[Humal]

Sam,
This is interesting, but hard for me to read without crying. My father was at Normandy, and when he came home, he had what was then called "Shell Shock". My mother told of the time she and my uncle picked him up at the rail station, and he got into the back seat. They hadn't gone too far when a plane went over-head. Mom said my father went to pieces, got on the floor, and covered his head. They drove him straight to the hospital instead of going home. What those poor men went through.

[Iris7]

I don't like to see the guys treated as if they were victims, reduced to impotence by the horror of the whole thing. I know something about this stuff.

Experiences like your Dad's are very tiring, extremely emotional, intense. They take great effort. Most people have never remotely experienced real fear, and don't have the slightest idea of what I mean by "real" fear, and how hard it is to think clearly even though you know that clear thought is your only hope. Your self respect is often broken, and takes decades to heal if it ever does.

Your Dad was tired, mostly. In a sort of tired rarely experienced in everyday life except by the person dying of a painful disease, I think, anyway. You get over it. Never completely, your sweet boyish laughter is gone forever. There is a certain holding of distance, a certain hostility, a certain being of the "walking dead". A certain desire not to be bothered by these vapid beings. Some drink to much.

Talking about myself, I guess. I hate whiners.