It's Not My Fault

It never failed. Every time that I went home on leave, I was asked by at least one person "Why do you do it?" or "How long are you going to stay in?" What they were asking was how long and why was I still in the Army. After more than 20 years, it was humorous that people would still ask the question "So, are you going to make it a career?" Normally I would just tell them, "No, I am just hanging around in the Army until I figure out what I want to do when I grow up." That does not answer the question WHY though, so I sat down and thought about it.

When I was a boy, I would see pictures of soldiers. These black and white photos of young men serving during World War Two were not too different from pictures of young soldiers today. Two stick in my mind more clearly than any others. One was of a man, not much younger than a boy, maybe 19 years old, wearing the "Ike" jacket, hat cocked to the side and smile on his face. This man was my father. Another photo was of a young man that had just come out of combat. He was shirtless, pants muddy, steel helmet on his head, wearing leggings and carrying an M-1 rifle. I can guess from the photo that he had just returned from a patrol or some operation and was at last going to get some rest. Again he had on his face a jaunty smile. There was no Sergeant Major yelling that he needed to put a shirt on, no one seemed to care. He was happy, he was still alive. This man was Walter C. "Stubbs" Kerns, my father's lifelong best friend.
All the years that I was coming up, I saw these two men every day. I watched them age, and do so together as friends and neighbors. I watched them work together and grow crops, play golf twice a week with a group of older gentlemen, who by the way also served in that war. Some were Navy, serving on ships, others Army in Europe or the Pacific, and one would never let you forget he was a US Marine.
I can remember hearing them talk about the war, and what they had done. These were not the boastful stories so often heard when sitting at a bar, these were stories of the good times mostly, some not, but never boastful. In all these stories and in other ways you could feel the pride these men have. Pride of a job done well, and of a war that was won.
These men are heroes. Not one of them ever told of medals or awards, you won't find their names in a history book. No, there are no statues of them or roads named in their honor, but they are heroes nonetheless. Their generation fought the greatest war in the history of mankind, and in winning secured the freedom not only of this nation, but also of the entire world. Their youth was ripped from them by a war that they did not start, but they did finish. These men, and the women that served also, have been called the "Greatest Generation." To this sentiment, I agree. The folks that stayed home contributed to the war effort as well. There was rationing, bond drives, and "Rosie the Riveter." These Americans did not protest the war, they sacrificed to win it. They did not march in the streets, they worked for the victory. And I was raised by and around this "Greatest Generation." Both my Father and "Stubbs" have passed now, as have so many others, but their example is still standing tall for us to see.
Back to the original question of "Why did I serve?" I would have to answer it this way. I have a debt, as does every American alive today, to the men and women that have gone before in the uniform of the United States. We owe a debt that can never be repaid. We can only make payments on the interest. We owe it to these folks, as well as to the children today. I served, partly from a sense of duty my father instilled in me without even knowing it, and because it was the right thing to do. Each person that puts on a uniform, does so for different reasons. Yet they are all paying part of this debt.
So, to answer the question...I would have to reply, "It's not my fault I was raised by Heroes."