SteevAK

I read books of the Second World War when I was young. I read them almost exclusively. I read of D-Day, Guadalcanal, Midway, Tarawa, the fall of Bataan and the subsequent infamous march that followed, the Battle of the Bulge, the campaign through Italy, the secret missions, the Flying Tigers, and the awesome, horrific atom bombs that sealed the war shut. I read of the thousands of men, my countrymen, who gave their lives for the betterment of humanity. I have read just a little of the horror, the torture, the destruction that my fellow men suffered.

I think to a large degree I read these books with youthful curiosity. I rarely had an emotional attachment to those men in the past. I understood the importance of the battles. I understood the purpose of the war. I understood the magnitude of what was being accomplished. I did not understand the passion of the times though. I read of that Second Great War through my clear, passionless glasses. I did not read of it with the blood red lenses of passion.

Of course, I do not think I was capable of really understanding the passion at my younger age. I had few attachments. I was naive. I had suffered none. I had few Causes. I grew up in a sterile, safe world. I had no need to sacrifice. The worst torture I ever endured was my little brother. However, now, a decade later, such a short amount of time, something has changed. I am almost ashamed to write this; I am so young and still so naive. I tremble to think that I have the audacity to say that I understand to some degree the passion involved in that War.

Now, I have no doubts that a large amount of the passion expressed was not motivated by something sacred, noble, or good. Men were fighting for their survival and for the extermination of others. Heinous actions were undertaken, driven by sinful passions. Perhaps it is these baser, instinctual passions that are easier to understand. When one’s life is dangling by a thread, how easy is it to feel nothing but the need to survive, regardless of the cost to others. However, there were passions that had to have been of a higher nature. Men do not throw their lives away for a shiny medal, for a victory, or for glory unless those things meant something greater. Something worthy for which to die.

It is these passions that I feel I am beginning to understand. There are things in this world that are worthy of my life. I pray that if the moment of sacrifice arrives I have the strength and courage to do my duty.

I have many regrets. I do not need another.