Even within our own industry, we see corporations trying to capture a little more spotlight by developing a nickname, byline, or tagline associated with their respective business, as if some sort of instant character or trait of the business is invoked by merely saying that magic word or phrase while mentioning the business name.
Boxing and mixed martial arts fighters are known for promoting fear-inducing nicknames like Dan “The Devastator” Jones, or Andy “The Annihilator” Brown. Let’s face it, Dan Jones or Andy Brown mentioned in a ready-to-rumble ring announcement does little to promote the battle that ensues. Ergo, the nicknames.
Within our own industry, “Get in the Zone,” “Get the Good Stuff,” “The Best Part is our People” and “Let me guess, you’ve been everywhere else” (that one is mine) do provide an imminent sense of character about the business, but it’s all just window dressing and hype designed to heighten emotion and comfort our customers.
Wars are no different, especially when it comes to selling the purpose of conflict and comforting the people involved. World War I was known as the Great War. World War II was often called the War to End all Wars, as if to provide justification. Wishful thinking, because so many more conflicts have occurred since then. It’s staggering to think that a catchy nickname alone will justify all the hardships endured in war.
When we boil all of this down to the human level, we love nicknames for whatever reason. They comfort us and even compel us.
This article is about a relative of mine, my great uncle Roy Marshall Smith. His nickname was Muck. No one really knows how he was pinned with such an illustrious handle, but alas, with a nickname like Muck, how could it really be anything else?
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Once an adult, he was drafted into the U.S. Army and inducted at Fort Campbell, Ky., where he became part of the 320th Glider Field Artillery, Battery A, attached to the 82nd Army Airborne Division. After training, the 320th was shipped to England where it waited for deployment to the European theatre.
I’ve always wondered if Uncle Muck told his fellow soldiers of his nickname. I bet he did, because whatever connotations such a nickname may conjure, it was pale in comparison to what they were all about to embark upon. When facing the Axis of Evil (now there’s a good tagline), I think you might just want a fellow soldier to be able to muck things up for the other side, or be capable in the muck of battle. As a commanding officer I might be worried that he might muck things up, but everything was mucked up already, or a descriptive spelling awfully close to that.
Uncle Muck’s first action was in June 1944, in what was called Operation Overlord where the 320th supported efforts of the 325th and the 319th Battalions in crossing the Douve River in France. They were relieved of action on July 11, 1944, and sailed back to base camp in England. As a result, the 320th was awarded the Presidential Unit Citation and the French Croix de Guerre with Palm.
Uncle Muck’s next action was the doomed mission of Operation Market Garden where the 320th was to land the Glider Battalion in the vicinity of Groesbeck, Holland, and capture two bridges near Nijmegen. Bad weather and near zero visibility hampered navigation, and most of the gliders crashed killing many of the men aboard. After taking off in England on September 18, 1944, and crash landing, Uncle Muck was captured by the Germans on September 19, having suffered a broken back.
My father said Uncle Muck very seldom talked of what he had witnessed and endured as a POW. He was held at Stalag 2A, Neubrandenberg-Mecklenberg, Camp 53, Germany near the Holland Border. This camp was a labor camp that mostly performed agricultural work to support the German forces. In fact, many of the men didn’t stay in the Stalag but were slave labor for the farmers around the area.
Uncle Muck was liberated by British forces during the Battle of the Bulge on February 9, 1945, and repatriated to England where he spent several months hospitalized before receiving an honorable discharge. Roy Marshall Smith returned home to live the rest of his life in Ranger, W. Va., surrounded by friends, family and his wife Teenie. Don’t let that nickname evoke an image as a small woman, for as a child, I remember otherwise.
Uncle Muck was remembered as a man that had a green thumb. He could and did grow anything and everything. He also had a knack, after the war for weaving wooden purses that are cherished heirlooms of my family. Obviously his war experience and experience as a POW had an influence on him, which he brought home with him.
As a young child, I reveled in the stories my family told of Muck, and sometimes wished I could have know him better, as he died far before I remembered. But that nickname resonates so many things related to his life. Born impoverished, drafted to war, almost killed, a tortured POW, returning home, bearing no children, and living out a meager life to the bitter truth that awaits us all. For all of the allegory that a nickname like Muck can envision, his life was the opposite. He survived it all.
I write this article of an often-remembered quiet man, of great reserve, of great sacrifice, quirky ability and of little personal legacy of note. Like many of his generation, he put aside his personal life and interests to serve his country. I salute you Uncle Muck.
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