CRETE -- He’s dried out eight permanent markers in the past year, collecting signatures from strangers in the Wal-Mart parking lot, outside of the grocery store, at the air show in Lincoln.
If you wore a uniform, any uniform, he wants you to sign his car. If your father or great-uncle or grandmother wore a uniform, he wants you to sign his car.
Wade Wilson, Joshua Witsman, Marines KIA. Merv White, Army. William Kalkwarf, Army. Jack Fry, USMC. Grandpa Don Bartlett. Ron Buss, 1963-1969, Air Guard.
He’s gathered more than 1,300 names since just before last Veterans Day, almost all of them American military, but a few police officers and firefighters and members of the Mexican Army and Australian Air Force.
He doesn’t have to ask. People are drawn to his 1946 Chevy Sedan Delivery and all of the autographs covering its olive green panels, and soon they’re selecting a spot to add their own.
People are also reading…
Right fender: Spc. Gaghagen, U.S. Army. Hood: Nelson O’Keefe Jr. USMC 1944-1955. Behind the rear wheel: A dozen members of the Johnson family. Driver’s door: RIP Robert Smith.
One name is missing. His.
Sam Aughe, 199th Light Infantry.
“This isn’t about me,†he says.
But it could be.
* * *
He and this car have a history. He first wanted it nearly 50 years ago, when he 17, before the Army sent him to Vietnam.
“It was just different,†Aughe said. “It’s an ugly car, actually. So ugly, it’s neat.â€
It was the butcher’s car then. Tony Bohac would drive around Saline County making deliveries in the yellow Chevy, sometimes returning to Crete with a load of live hogs in the back.
Aughe tried to buy it, but Bohac wasn’t selling.
Then the teen enlisted in the Army. He had planned to make the military his career.
The artilleryman was in his second year in Vietnam, lobbing shells into the jungle, when he was hit by the recoil of his howitzer. The force flipped him through the air and he landed on his back, upside down, against the blast wall.
His career plans changed.
“After I got hurt, the Army didn't want me. And I didn't want the Army, either.â€
He didn't return to a hero's homecoming then. He didn't feel any of the honor he's trying to bestow with his Chevy now.
“I was asked: 'How many women and kids do you think you killed?'â€
Back in Crete, he married Dolores Coffey and they started a family. He worked for the city, and then as a lineman, and then for the co-op, fixing cars. He's retired now, but still works on cars for family and friends.
Which is how he ended up at his old friend Fran Siedhoff's garage about two years ago. And how he was reunited with the '46 Sedan Delivery.
“I went down there and there it was. I didn’t even know he had the damn thing. I told him I was interested.â€
Siedhoff had found the Chevy in a scrap yard. He recognized it as the butcher's, so he bought it, tracked down the title, swapped motors to get it running again – and then parked it for about 30 years, until Aughe stumbled upon it.
“I just had it in storage and Sam wanted it, and I said, 'Fine.'â€
* * *
The thought came to Sam Aughe during a sleepless night.
He'd owned the car for a couple of weeks and had been planning its restoration: Fresh yellow paint, like it had looked when he first saw it in the late 1960s.
But then this new thought from out of nowhere: Make it look military, make it honor those who served.
So he covered it in Army olive, with a white star on each door. He painted the grille and fenders red, white and blue. He spent about 400 hours getting it road-worthy.
He let his granddaughter christen it a year ago with the name of her other grandfather.
Then the names multiplied -- people stopping him in parking lots to ask about the car, Aughe giving them the marker, and his invitation.
A man signed for his father and uncle, both shot down over the same target on the same day, both ending up in the same prisoner-of-war camp. A woman honored her husband and brother, killed by the same IED in Iraq.
Another told him her relative fought in the Civil War. “But she wasn't going to add it, and I said, 'Why not?' And she said, 'He fought for the Confederacy. And I said, 'I don't care.'â€
He's had state troopers sign it and federal agents. He's had members of foreign forces sign it. But mostly, he's handed his black markers to those who served all branches of the U.S. military, including the Coast Guard.
They all leave their names, but some add where they served and when. Others sign for their loved ones who were killed in action or are still missing or have since died.
He felt good, like his mission was accomplished, when an old vet signed the car and told him: “At least now I know my name will be on something other than a damn tombstone.â€
But Aughe plans to keep driving his Chevy and keep collecting signatures until he runs out of room. Then he'll give it to a military museum.
That won't be anytime soon. The rolling memorial is more than 16 feet long, draped in what seems like an acre of sheet metal.
Plenty of places for more names, more honor.
“And I do have a lot of space inside, too.â€