Another Veterans' Day

And so another Veterans' Day rolls around.

I haven't seen anyone selling Buddy Poppies, so maybe that's a thing of the past. If I had seen anyone selling Buddy Poppies, I would have purchased one. And I'd be wearing it today.

I've written a lot about Veterans' Day across the Pink Slip years. 

This was my first Veterans' Day post. In it, as I always do in such posts, I mention my father, who was in the Navy from 1942-1946. It was while he was in the Navy, stationed at Navy Pier in downtown Chicago, that he met my Chicago-girl mother. And the rest is family history. 

But I don't only just mention my father in my Veterans' Day musings. Here's some of what I had to say way back in 2008.

Somewhere along the line we fell into the notion of the professional military - things were too complex and sophisticated to leave to draftees who were only in for two years. And yet somewhere along the same line we fell into the deployment of the 'citizen soldiers', the members of the reserves/National Guard who thought they were signing up as back-up, and instead find themselves front and center (and front and center, and front and center).

Somewhere along the line we omitted the national conversation on what's worth dying and killing for. The national conversation on who's doing the dying and killing, while the rest of us get to do the living. It's easier to avoid that conversation if your skin (and that of your kids) isn't in the game. Which is a darned shame.

Some things don't change...

Here I am on 11.11.11, pondering my own lack of veteran-hood. 

When I think of a potently bad combination, I think of me being in the military. Way, way, way too much authoritarianism, hierarchy, and chicken-shit. Not that I didn’t encounter plenty of that in the business world, but at least I didn’t have to salute and no one was going to throw me in the brig if I went AWOL.

About all I can say for my being a good fit for the armed service is that, after all those years in parochial school, I wouldn’t have been bothered by wearing a uniform. I also like to think that, if there had been a national crisis, some national purpose (think World War II), when I was young enough to serve, I might have considered signing up and doing my bit. But it didn’t happen, so I didn’t have to make any decision one way or the other. The “national crisis” during my potentially military years was the Viet Nam War, which was not exactly something that was going to get this girl volunteering to work in the steno pool at Lackland AFB.

Somethings don't change... 

Ten years ago, I devoted some time to putting my feckless Uncle Charlie on blast.

Even my feckless Uncle Charlie, who managed to weasel out of pretty much any responsibility over the course of his life, spent a bit of time in the Army during the waning days of The War. It wasn’t quite Hitler enlisting 12 year old boys and 72 year old accountants to defend Berlin, but the Army must have been fairly hard up if they felt the need to dragoon my uncle, well into his thirties by the time his uncle (Sam, that is) caught up with him.

The stories were told that by the time they got Charlie, Ft. Devens was out of uniforms and guns. Thus, Charlie and his fellow draftees drilled wearing their civilian clothing and carrying fake rifles. (Actually, Charlie was probably drilling wearing my father’s civilian clothing. When my father returned from his war, he went to look for his suits, only to be told by Charlie that moths had gotten to them. My father’s assumption was that his brother had worn them out or pawned them.)

In any case, Charlie didn’t last very long before he received a medical discharge for hearing loss.

Still, Charlie was a veteran and is, thus, entitled to his flag on the other side of the combo-grave he shares with my father,  mother and grandmother.

Somethings never change... 

And last year I wrote about a far more noble vet, Wesley Black, who  

And while I'm not a big "thank you for your service" person, we owe the veterans of all of our wars - good, bad, or indifferent - the care and support they deserve.

Wesley Black died the other day.

I had read about him last summer. 

He was a Vermont firefighter who had served two tours with the National Guard. While at war, Wesley Black was exposed to military burn pits. Which caused the colon cancer that killed him at the age of 36, leaving his wife a widow and his young son fatherless.

Wesley Black went down swinging, suing the VA for misdiagnosing his cancer a "irritable bowel syndome" until, after years of dragging their heels, finally ordering the colonoscopy that found the cancer. Stage 4. Too late to do anything about. (A few months ago, Black's suit was settled, purportedly for $3M.)

Burn pits are just what you think they are: the spots where the soldiers burn all sorts of trash: fast food wrappers, styrofoam cups, assorted plastics. The toxic fumes permeate the encampments, and even if you weren't the guy doing the burning, you were exposed. Joe Biden believes that his son Beau's deadly glioblastoma was caused by exposure to burn pits in Iraq.

The government is finally doing something about it. Winding down the use of burn pits, and registering the names of military personnel who've been exposed. 

Which is the very least we can do.

Somewhere along the line, I know, just know, that I wrote about my maternal grandfather, Jacob Wolf, who fought in World War I. On the other side. An ethnic German living in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Grandpa fought in the trenches. He came from a large family, mostly boys, and some of his brothers died during the war. So the only close relatives I have who died in combat were some maternal great uncles who fought for the wrong side. 

Happy Posthumous Veterans' Day to them anyway. And to Jake Wolf.

To my father. And even to my Uncle Charlie.

And to all the veterans out there. This day's for you.