Mitchell Columbus Lee--M.C. Lee--or Mitch to those who knew him---was my grandfather. He was a POW during WWII in a German concentration camp called Bad Orb. He was a scout for the army and was captured on the front lines. I am constantly in the process of looking up his military records and welcome all information. My memories of my grandfather are those of a reserved and strong man. Never one to show fear or pain. He battled cancer in his later years and was fox hunting on horseback during this time...at 80 years old! He owned beautiful horses during my childhood and I remember looking up at this handsome, regal man atop a deep red Tennessee Walking Horse with a solid white face and white legs. He had named him Flicker and had trained him to perfection. Flicker won quite a few ribbons and trophies after my grandpa sold him and it was all due to my grandfathers schooling. He loved the land and as a share-cropper for most of his working years--he knew it well. He owned land in Warm Springs, Arkansas he named the "Hill Farm." The highlight of our family outings was spending time at the Hill Farm. It was a beautiful place full of deer, wild turkey, and other wild life. He had many, many offers to sell it through the years but never would. He always had a "reason" for not selling it..."I don't want to pay a realtor a commission." "The deer hunters need a place to stay..." etc...but the bottom line was that he loved it. It was in his blood. He truly couldn't bear to part with it. All my life, he fascintated me. He had movie star good looks and always maintained his tall, slim, physique in immaculate condition until the day he passed. His cars, his home, his yard, his self--all spotless and in good order. Maybe it was his nature. Maybe it was his military training. One day--out of the blue, I asked him what it was like to be a POW. He looked at me with a surprised, yet curiously tender look in his eyes and said..."No ones ever asked me about that before. I didn't think anyone cared." I said that I cared very much and was proud of him for what he did. He said that what you read---maggot soup, stale bread, beatings--it's all true. It was how he was treated...what almost killed him. That short conversation between us seemed to mean something to him and I sensed it from that day forward. He knew I cared about him as well as what he did. The sacrifice he made. He told me months later on the phone that he had found a newspaper article that described his experience in the war to the letter and he wanted me to read it. Sadly, I never received the literature... He loved his grandchildren...Ashley and Michael. They visited him in the hospice during his final days and he held onto them so hard that at one point, the circulation was cut off in Michaels hand...but to Michael's credit...he never said a word--or released his grip. I loved my papa...pronounced by us as PawPaw. My children loved their Papa as well. We lived 10-12 hours drive apart--him in Arkansas, us in Texas. Many times when we talked by phone, he would cry uncontrollably because he wanted to visit with us so bad--and he knew his time was limited. I miss him so...and would give anything to sit down....tape recorder in hand...and listen to the accounts of his life...and let him know without a shadow of a doubt---just how much I loved him and was proud of him. RIP Papa.