Dog Tag

It had been lost for years — my late father’s metal dog tag from his time in the U.S. Army. Then earlier this year, as my mother and I went room to room in our family’s Bonaire home, making decisions, packing up mementos and looking through closets and boxes, we found it nestled in a fabric-covered box full of my dad’s personal items.

We celebrated the discovery, and I held the dog tag in my hand and stared at my father’s name — Herman F. Lanier — and ID number. Time stopped, and in that moment, I felt pride in my father’s service (he drove a tank and was a paratrooper), and then suddenly, I experienced a wave of deep sadness for the void he left when he died in 1992.

“Do you know what that notch is for?” Mom asked, referring to a notch on one of the edges of the metal.

I nodded. I had been told that it was used to wedge in a soldier’s open mouth on the battlefield (placed securely in the teeth of the fallen), so that the soldier could be identified. I’ve since learned that the story is incorrect — a myth.

The notch was used in the fabrication of dog tags. American dog tags of the 1930s through the 1980s were produced using a machine in which the letters and numbers were stamped (debossed) into the metal plate. To force proper orientation of the tags, the tags were produced with a notch, and there was a locator tab inside the apparatus which prevented the machine from operating if the tag was inserted with the notch in the wrong position.

My dad’s dog tag also has “T54” imprinted on it, designating that he received a tetanus shot in 1954. An “A” stands for his blood type, and a “P” means that he was Protestant.

Finding my father’s dog tag was an emotional moment in an already emotional week of preparing our family’s home to be sold. I knew immediately that I wanted to keep the dog tag close to me. I wanted to wear it. My mother must’ve read my mind.

“Why don’t you take it home?” Mom suggested.

“Well, I feel that it should go to Andy or Audrey, because they have children to pass it down to, and I don’t,” I said. “Andy can pass it down to Alex, and Alex can pass it down to Andrew or Lawson — and it will stay forever in the Lanier line of our family. Or Audrey … she may want to pass it down to Jake.”

Mom listened and said, “Take it with you — just for a little while. You can always give it to one of them in a few months — or years. Tell them that you have it, and that you will eventually give it to them.”

And so I took the metal plate home with me. I ordered a chain online. I fished the chain through the tiny hole and fastened the chain around my neck and felt the priceless artifact fall upon my chest near my heart. Since then, I’ve worn it several times, and each time, I touch it, caress it, think about it — about him.

I contacted a company in the Northeast that makes replica dog tags, and I ordered exact replicas for my brother and sister. I will give the tags to them on Monday, when we gather for the final walkthrough of the ranch-style house with the Spanish accents in Bonaire — the house that served my family so well for over 50 years. And then Mom, Andy, Audrey and I will drive to the attorney’s office for the closing — the closing of a very wonderful chapter in the book of our lives. We’ll watch Mom sign a bunch of legal documents, and then she’ll hand a family we’ve never met before a bunch of house keys. And that will be that.

“Papa would be so proud that the house has increased in value so much,” my nephew said a few weeks ago. “It was a big investment that paid off. That should make everyone feel a little better.”

He’s right. My dad would be filled with pride.

And so on Monday, I’ll wear my dad’s dog tag around my neck, just like he wore it around his neck in the fifties, when he served our country. And with that metal memento with me, a piece of him will be present with us for the final walkthrough and the passing of the keys. In spirit, he’ll be with us, but then again, he always is.