The wrath of war

 It was 1939-1945, a time for war and peace. Wanna-be soldiers by the thousands, lined up at recruiting stations, many who had never touched a razor to their boyish faces. Wives, mothers, and sisters joined the war effort by working tirelessly in the factories that once made dresses and suits and now turned out thousands of uniforms for all branches of the military. These dedicated women did the jobs their men once did, becoming experts at welding and riveting, went home to empty houses and apartments to try to sleep, then went back to do it all over again.

Mere boys went to basic training, a six-week course in killing that hardly prepared them to face the wrath of battle. The days before landing on foreign soil, they wrote letters home, a picture of their sweethearts tucked into the liner of their helmets, remembering how hard it was to say goodbye as they hung out the windows of trains, hands outstretched for one final goodbye.

Months passed, and those soldiers grew up on the battlefields where bombs burst, and constant shooting took something from them theyd neverget back. Care packages from home that usually took a couple of months to find them were moments of joy, ignoring the battle around them for just a few minutes as they opened a tin of now stale cookies from mom and a carton of Lucky Strikes from dad, who jokingly wrote he knew I was smoking a few years ago. Tired and dirty, they'd find a quiet place and read the letters from girlfriends, mostly professing their love and counting the days until you came home. Other letters said goodbye and that theyd fallen in love with someone else. Tears were quickly wiped away, and a new feeling of pain became buried inside.

When the war ended in 1945, thousands of fighting men came home, greeted by those left behind so long ago. They were changed men, now some with life-altering wounds, lost limbs, and mentally drained to the point of tears when they ran into their moms' and wives' arms, feeling safe once again. Some met their children for the first time, falling to their knees, grateful they made it home at all.

Uniforms were replaced with trousers and shirts as the men went back to the factories, and the women stayed home to raise their children, many in government housing, until the GI bill came around, allowing hundreds of discharged soldiers to buy a house in neighborhoods where every house was built the same on quiet streets. But the quiet was sometimes shattered by screaming coming from an open window, a reminder of the horrors of war.

It was a time of the big bands, and dance halls were filled on a Saturday night. Women once again looked like women with form-fitting dresses and nylon stockings. Men in suits and ties danced the night away, often meeting up with someone from their regiment, leaving the women to talk among themselves as the men took sips from the flasks they all seemed to carry in an inside pocket.

The years after the war brought prosperity for many, but also brought the war back home for some who couldn't adjust back to civilian life. They left their homes and families, finding themselves alone with their nightmares roaming the streets, begging for some change to buy another bottle. Five years later, we were at war with Korea, and many of those lost and forgotten soldiers returned to the battlefields, most in their twenties but all much older, and ready to fight again.

In 1953, peace came along. The troops returned home to the joy of families, some with unseen injuries buried deep inside. For many, joining the reserves meant being a soldier for a couple of weeks every year, a time to meet up with old war buddies who seemed at ease talking about the things they had spared their families from hearing.

Years passed, and that generation of fighting men faded away, allowing the young soldiers their place on the battlefields. For some, they found refuge and friendships sitting at a VFW post, drinking and swapping stories about the old days, knowing they should be at home with their families, but realizing they had all moved out a while ago, leaving him with nothing but loneliness and nightmares.

I see the old soldiers at parades wearing their uniforms, some that fit while others couldn't be buttoned. They stood for the flag and snapped two with a salute and a tear or two. Soon theyd all be gone, leaving behind a thousand grave markers telling a short story of bravery and commendations they once wore proudly.

It seems there will always be another battlefield somewhere in the world, and young boys will line up with their unshaven faces and a commitment to serve their country. Parents will cry, and girlfriends will swear they will wait.

Mike 2026