Our Silent Vets

     I thought I would go looking for some vets today; I knew where I would find many, at rest beneath the sod, now so silent.

     My father was a veteran of WWII, serving in the Army in Germany after the Battle of the Bulge, slogging through the Ruhr pocket.  He brought back a number of souvenirs, including a Luger and an American grenade (emptied of powder, the fuse removed, but still an object of endless fascination for a young boy.)

     The souvenirs remained in a box in the attic. Despite my brother's and my persistent questioning, he never spoke of the war. Ever. Except to voice his bewilderment that a television comedy (Hogan's Heroes) could ever have been made.  And to vow that, after all the camping he endured in the war, he would never, ever, camp out again.

     He came home from the war uninjured. On the outside. And for all I could tell, uninjured emotionally.

     But what do I know? I cannot help but believe that his experiences were such that he wanted to spare us from them, and perhaps spare himself the re-telling.

     I know he was not, and is not, alone in keeping silent about his experience serving in the armed forces.

     Today we honor our veterans, and I honor my father for his sacrifice.  And one way I will do that is to remember that it is all of us who ultimately bear the responsibility for sending our young men and women off to defend us, and that this is a responsibility we need always exercise wisely. 

     Lest future vets needlessly come home

in silence.