November 11 - the day we remember.
My dad fought in WWII. He was a dispatch rider on a motorcycle. He had no platoon. He rode between camps, delivering vital information, diving bullets as he went. He spent nights alone in ditches, damp and cold; no comforting voices of fellow soldiers beside him. The nights were pitch black. He once awoke to find a dead horse lying beside him. He was 19 years old. Just a kid, by today's standards.
My dad fought in WWII. He fought to free our world from tyranny. He knew horrors he could never speak of; horrors his children would never have to know. Because he fought.
Today, I salute my dad.