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Wayne Christensen
Being drawn back to the time of the Normandy invasion this week was inspiring and unsettling. I experienced warmth and deep respect for men and women sporting some version of their military uniforms, mostly perched in wheel chairs pushed by some succeeding generation. For me, there were two especially poignant moments: 1) flashing back to my family's role in WWII. Did any serve in the military? If not, why not? 2) and being shocked when hearing that many of those warriors on stage were actually teenagers when they fought. Some 16, many 17 & 18. And 19 was the age at which more people died than at any other.
When WWII started with Germany invading Poland in 1939, my dad was barely out of his teen years. He made metal parts for the war machine. So did other family members. My Uncle Bob was the only member in my family who was in the Army. He was riding in a jeep that first came upon General George S. Patton, commander of the U.S. 3rd Army, who had died from injuries in a freak car accident.
We're all way too familiar with our war, Vietnam. We all have our stories about that one.
And, most importantly to me now, I have a newly minted teenage grandson. Will the dictators of today win out over democracy in his teen years? If so, will the draft be reinstated? If so, what will his war be? I'd certainly rather be thinking ahead to his successful career and the contours of a unique and happy place in our world for him.
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