By Regena Handy
In my mother’s cache of pictures, there is a photo of my oldest brother in military uniform. A black and white shot of a 20-year-old kid, a helmet that looks too big for his head, combat boots that swallow his feet. He is unsmiling, solemn.
I recall the tears Mom tried to hide the day it arrived in the mail, her fingers caressing his image, a mother’s worry as she whispered “he looks so thin”.
The picture stirs another memory, an early morning, not quite daylight. We were gathered in the kitchen to say our goodbyes. The year was 1965 and I was not yet 12 years old. The Vietnam War was escalating every day and my brother was leaving for basic training. On that cool, fall morning as I hugged him fiercely, I was terrified he would become one of the casualties referred to almost nightly in TV news reports.
Every year we observe Veterans Day, a legal holiday in the USA. Originally named Armistice Day in recognition of the Great War (World War I) ending on November 11, 1918, it was intended as a tribute to those who served in that optimistically termed ‘war to end all wars’. After World War II and the Korean War, Congress changed the designation to Veterans Day to honor all American veterans.
I would wager there are few families in the USA who do not list a veteran amongst their ranks. Every generation has its war, it seems. I can track my own ancestors’ military history to the War Between the States, as us southerners call it. There are numerous grandfathers, a roll call of Patrick County surnames, one an old man himself who lost three sons to that horrific time in our history.
WWI left my great-uncle Albert to walk by prosthesis for the vast part of his life, a result of the fight in France.
Less than 25 years later, my father and uncles were among the next generation of young men and women called to serve—some spending years in the Pacific Islands, in France and in Germany. Another fought in the Korean War.
Cousin Michael survived a tour of duty in Vietnam only to lose his life in a car wreck after his return home. My niece’s husband is a Desert Storm vet. Others served in peacetime—the list goes on and on.
Whenever we travel to Salem to our son’s home, we pass the Veterans’ Hospital. I recall visits there with family members or doctor appointments with my brother. After one such trip I suggested someone complaining of a bad day should spend time with the patients at that facility—all blessings would be quickly evident.
There are so many people who could better address this subject—people who know first-hand the loss of loved ones in a military conflict or who are veterans themselves. For my brother was one of the lucky ones, serving his two years stateside, mostly at Aberdeen Proving Grounds in Maryland and at Fort Hood, Texas. He came home; not all the young boys making the trip with him that early fall morning were so fortunate.
So my words are small; I am humble enough to know I cannot do this story the justice it deserves. I can only say thank you to our veterans, past and present. For the sacrifices you’ve made, thank you. For your efforts in keeping our freedom intact, thank you. For all you have given—and some have given all—we thank you.
