I know, the attack on Pearl Harbor was 70 years ago yesterday. 70 years ago today, my father's brother, Uncle Lewis, enlisted in the US Army. A lot of people did, including his best friend. They went through training together and were assigned to the same unit in the 1st Infantry Division. Fought side by side throughout North Africa and Sicily. Hit Omaha Beach together. They were under heavy shelling and took cover in a mortar crater, and the friend took a direct mortar hit. Uncle Lewis survived, and lived to come home after the war in 1946. But he was never the same, and understandably so. For the rest of his life, he would suffer from what we now know as PTSD. Had issues with drugs and alcohol, couldn't seem to hold a steady job. I remember my Dad going to get him when he would get locked up, bring him to our farm, and he'd stay for a while. Sometimes it was a few days, sometimes it would be a few weeks. I remember Uncle Lewis helping Mom with the cooking and laundry, and how he would sometimes sit in the backyard smoking roll your own cigarettes, one after the other. He'd always drift away, returning to the streets and trying to find some escape from his demons. He finally found peace when he died on those streets one cold night in Louisville, KY. But he really died that day on Omaha Beach, killed by the same German mortar that took the life of his friend. To my Uncle Lewis, Godspeed, and may you rest in peace.