Dad quit school in the eigth grade when his father died, and went to work to help support his eight brothers and sisters. Scrambling for money on the mean streets of Jersey City during the Great Depression. People starved, you know. You could then, without really trying. Now, you have to go out of your way to starve in the United States, but not then.

At 17, he joined the United States Army and did a tour with the Coast Artillery in Panama, as a radioman. About 1933 ish.

It made him a man, disciplined, thoughtful, willing to learn. When he got out he found a good job, and worked in a wallpaper factory until the Japanese attacked us. He enlisted, and proceeded to visit sunny North Africa, sunny Sicily, rainy England, and generally cold France and Germany. He rose rapidly to the rank of master sargeant, top kick for his unit, and the go to guy for the officers. Non coms run the Army.

He was shot at, and did some shooting. He never talked much about that, only a few stories that ended with everyone alive and that were funny. He was one of a generation who knew war and kept its terrible secrets.

Dad saw the camps, and he saw the refugees throwing themselves in front of trains to keep from being sent East, to the Russians. He was dirt poor, living above a stable at one point in his youth, and died a success. His children, grown, educated, good jobs, loving wife that he had provided for. And every moment he was in the Army, he knew why.