Maybe...

His name is Bill, or perhaps Tom, and he grew up in small town America in places like Dalton, Mass, Secaucus NJ, or Wamego, Ks. His family was neither rich nor poor, and he was taught the social mannerisms and values of his generation:

"Yes, sir". "No, ma'am". "Please" and "Thank you".

In November of 1943, he turned 17. He cared about his football team, his buddies, and his best girl. The Pharmacy down the street had a soda bar in it, where you could get a cherry or cream soda fresh from the fountain - the syrup pumped out from the spout, followed by the carbonated water. Man, that sure was some good stuff, and at 5 cents per soda, just the ticket. He and his best girl would arrive there every Saturday around noon, and he would spring for the two soda's.

"It's the right thing to do ya know – bein’ I'm the man and all".

It was here about a year ago that our guy stole his first kiss, mild by comparison, but a kiss none-the-less. She planted it on his left cheek, and he blushed a brighter shade of that cherry soda pop sitting in his glass. Unsure what to do afterwards, he ran home as fast as he could, gleefully withholding his little secret. Thoughts of her swirled in his head as he fell asleep that night.

In all his wildest dreams or nightmares, Bill – or is it Tom? – never once imagined he’d be carrying a 27 lb machine gun from 50 yards off the shore at Omaha beach all the way to Berlin, but that’s what he did. Although rare, he got a ride or two, but by and large he walked, slogged, crawled, and fought his way to Germany. The total trip was slightly over 700 miles.

On foot...All the while carrying his 27lb machine gun and the ever-increasing weight of lost friends and comrades. Someone once told him he was part of a unit that lost 659 total to death, and over 2,000 rotating in and out to wounds. But still he walked forward, his sights set on a goal to bring this to an end.

Perhaps our boy flew missions, knowing full-well that as soon as his back foot was up on that ladder leading to the fuselage, his feet may never touch that ground again. And yet without the slightest hesitation, he climbed those steps - over and over. He may have island-hopped; flew a flag at Iwo Jima or fought a huge naval battle at Midway. In any instance, he was there, fighting and sweating, and hoping this day - just like yesterday - would not be his last.

Afterwards he came home, went to college or started a career, and raised a family. If he actually cared about it, he would have had to build a separate wing to house the medals and decorations he won. He never suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder, never blamed his government for the war and subsequent death and destruction, and never asked anything in return. He did it because it just seemed to be the right thing to do at the time.

You know what? Maybe they are “The Greatest Generation”, now that I think about it.