This is my dad, taking a break at a European café during World War II.
My father was a sensitive and intellectual man who loved reading and language. His natural temperament seemed well suited to a career as an English professor.
But then—along with millions of other young men who were just entering adulthood—he was drafted into the Army.
He fought on D-Day at Normandy, and found himself in foxholes with his buddies blown away beside him. He received two Purple Hearts and an award for bravery under dire circumstances.
And when he finally came home, he spent the rest of his life dealing with “shell shock”—the term that was widely used prior to the modern definition of PTSD.
Wars take many lives, in many ways.
I’m proud of you, Dad—and you were still there, beneath the decorations over your heart... Continue reading

Comments
Post a Comment