When I was a child, veterans were the old guys. My father’s generation. Those who had fought in Europe, Africa and the Pacific. My grandfather’s generation. Those who had defeated the Kaiser.
History. And ancient history.
I was an infant during the Korean War and a college student as Vietnam wound down. By the time I received my degree the draft had ended and the war was almost over, though the controversy within the United States would rage on.
In the early 1980s, I happened to read a book by the legendary Studs Terkel and I liked his style. Many do. I decided to try my hand at interviewing that way. Since Veterans’ Day wasn’t too far off, I chose combat veterans as my subjects.
I had no idea what I was getting into.
I had no idea what these men had been through.
Not infrequently, one would tell me that his own family had no idea either. Not his parents. Not his wife. Not his siblings. Not his children. He had talked to no one about those months or years, except to fellow vets.
I was honored that these men would open up to me. I was humbled that they would choose to give me even a glimpse at that price tag. One which more than a few were still paying.
Many were in tears before the telling was through. Not so much, it seemed to me, for what they themselves had been through. But for their fallen comrades. The boys who didn’t come home. The boys who would forever remain boys.
When the USS Cole was bombed in Yemen in mid-October, I remembered those interviews. More young people — now, at my age, they do seem like “boys” and “girls” — would remain forever young people.
And it was easy for me to imagine, decades from now, their fellow sailors speaking softly about that day. About those deaths. It was easy for me to imagine the tears.
It well may be they never speak those words to anyone outside that tight-knit club of Those Who Have Been There/Those Who Know. Not because this is an exclusive clique, but because its members want to continue to protect those not in it.
The moms and dads. The brothers and sisters. The spouses and children.
World War II veterans in their 80s, Vietnam vets in their 50s, Gulf War veterans in their 30s… Crew members of the USS Cole… All combat vets from all conflicts…
Don’t want us to know what it is really like. “It” being bloody death in combat, whether in a battlefield, in the middle of a world war, or on a ship under terrorist attack.
But Veterans’ Day isn’t just for those who have been in combat. It shouldn’t be, because all who serve in the military agree to place themselves in harm’s way. All say, “If I am sent, I will go. If I am ordered, I will obey.”
It was easy for me to imagine the vibrancy of those victims on the Cole. I had seen it firsthand at my daughter’s wedding in August. She married a sergeant in the Marine Corps Reserve. She was in a gown her mother had made. He was in dress blues.
So were another half dozen young men.
There were no sailors there that day, at least none still in the service. Just a few senior-age veterans who playfully scoffed at the “jarheads” dressed up “like bellhops.” No doubt if there had been any sailors there, in their dress whites, those jarheads would have jeered right back.
When I saw a newspaper article on the Cole that included names and faces, I thought about those “bellhops.” Straight-backed and properly serious during the wedding Mass; loud and fun-loving at the reception.
It could easily have been one of their names. Their faces.
It could easily be one of them in some other place. At some other time.
Please God, that it never is. Not just not my son-in-law, but not any son-in-law. Not anyone’s family member of any age.
But you know and I know that isn’t likely. It will be someone’s family member, whether the United States is at war or not. It will be a young person who, by his or her enlisting, offered to pick up the tab. A young person who has been taken up on that offer.
That’s why Veterans’ Day isn’t just about members of the senior generation. It’s about the American men and women of every generation who have stepped forward. Who have stood in the way of those who would take away our freedom.
It’s too bad we throw around the word “hero” so easily. It’s good that, on one day each year, we make at least a token effort to remember and thank those among us who truly are.
