My Dad served in World War II, part of a battalion that suffered heavy casualties in France. Their division was referred to as "Trail Blazers". Dad was wounded in battle. A bullet entered his shoulder in the front, exiting the rear. He was EXTREMELY fortunate to have received medical care from a doctor who was willing (and had the knowledge) to piece him back together and send him home with a functional (though scarred) arm. My mom used to say how lucky he was... other men with similar injuries had met with the unfortunate result of an amputation. The photo above was taken in Paris in 1945 - that's dad with the pipe... doesn't he look adorable?I remember as a little girl when we would rough-house, he would sometimes yell and grab his arm if I landed on it or it got twisted oddly. I could tell he felt sorry for startling me and making me feel bad, but the old injury obviously still caused him some pain, even 20+ years later.
He made friends in the Army that would be friends for life. It taught him to be a leader of men. And how to have courage when it seems all hope is lost. He also saw friends die. He saw unspeakable things, the memory of which would make him yell out in the middle of the night so violently that it would wake me from a sound sleep. He experienced things that made him never want to wear the color green again for the rest of his life.I have a book called "Snow, Ridges and Pill Boxes" written by a fellow soldier in his unit - Dad is mentioned in the book when he is shot. The horrors of the battles they saw is described in glaring, mind-numbing detail. Soldiers carrying their own severed limbs. If you've seen "Saving Private Ryan" you get the idea. It's no wonder he never liked to talk about it.
He was proud to have served his country, and continued to do so in the reserves for many years after the war. He was a wonderful father to me, and I'm proud and thankful to call him my hero.
On this Veteran's Day, I'd just like to say, "Thanks, Dad." I miss you.
