Both of my grandfathers served in the US Army. They are my closest links to service in the military. I never really got to know either one of them. One was gone before I was born and the other passed before I was mature enough to care.
Neither ever saw combat. These were men who served as vital cogs in our well-oiled American fighting machine behind the scenes.
One was a cook.
The other was a jack-of-all-trades, performing services at various times as a jeep mechanic, jet fighter radar repairman, barber, and even a bartender. (He had specifically been commissioned a bartender by an officer who knew he was an active LDS serviceman who wouldn't drink any of the bar's inventory.)
The latter served on
Enewetak Atoll.
You've likely never heard of this place, but it actually saw the world's first hydrogen bomb blast.
Grandpa was quite sick during his last years on earth. He didn't say or do much. Some in the family speculated it was due to those nuclear tests he'd been privy to--but nothing was ever proven.
The full measure of a veteran's sacrifice often is not meted out until many years after their actual service.
This is the lesson I learned from a grandfather who never spoke to me once about his time in the army.
