The Long Road Home

What’s your favorite part of Veteran’s Day?

 A)  I get a day off from work!

B)   I finally can get 20 percent off that awesome smart-foam mattress I must have!

C)  Hundreds of thousands of men and women have fought tirelessly to ensure that my biggest dilemma is voting for A or B.                

When President Woodrow Wilson signed into law the creation of Armistice Day, it was to be for a two-minute suspension of business, observed at 11 a.m. on November 11, 1919 — the one-year anniversary of the end of World War I, “The War to End All Wars.” In 1954, President Dwight D. Eisenhower signed into law Veterans Day to replace Armistice Day in order to recognize the more than 400,000 soldiers who lost their lives in World War II and the Korean conflict.

Nearly a century later, for entirely too many, Veterans Day is the centerpiece of commerce rather than the day as it was meant to be, a day in which we chuck our own indulgent instincts and approach the men and women who serve so we didn’t have to. We should thank them for their service and ask them to tell us about the sacrifices they made as members of the Armed Forces.

A year ago, my uncle Andy was among 18 soldiers and sailors who were receiving France’s distinguished Legion of Honor medals for their heroic acts during the D-Day Invasion of Normandy. As the men took their seats, Andy looked up and recognized another man across the stage. They raced at each other and embraced with a vigor that belied their 85 years.

Andy and Irving Goldstein had met in basic training as members of the 6^th Beach Battalion. In the predawn hours of June 6, 1944 they approached Omaha Beach and went over opposite sides of their ship. Andy, a 19-year-old medical corpsman, and Irving each were wounded.  By sundown, 9,000 of their peers had been killed. Andy and Irving reconnected in an English hospital after they were wounded that day. But once they recuperated, they went in different directions and never saw each other again until November 11, 2010, when they were about to have a medal draped around their necks by Philippe Lalliot, the Consul General of France.

By the time he was 21, Andy had gone from Normandy to combat duty in Iwo Jima, Okinawa, Nagasaki, Shanghai and the Philippines. He and my dad, George, and their eight siblings possess a simple humility and dignity that makes me feel inferior every day. In the decade before the terrorist acts shook the United States and sent us back to war, they rarely ever shared their stories of personal sacrifice, either as first-generation American children of Polish immigrants Caroline and Felix Chmiel in Moosic, PA or as sailors or soldiers. They'd rather talk about family, sports or play pinochle than sit around swapping war stories. 

“We were young,” they’d say, “we just did what we were trained to do.”

Dad, an Army man and the baby of the brood, was able to escape combat during the Korean conflict, thanks to a battalion leader who liked that nothing got past him at third base and that he always hit the hot hand on the basketball court. Dad had signed up for a mission, but the leader took his name off the list. Eight of the 10 who volunteered didn't make it home alive. Different experiences than Andy, Rich, Felix or Joe had, but that was just the luck of the draw. It wasn't nearly as easy for some of my cousins when they returned from Viet Nam.

Recently, Dad found himself at Fort Dix. Instead of watching anyone go through maneuvers, he was there to watch our older son, Zach, play soccer.

“We used to do parade drills over there,” he said, pointing in the distance. “Haven't been back here since I was discharged. Then I hitchhiked back home. A guy in uniform never had it tough finding a ride back then.”

According to the U.S. Census Bureau, there are roughly 22 million military U.S. veterans. Nearly half of them are 65 years old or older. In six weeks, we will celebrate the return of more than 50,000 men and women who fought valiantly in Operation Iraqi Freedom and Operation Enduring Freedom. In the nearly nine years, 6,274 died in combat and tens of thousands were wounded.

Since precious few of us have shown any real connection to the selfless acts that military service require, it’s time for us to step up, time to make Veterans Day matter. Hate the war? Fine. Hate the warrior? Never.

These men and women, either the wounded who have been readjusting since their return, or those who will be back in their homes by the end of this calendar year, acted with valor that most of us couldn’t muster. They signed up, accepted additional deployments and kept fighting for their country. Now it’s up to us to lend an ear, buy them a beer, help them find a job. Or give them a ride.