Veterans day

My father

If you did not when I posted it last year, please go into the Deep Blade archives and read my late father's 1946 account of his Atlantic crossing during WWII entitled Troopship.

The tide was rapidly coming in and the liner was rising above the pier, making the gangplank a miniature problem in mountain climbing. A wool uniform and boots did not help one to forget that it was August. Here is a partial inventory of the items with which I was to ``pass quickly'', as the announcer so blithely informed us, up that incline: one caliber 45 sub-machine gun, seventeen thirty-round clips for same, field pack complete with entrenching tools, gas-mask, and steel helmet, all draped around the neck and each in a competition to close the normal channels of air. Perched above all, one balanced his duffel bag containing extra uniforms, gas-resistant clothing, more boots and an array of personal effects.

``Is this trip necessary?'' quirked a voice. We made the grade....

My dad returned from the war with his body in tact, but his being was changed forever. They used to call it shell shock, now it's better known as PTSD. As a result of growing up with this great and gentle man as my father, I have felt from a very young age that there is always a better way than war to solve political problems. Nothing makes me angrier than to hear a White House chickenhawk like Dick Cheney try to tell me otherwise.