As I write this, it is now early in the morning, November 12, 2005. Yesterday was Remembrance Day. I went to the service at the Cenitaph, the place where the war dead of Belleville and the rural area that surrounds our city are commemorated. My father was there, to lay a wreath in memory of my grandfather, Harry Phieffer, a veteran who passed away almost fifteen years ago, and the other members of our extended family who served our nation in time of war. My youngest sister and her husband were there, with my 2-year old niece Madison. Around me were veterans of all the services and the Merchant Marine, serving members of the armed forces, cadets, Scouts, police and firefighters, and a large number of us ordinary citizens.
As I watched and listened, the idea of such a sacrifice passed back and forth through my mind - what it meant, and what it must have meant to those who made it. I wish I could say I understand, but I don't.
I have studdied the matter as an amateur historian, as a student, etc. But how can I understand the pain of a veteran breaking down as he remembers killing an enemy soldier on Christmas Day of 1943 in Italy. How can I understand boys, yes boys, barely out of high school, dying by the hundreds during some battles. How can I understand the pain of those left behind, who bore the pain of losing someone they loved.
I intend to come back to this, because today I cannot do the matter it's full justice, and because this is not a matter to be dredged up on one day each year. Remembrance is our responsibility every day. So today I will remember. On another day I will try once again to comprehend.
