I grew up knowing my dad had been a pilot in World War II. I have his flight jacket and pictures of him in his uniform, and standing in formation with his platoon. Every Veterans day I thank him for putting his life in danger while protecting our country, and let him know how much I love and respect him, and all he has endured since the war. For his war has never truly ended. To this day his memories come flooding back every time he hears of one of his buddies who have passed. They are all old men now, and it is their time. But they have a bond few of us will ever know or understand. Being in the trenches with a soldier; a man who is fighting alongside you with purpose and pride, has always been an honor for my father.
I have heard the good stories of his time in Europe. I know of his women, and the automobiles they commandeered from Frenchmen, (in the name of war), and then used to carouse the country side. Young men, many who had never traveled far from their small US hometowns, were living a life few of us can imagine. Yet the real story; the story of flying bombs and killing of the innocent; of watching his brothers in arms being killed every day was not the story I was told. He holds that close to him, and his dreams reflect the horror of his war and the loss of his wholesomeness.
We are in three wars today. Our young boys and girls are bravely shipped to a desert across the seas, all doing so with pride and honor for our country, and with the hope their work will make a difference back home, and in the lives of those they are there to protect. I am heartbroken daily, when I see family after family receiving their children home in a box draped with our flag. The very flag they have given their young lives for. Yet these wars are not anything similar to previous wars fought by our soldiers. We are at war with people who do not honor human life. We are fighting to teach tribesmen what democracy looks like, hoping they will want to end their own thousand year wars. They don’t want to end them. It is in the fiber of their DNA to fight. It matters little whether they win, because “winning” would put an end to this travesty, and they would have to compromise with their forever enemy. Now we are caught up in the sickness of this battle. We cannot give them enough money; teach their children and women to seek justice; turn them towards a life of structure and peace, if they are intent on living in a world of anger and destruction.
Stop this endless flood of human losses and family devastations. Enough of our young innocent children have been murdered, and those who come home are forever broken. Generations yet to be born will be affected by these tragedies and we have nothing more to give.
Our young people are in a battle with an enemy of no conscience, and for that reason alone… bring them home.
In honor of my father; John G Bathe, 1922-present, and my nephew, Frank Bryant Jr., born in the USA, died Kabul Afghanistan, April 27, 2011
1 comment:
What a touching post. My dad was born in 1924, and is a veteran of WWII as well. There are relatively so few of them left and it often frightens me. He recently gave me his Good Conduct Medal and Purple Heart, along with a medal that his father earned in WWI. It really got to me. I'm glad your dad is still with you as mine is me, but so very sorry about your nephew.
Thanks, by the way, for the wonderful comment you left on my blog today with all of the great ideas!
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