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Photo: Poppyseed Bandits

A father and son are reunited during a July 2007 homecoming of the 2nd Combined Arms Battalion, 136th Infantry of the 34th “Red Bull” Infantry Division of the Army National Guard in Anoka, MN. Deployed to Iraq in late 2005, the battalion became the longest-serving guard unit there after having its tour extended by the troop surge.

For most Americans, Veterans Day typically is pretty much business as usual. Those lucky enough to actually have today off from work most likely will use the extra time to carry out largely mundane everyday tasks.

With winter weather fast approaching, many will use the day to shop for new clothes, or catch up on household chores or errands. Some will make travel reservations for the upcoming holidays. Sadly, precious few will give a scarce thought to the reason President Woodrow Wilson in 1919 — exactly one year after the Treaty of Versailles ended World War I — first proclaimed Nov. 11 as a day to honor the nation’s war veterans.

The day, Wilson said, should “be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country’s service… because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of the nations.”

I have to admit that I, too, have been guilty in years past of failing to use this day for its intended purpose. But in more recent years, with the steady drip-drip-drip of American lives in Iraq and Afghanistan — even as the troop surge has slowed that drip — I have found myself increasingly more reflective. And contrite. And ashamed. And, well…quite unworthy.

Photo: Poppyseed BanditsUnworthy to live in a country for which I personally have never placed my life on the line. Unworthy to complain of relatively petty grievances I occasionally may face, considering the sacrifices our men and women in uniform make each and every day in an alien, distant land — where failing to discern in an instant the almost imperceptible difference between friend and foe could be the last mistake you ever make.

Unworthy even remotely to understand the agony of having a leg blown off while on routine patrol, or suddenly experiencing the deafening blast of an IED as it tears through my Humvee, or having a mortally wounded buddy die in my arms, or being the sole survivor of an ambush that killed every other member of my squad.

Unworthy to view photos of the consoling hugs and, yes, tears of grieving comrades — most of whom had endured unspeakable battle horrors themselves, only to live through the never-ending anguish of loss and flashbacks for the rest of their lives.

(Continued…)