Many of the kids I grew up with had fathers who had served in World War Two. Some were missing their fathers who were among those for whom a tiny portion of a foreign field will forever be America. Two I remember had fathers who couldn’t hold jobs because they were drunkards. Yes, we call it “alcohol abuse now.” It makes it sound like eating too much pie at Thanksgiving. Euphemisms assuage guilt.
A store in my hometown sold military surplus equipment which
we saved our pennies to buy. Back yards rang with our sounds as we donned backpacks,
strapped on ammo belts, and charged enemy foxholes brandishing our mock M-1 training
rifles affixed with plastic bayonets.
It was a good time to be proud of America.
Then came Korea. When those brave men came home, they didn’t
talk about it much. No one seemed quite sure why they went or what they
accomplished. Americans soon forgot about them.
All of a sudden, the equipment wasn’t surplus junk.
The weapons weren’t make-believe training pieces. Everything was real. It was
our turn to go.
Donald Trump bought his way out. Americans now love him for
it.
Many of us went despite our misgivings. Americans have never
forgiven us for it.
Do we hate them for it? No. They are inconsequential. We
still love America and it breaks our hearts to see the curtains being drawn closed.
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