Both of my Grandfathers served in World War 2. One of them tried to sign up at 18 and was told he was near deaf in one ear and would not be able to join the Army. Two years later, when things were not looking so good, he answered the call again. This time there were more than eager to overlook the hearing issue and throw him into the mix. He left his wife and child home alone in Hawthorne, CA. His wife assembled bombs on a factory floor for a nickel a day or some crazy amount. He was 21 and the oldest person in his ranks. He was sent to the Pacific where he Island hopped his way toward Japan as a field medic expecting to drive straight into a shit storm. I recall childhood stories of Dirty scissors, lost limbs, morphine, and direct pressure that upset my Grandmother to no end. He'd show me the scars along his back and buttocks where the molten metal rolled along his backside as he lay face down in a foxhole. He did eventually go onto the Island of Japan once the bombs were dropped and then tended to the survivors. I was lucky enough to have two relatives that made it home from the Pacific Theatre. I sincerely thank all those who made the ultimate sacrifice that did not make it home, from all the wars the U.S.A. has manned up for, on this Memorial Day. Thank you.
For those of you who have less than Patriotic feelings on the subject. Get a fucking clue.