Why The Pearl Harbor Attack Is Still A Call To Duty

I remember my grandmother telling me a story. Coming home one afternoon to her families' home/small farm on the outskirts of Waterbury (it's hard to imagine such a place existing within Waterbury's city limits today), she was greeted by her younger brother. Skipping delightedly towards her, this brother informed my grandmother, over and over again, that “we're at war.”

To say my grandmother was less than pleased to hear the news would be an understatement. For America had just been attacked, savagely attacked, at a tropical location most U.S. citizens had probably never heard of: Pearl Harbor. While the country wouldn't be officially “at war” until the following day, the dark future became very clear that afternoon, both to my grandmother, and to millions of others.

We all know the rest of the story. The United States joined in the biggest war in all of history. Its military fought...and fought...and fought. Men like my grandfather battled brutally while many women, like my grandmother, stayed home in a state of perpetual panic (and let's not forget those women who did more than their part in and for the armed services).

It's hard to imagine such a war today, a war where thousands are slaughtered on pretty much a daily basis, where it's nearly impossible to contact loved ones back home or abroad, where so many people have gone to fight that the population in one's home town is noticeably thinner, where the very real possibility of defeat could actually mean having a new flag flying over the White House.

Disturbing stuff.

Yet it's easy to forget. In fact, it's almost as if the figures in my grandmother's very real story have slowly and silently disappeared, not only from this world, but from my own memory, as well. Nana died a few years back. Grandpa died in the late 1980's, still effected by the serious physical and emotional wounds he received during the war.

And Uncle John, the younger brother in my grandmother's tale, is now in a home, his mind and body slipping from him. Funny how he went from being an excited youngster to someone who insisted we all understand what my grandfather went through. For he ended up joining the army himself and witnessed first hand the horror of post-war Europe.

Now even Uncle John can't gift us with firsthand stories from that dark time. And, believe me, those stories are gifts. We need them to know who we are. We even need them to gauge where we may go as a nation if we take a wrong turn.

Those who lived in the World War Two era are leaving us in droves. Soon there will be no one left to tell stories like the ones my grandmother told to me. It's up to us to listen to those who can still tell the tales, and to continue to relate those tales after they are gone. We owe it to them.

And, if you think about it, we owe it to ourselves.