The Legend of Great Uncle Charlie

(From the Janesville Messenger, 10-5-2014)

            In downtown Janesville, at a place they called the Corn Exchange, sits a monument dedicated to the local men that served in the First World War. A soldier at the top wears a bowl-like doughboy helmet and stands among twisted barbed wire, rifle in one hand, grenade in the other. All four sides of the monument's base list the names of the fighting men whose lives were changed forever by America's entry into the great conflict. On the north side, you'll find the name of Charles A. Lyke, my grandfather's brother. An asterisk next to his name indicates that he was a “casualty,” killed in service to his country.

            And that is where The Legend of Great Uncle Charlie begins.

            People liked Charlie. His obituary states that he was “well known in this city,” “naturally of a jolly disposition” and “made many friends wherever he went.” It's clear from their mail correspondence that my grandfather and Charlie were fond of each other. “Charles” was chosen as my father's middle name when he was born five years after Charlie's death.

            Charlie died four days shy of his 24^th birthday, and two weeks past his first wedding anniversary. Six months after his marriage, he arrived in France. It was the tail end of the war, but the fighting was still intense. According to newspaper reports, “he saw action in several of the biggest battles,” including Chateau Thierry, St. Mihiel and Soissons. “He went through the hardest fighting of the war,” the article claims, “without receiving a scratch.”

            The armistice was signed in November, and Charlie's regiment became a unit of the Army of Occupation. Apparently, post-war France wasn't a bad gig. In a postcard to my grandfather, he described it as a great time and characterized the French women as “friendly.” Charlie also said that he believed he would be coming home soon.

            By the time that postcard reached my grandfather, Charlie was dead. He died in Germany, and was indeed traveling via rail for his return trip to the United States. The articles and obituaries all state that he was killed instantly in a train accident. “No details of the accident were received,” said one news story. “No information relative to the nature of the accident was given,” reported another.

            My grandfather claimed to know the details, and told them to my father.

            The story, as I remember it being told, was that Charlie was drunk and passed out on the tracks when he was hit by the train. We don't know how my grandfather came by this information.     

So that interesting bit of family lore is being passed on to my kids. And that is how family legends survive and evolve. Another generation or two down the line, the story might get more interesting.

            In a strange coda to this story, Charlie's widow also suffered a violent death 20 years later when her house on Cherry Street exploded. Authorities found that the house was “full of gas” and that the stove was turned on full blast at the time of the explosion. Though the news article refused to call the death a suicide, the reporting certainly inferred that. A close friend was quoted as saying she seemed “depressed,” and a gas man stated that he had inspected the gas lines and found nothing wrong. “Whether she was asphyxiated by illuminating gas or by the force of the explosion could not be definitely determined,” according to the coroner.

            Viewing the war monument downtown, I used to ponder whether Charlie deserved the special designation next to his name that implies he died in battle. I'm convinced now that he did. He served his country half a world away and lived through things you and I will hopefully never see. His inglorious end doesn't change that.

            As Victor Hugo once said, “History has its truth, and so has legend.” Rest well, Great Uncle Charlie.