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No, not
September 11th, although it is most certainly in the same category. No, I’m talking about December 7th,
Pearl Harbor
Day.
It has
rolled around again, and everyone is busy with preparations for the
holidays, Chanukah and Christmas. But this one day every year, I stop and
I think about them.
I see them,
the veterans from World War II, now blighted by age, standing at attention
at the
memorial ceremonies. They stand with pride, yet humility at
the same time, wearing their VFW hats as they remember. They are still
able to do it smartly, at least most of them. Ti
me
has taken its toll, after all.
The flag
waves gently in the breeze, the young soldiers in uniform stand at
attention, rifles at the ready, and a bugler plays ‘Taps’, one the
most mournful
melodies ever written.
My mind cannot conceive what it must have been like to fight in those
battles, fly in those airplanes, live inside those tanks for days, weeks,
months on end. What kind of person does it take to do that?
They’ll
all tell you if you ask they’re just ordinary Joes who were doing their
job. They’ll tell you they would do it all again, despite the hardships,
the pain, the horror, the grief at the loss of friends and family.
I don’t
believe they’re ordinary for one second. Those
me
n and women were a breed apart, a generation that
rewrote history, that will continue to influence the course of events
right through the twenty-first century. And they are passing from us,
rapidly now. Their numbers continue to shrink each year; their faces look
older, more weathered, but still hardy. Still with that willingness, that
sense of moral rightness for their cause, that joy at having survived,
that grief for buddies who didn’t make it. There’s still fight left in
those vets, you can see it in their eyes, every man and woman that stands
there.
But we
forget. It was so long ago, after all. Ancient history. But history is
really about people, people doing things. And these people did a lot of
things, the things that made it into the history books and the things that
didn’t. Helping a wounded buddy back. Running full out towards the enemy
as shells exploded and bullets whizzed by. Flying ho
me
with one engine out, the plane ripped with bullet
holes, praying the whole time you’d make it back. Running with a convoy
in the
North Atlantic
, the wind whipping and the icy waves crashing,
standing watching for subs. Nursing a wounded soldier back to health.
Take a
moment to re
member what they did. Take a moment to look at the
memorials, to read and think about the names written on that
plaque at the library, or city hall, or in the park dedicated to them.
They were the people who wrote the history books, not the generals and
prime ministers and presidents. Then take another to say a silent thank
you.
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