The Real Protectors Of Freedom

Recently someone wrote a letter to our local newspaper stating that at a recent job fair, the biggest crowd was around the military recruiting desk. The reader was alarmed.

I was delighted.

I was 13 years and 1 month of age on December 7, 1941. In the weeks after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, thousands of young men flocked to recruiting stations to join the military. I ached to join with them.

In 1942, we read of American losses, American deaths, and Japanese conquest of Pacific islands. The news was most disturbing to me. When I returned to school in the fall of 1942, it seemed as if no one knew about the war. The most important event was the pep rally for the Friday night football game.

I endured this atmosphere for some weeks, but soon it overwhelmed my desire to remain in school. During the Christmas break, a man from a nearby dairy farm came to our house and explained that their milk route helper wanted to leave his job to join the military service. He wondered if I would be interested in taking his job. Hours were 5:00 a.m. until about 3:00 or 4:00 p.m., salary was $2.00 per day.

To me it was a way I could help with the war effort. I took the job. During the next year and into 1944 and 1945, I watched as many of my friends celebrated their 18th birthday by joining the military. One friend, Leonard Reeves, joined the Army, finished basic training and was shipped to the Pacific. He was killed in the invasion of Okinawa.

The Japanese surrendered in August of 1945 - I was 16. About the time of my 17th birthday (November) the Army lowered the enlistment age to 17. With my parents permission, I joined the Army.

After I was inducted, and before I hustled off to basic training, I saw my parents one time. My father, an Army veteran from World War One, told me to stand straight, shoulders back and stomach in. "A lot of good men have died wearing that uniform", he said, "you owe it to them to wear it with pride." Boy, did I ever!

Hundreds of thousands of combat veterans were overdue to return home, and someone needed to take over their job. I and a lot of other 17-year-old high school dropouts did just that. I was and still am proud of my small contribution.

Now, when I read about a cowardly roadside bomb killing Americans in Iraq, and I hear about young men and women crowding the military recruiters desk at a job fair, I understand.

And I am so grateful for these young patriots who care more about their country - and our freedom - than their personal safety. (And, once again, I ache to join with them.)