how to live my life.
He was always Jerry to his friends. When you heard his name pronounced "Gerald" by my stepmom, it was usually because she was mad at him. But no one could remain upset with my dad for very long. He was far too good-natured to allow you that opportunity. He spent 20 years of his life devoted to service of his country, beginning just out of high school when he enlisted in the Navy. As a plane captain (the naval aviation version of a racing crewchief), dad decided he'd much rather fly those machines than work on them. He was not much of a mechanic-he had little patience for mechanical devices that didn't bend to his persistent will.
After earning his wings and opting for service with the Marines, dad found himself flying virtually everything they threw at him, including F9F Panthers, H-3 Sikorsky helicopters in the early days of Air-Sea Rescue, and then back to jets flying his beloved A-4 Skyhawk. By the late '60s, while I was riding my bicycle around Boone, Iowa, he was dodging anti-aircraft fire in the skies above Vietnam, serving two tours because that was what he was trained to do.
My father was a warrior, pure and simple. He didn't wear it on his sleeve. He didn't have to. But that patriot spirit was there, and long after he retired from the Marines it was clear to anyone who knew him that the Corps was the most challenging and also the most cherished time of his life. Decades later when he was well into his 60s, I heard a story about my dad and a man half his age who had been deriding the Corps at one of dad's favorite hangouts. After dad made several direct suggestions that the man either shut up or leave, the offender made the mistake of ignoring him. At that point, Dad escorted him outside, took him to the ground, and offered to remain there with him until he apologized to the Corps for his remarks. When it came to honor and his love for the Corps, you didn't mess with my dad.
I could produce reams of Jerry Smith stories, but they would all lead us back to the same man. He was not perfect, made mistakes, but took responsibility for them, and did the best he could. That's all anyone can ask of a man, and ultimately, he did it the honorable way. His children all have families, and a few years ago he became a great-grandfather-a distinction that never settled on him all that comfortably. I think his image of himself was of a strong, confident young man in the cockpit of an A-4 about to roll in on his target, in so complete control of his machine that the two flew and fought as one. Perhaps that's also my image of him-the Corps was the place he felt he'd made his mark on this world. So go with God, dad. This world is a better place because you were here. -Jeff Smith