In Memoriam: The Boys of Praha

In the space of 12 months and nine days in 1944, Praha, Texas, gave up most of its youth – and nearly all of its future – to confront unimaginable forms of evil on faraway continents.

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disproportionately high level of military service among rural Americans. This piece by James Moore looks at Praha, Texas, a small community southeast of Austin, which lost nine of its young men during a 12-month period in World War II. In 2008 the Daily Yonder also covered the annual Veterans Day observance in Praha.

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“It gave you a part in something that you could believe in wholly and completely and in which you felt an absolute brotherhood with the others who were engaged in it. It was something that you had never known before but that you had experienced now and you gave such importance to it and the reasons for it that your own death seemed of complete unimportance; only a thing to be avoided because it would interfere with the performance of your duty.”

— Ernest Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls

They no longer exist. And even in the Texas farm country where they were boys, their names are slipping from memory. People who live among the green hills here are hardly more likely to know about Praha’s loss than the strangers who travel the dark farm-to-market roads in their pickups and minivans, taking scenic detours on their way to Houston or San Antonio. This is understandable. Being told the factual history does not make the truth about Praha more believable. A trip, however, to the church and cemetery at Praha will leave the visitor carrying away a distinctly American heartache.

Visitors traveling to Praha for Memorial Day or Veterans Day approach from the north, noticing first the stark, white steeple of the parish church, which hovers brightly over the landscape. The blacktop of FM 1295 runs south off of U.S. Highway 90, directly at the Church of St. Mary’s Assumption. Close to the cemetery, the pavement curls back deferentially to the west and infrequent traffic passes quietly, the distant hiss of wheels on asphalt insufficient to disturb the serenity of a spot many U.S. military veterans have come to view as almost holy.

Praha provides old soldiers a measurement of sorts for concepts like the price of freedom. There is, though, something incalculable, impossible to assess or even understand, about the sad history of Praha. Today, it is little more than a ghost of a town with only about two dozen residents. The New Handbook of Texas claims the population never surpassed 100 people during the 20th century. Those numbers are where the anguish begins in Praha’s tearful truth.

The curious and the proud often come here and stand in front of the nine graves in a state of near bewilderment. There, they try to comprehend how war’s bloody arm could reach this far, gather up this much life and destroy it. By the dates on their tombstones and the locales of the deaths, the Allied offensive against the Nazis, Mussolini and the Japanese is recorded in the destinies of these nine fallen farm boys. Little Praha was not protected from World War II by statistical improbabilities.

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As he spoke, Herman Bohuslav was age 74 and had enjoyed the full life that war robbed from his brother. He settled on the Texas coast with his wife, opened a grocery store and gas station, and raised five children who have provided him with 16 grandchildren. Bohuslav, however, has neither bitterness nor anger over his brother’s fate.

“I’m sure what he did, he did for us,” Bohuslav said. “I mean, there were some evil people in the world back then, you know. And something had to be done. My brother was a part of what needed to be done.”

A scan of subsequent editions of the Flatonia publication offers no additional information of how Pfc. Bohuslav encountered his fate. No reportage is present to indicate the battlefield or his mission. The details of the end of Pfc. Bohuslav’s life are undoubtedly locked up in Pentagon files in Washington on a database or in a drawer where his story is not easily accessed. Beyond the fence line of the Praha cemetery, Pfc. Robert Bohuslav is hardly more than a statistic.

To his family, however, he is the one who missed all the years with children and travel and vacations and holidays. He might have lived to 90, as did his father, or to his mid-80s, like his brother and sister. Bohuslavs are given to longevity. The private’s oldest sister is 85 and his eldest brother is 83. Instead of working the farm, though, Pfc. Bohuslav commanded a bazooka, won two Purple Hearts and died on foreign soil.

 

James Moore is an author, political analyst and communications consultant. This article appeared originally in American Legion Magazine and is reprinted with the author's permission.

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