My father was an engineer in the bowels of an aircraft carrier
in the Pacific during WWII. He kept the electrical systems
and machinery running through thick and thin.
His brother served with an Army artillery unit in Italy.

My mother’s brothers all served in WWII—one was a gunner
on a bomber whose insides were smeared all over his gun turret
when a kamikaze finally blew up less than 100 feet of his plane.
Two brothers served on cruisers in the Pacific through harrowing action.
A brother served with the 1st Marines in Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima,
and later in Korea, traversing the Korean peninsula several times,
advances and retreats.

My wife’s uncle was one of General Patton’s drivers in Italy.
While transporting another officer around his charge was killed
in the seat next to him by a German Stuka that came out of the sun
and strafed their jeep and a column of advancing US soldiers.
One uncle was a partisan and message coder in Greece.
Another uncle was a partisan as well.

My college thesis advisor—the program department chairman—
enlisted underage after Pearl Harbor was bombed.
He served with the 1st Marines in Iwo Jima, and in Korea
at the Chosin Reservoir when Mao’s troops entered the war in a big way.
He said the Marines would have been overrun if the Chinese
had more tanks. He managed a 50-caliber rear-guard machine gun,
having burnt out two barrels. Wounded twice, he was given last rights
and his first cigarette in a MASH unit by a doctor who would become
the future US Surgeon General. He later earned a PhD at Stanford,
though died young from complications sustained in combat,
having barely survived with ½ his lungs.

A cousin was an Air Cavalry and air rescue helicopter pilot in Vietnam.
Two students in my field of study were Army Rangers in Vietnam.
Both had been wounded, one suffered from PTSD—
you quickly learned not to offend or cross him in any way.
Several other Vietnam Veterans I studied with were scarred
from their experiences.
One was a naval officer who had been discharged
when another officer turned him in for being gay.
A former Sargent managed splitting headaches by drinking.
A veteran I worked with was an Army intelligence officer who knew
several SE Asian languages—he managed NYC’s chaos and noise
by commuting 2.5 hrs each way from a rural 19th century farmhouse.

These few details were all I knew of their experiences.
The people I knew who experienced war did not talk about it.
If anything was said when asked it was the rare occasion,
and only “War is Hell. Pure Hell.” You knew not to ask.
They considered themselves the lucky ones because many comrades
and friends were wounded and perished in gut-wrenching ways.
They considered talking and boasting to be disrespectful,
the dead deserve honor and peace.

My visiting the Wounded Warrior Battalions of Forts Bragg and Lajune
with local fire fighters during the holidays was truly eye opening.
Even in periods of relative calm, training and preparing for war
has its unseen casualties—the hard machinery of war is unforgiving
to flesh, bone, and the human psyche.

I cannot imagine what relatives and others experienced.
I did not serve. In high school I was accepted to the Navy ROTC,
when the Vietnam War ended the draft ended and my colleges of interest
cancelled their ROTC programs in protest, so I never signed up.
I clearly recall how the Vietnam War tore up our country from the inside.
In fact, I don’t remember many things I subsequently learned
in years of college, but War is Hell is something I always remember.

We must remember and honor those who experience the process of war
and its Hell, what most of us are very, very, fortunate not to ever have to.

Stephen Cipot
Garden City Park