My father fought in World War II. Although he was nearly 40 when Pearl Harbor was bombed, married with three young children, and attempting to see up him medical practice, he signed up immediately. He landed at Normandy and served in general hospitals around the Battle of the Bulge.
When we went to Europe many years later, we drove to the beaches. The pill boxes that spit death at those brave soldier coming across the beaches were still there, covered in sand. I still can’t believe anyone survived that. We then went to a military cemetery with rows of crosses and stars of David, hundreds–perhaps thousands–of graves far away from, home for those who fought.
You are not forgotten. Whether you served back then or are serving now, thank you. You are my heroes.