Unlikely friendship takes vet to WWII Memorial in D.C.
WASHINGTON, D.C. — He rose from his wheelchair, faced the U.S. flag and saluted, a tear slipping past the wire rim of his glasses.
Fred Plichta never dreamed he'd get to see Old Glory waving in front of the National World War II Memorial.
Yet the 88-year-old from Monroe, Mich., stood proudly Saturday on the National Mall, one hand at his brow, the other supporting his aging body on a cane. A cowboy hat with the words "WWII Veteran" printed in bold at the center kept the sun out of his eyes.
"It's a dream come true, that's the only way I could explain it to you. … I told this little girl it was my dream," he said, nodding to Regina Johnson. "She wanted me to see this monument and all this before I go blind."
The unlikely friendship between Johnson and Plichta began four years ago while Plichta was in the hospital where Johnson, 42, works. In May, when Plichta told Johnson that he had macular degeneration and was losing his vision, Johnson sprung into action. Her family began a GoFundMe account and collected donations to ensure that the WWII veteran could visit the WWII Memorial before he lost his vision.
"He came to see me on Mother's Day after church, and we sat in the sunshine and talked and talked, and he was telling me that by next spring, he won't be able to see," Johnson said. "Something kept telling me to ask him, 'Have you seen the World War II Memorial?'
Their friendship grew into an unbreakable bond during a once-in-a-lifetime trip this Memorial Day weekend.
Johnson doted on him this holiday weekend, gently rubbing sunscreen onto his hands, easing him in and out of his wheelchair, patting his shoulders with reassurance when the swells of emotion became too much.
"I'm proud of him, and I adore him," Johnson said. "This is all for him."
Shared birthdays
Johnson, 42, met Plichta four years ago at a hospital 45 minutes outside of Detroit, where she transports patients to X-rays and other testing and back to their rooms.
Plichta told her about how his father, who served in the First World War, carved wooden duck decoys, selling them on consignment at hardware stores to help his family survive the Great Depression.
He told her about how he delivered the Detroit Free Press before school every day to make a little extra money in the 1930s, about getting drafted in 1945 and serving in the Army's 88th Infantry Division in Europe.
"When he would talk to me, I would cry," Johnson said. "He touched me with the things that his eyes have seen. It's a connection that is hard to describe. He kind of breaks my heart when I talk to him, but in a good way. I've never had a friend like that, and especially an older man, you know? I guess we're meant to be friends."
Johnson and Plichta agreed to go out for coffee every year on March 3, their shared birthday. They would chat on the phone and visit one another, too.
"When Fred comes over, no one plays around on their cell phones," Regina Johnson said of her husband, Patrick Johnson, and sons, Austin, 19, and Sheldon, 16. "We sit around a table and listen to all his stories. My family loves him."
When Plichta told her it was his dream to see the National World War II Memorial, Johnson said she"'thought right then and there, 'I could probably take you.'"
Even though the Johnsons didn't have the cash for a trip to Washington, D.C., either — they'd scrapped their own plans for a vacation to Myrtle Beach because of it — they were committed to getting Plichta to the memorial.
"A fire started in my heart," said Johnson, whose father was wounded in Vietnam. "And I said if we can get the community to help us, we can get him there. We can totally do this. ... Even if I had to use my credit cards, I said I am going to take him because there's something about it. I have to do this."
A friend offered to let the Johnsons borrow her SUV. Another friend loaned them a wheelchair to make it easier for Plichta to get around the National Mall. As word spread, donations trickled in. A veterans group in Monroe gave them $400 toward the trip, and Regina Johnson's brother started a GoFundMe account that rose to more than $1,300 by the time they left Michigan on Friday morning.
Mark Hacala, a historian from Washington, D.C., who retired after 30 years in the Navy, volunteered to take them on a tour of the World War II Memorial.
"I don't know how to explain how I feel," Plitcha said.
Gratitude, memories
Johnson's son, Sheldon, 16, pushed Plichta's wheelchair up and down the rolling hills of Arlington National Cemetery on Saturday, careful to ensure his ride was smooth.
Plichta's hat drew people to him like bees to honey.
"Thank you for your service, sir," they told him, over and over.
Some saluted him and shook his hand; others asked to stand by his side for a photograph. All were eager to acknowledge a man who was willing to risk his life to protect this nation's freedom.
"I used to wish people would do that when I was young. I felt like I was somebody then," Plichta said, trying not to be overwhelmed by all the attention.
"Now I'm more embarrassed; but I know what they're doing, so I don't say no. Because I looked for a hero at one time, and that's what they're doing. They shake my hand, and they go home and tell somebody, 'I met a World War II veteran and I shook his hand.' To them, that's important. So why not? Let them have their 30 seconds of pleasure. It ain't hurting me."
But what gnaws at Plichta is feeling as if he doesn't deserve the thanks or the credit.
Johnson's "whole family treats me like I'm something special, and I'm not," he said. "Now, I don't know what you'd call me, but she's got me as a big hero. I don't think I am because I never had combat. I was in the second war, but I guarded prisoners. When I got overseas, the war had ended. ... We still had prisoners, German soldiers, and I took them back to Frankfort, Germany. When I was done, they sent me to Italy with the 88th Division."
There, Plichta said he helped defended a small piece of land on the border of Italy and Yugoslavia. He said he tried to keep his head down in a trench at the border to keep from being hit by gunfire. One of his buddies wasn't so lucky; he was shot between the eyes.
Two of Plichta's siblings served in World War II. His two sons saw battle in Vietnam. His wife, Catherine, died in 2009, and now, he lives alone in a mobile home not too far from one of his daughters, Linda Plichta.
"I've wanted to come to the memorial since they built it," he said.
"When (Johnson) said she wanted to take me, I told her no. I know what it costs. But she's got some friends, people who live in some pretty fancy homes. ... They all think I'm a big hero. I tell them I'm not. But they all say you're a World War II vet, and I say, no, I'm not. I didn't get into the high battles. No, I don't think what I had to do was important. It's not like getting shot at every day.
"They tell me it was important, but I look at men with no arms and no legs. ... I feel a little embarrassed that everyone is making a fuss over me. But I won't say no because of Regina; I don't want to hurt her.
"I never thought I'd meet someone like her."
'I'd do it again'
A security guard cleared a path through the crowd of onlookers so Plichta would have a prime view of the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.
Bells tolled. Then, there was silence. The only sound was the clicking of boots and cameras.
Plichta saluted as a soldier approached, smacked his heels and turned.
Johnson cried softly at his side, before helping him sit down in his chair again when it was over.
"In Europe, I have seven cousins still there. They're buried in France," he said. "And I have four more somewhere in the Pacific, I don't know where."
This Memorial Day, he will stand at the National Mall and remember all those who lost their lives, his friends, his relatives, his fellow soldiers. He will salute them again.
"I'd do it again right now if our country needed me. I was there. I saw what other countries do. The freedoms that we have, we don't realize how many freedoms we got."
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