Veterans Day, for many of us, evokes memories of our relatives and friends who have served our country for 250 years. For me. it is one of those occasions that is less wrapped in ceremony and tradition than it is in personal experience. It is the stories that grow in awe and appreciation as we age.

These stories are, at once, sad and spectacular, hilarious and horrific, grand and grotesque.

Watching a B-17 fly-over several months back, I marveled at the size and noise of the “flying fortress” and can only imagine the experience of Lee Jessup's dad, Dalma, when the sky was full of them and they were being shot at. Lee does a great presentation of his dad's story as a tail- gunner and a POW. Amazing stuff.

The stories I recall come from my father who was a artillery officer in North Africa, Sicily and Italy during the Second World War and also from my grandmother who was an Army nurse in France in the First World War. Neither spoke of these experiences very often, but both left written records which I have found astounding.

My grandmother, Ione Bain, who was quite the writer, sent a regular correspondence to the Winston-Salem Journal during her time in France.

One of her grand stories, as I recall, was about meeting and dancing with General John “Black Jack” Pershing during his visit to Paris. Her horrific story was about the overwhelming days at the hospital when the “orderlies would take away the dead and bring back the coffins.”

My father's army footlocker, which had been stored in a building behind my grandmother’s house and later behind my parent’s house, was a treasure trove of WWII memorabilia ... maps, photos, manuals in English and German, odd uniform pieces and letters.

Twenty years ago, not long after his death, I found around 300 letters that he had written to his mother and sister between January of 1942 when he was drafted and January of 1946 when he returned home. I copied and assembled them into books for my siblings, my aunt and myself.

The evolution of his experience in this collection is incredible, from the early descriptions of the novelty of it all and concern for events back home to the final message about his return:

“Mother, I cannot see what I have seen and just come back to a normal life.”

My clearest recollection of his story is from an article that was in this very paper in 1944. The short version is my dad's survey crew traveled up a little mountain road in Sicily and stumbled upon a small town where they found themselves treated as conquering heroes. They were rushed into the city hall and onto a balcony with the mayor and a cheering crowd below.

The mayor was stabbed to death. The small party of Americans was hustled back into the mayor's office, where my dad, as the ranking officer, was asked to sit behind the desk. When he obliged, a cheer went up and he was told by an interpreter that he was now the mayor of San Pier Niceto. Seeing what happened to the previous mayor, he and his party quickly evacuated, promising to send relief.

When I first read this story in The Dispatch archives, it appeared very professional, so I assumed it had been done by an Army journalist. When I found the letters, there it was word for word in my father's hand-writing. I think I was more impressed by the writing than the story.

Another story I recall, that I believe he only told me once, was when his crew of four in his jeep “Lexington” hit a trip wire in the Sicilian jungle and machine gun fire killed everyone in the jeep but him. I don't know how one recovers from that or if they do.

One more on the humorous side ...

My father and his survey crew were returning to the Fifth Army headquarters to report their recommendations for gun placements. Again, in the Sicilian jungle they had a one-lane road running a mile down one mountain and a mile up another to where a plateau spread out. As they reached the top of the steep drive, the corner of a jeep with a two star flag moved into their path. My father said he was face to face with Major General George S. Patton, who had been visiting 5th Army commander General Mark Clark.

While the General's driver could have backed up a few feet and let the “Lexington” onto the escarpment, that didn't seem to be happening, so my dad told his driver to back up ... two miles down and up steep grades in the jungle to get out of Patton's way.

The stories of veterans are endless and endlessly interesting.

The tragic, inconsolable losses, even from our little town, from Harold Tussey aboard the Arizona to Jacob Cunningham in Vietnam to Josh Harris in Afghanistan and all the many others deserve our remembrance and appreciation.

The still-suffering and under-served that answered the call need our help.

Those who still walk among us and those who just got old and faded away deserve our honor.

Thank you for your service.