A very good friend of mine and my family died this week, he was 90 and a WWII vet. He missed the D-Day landings by two weeks and spent the rest of the war as a machine gunner on the front lines. He was a 17 year old golf pro before he signed up to go overseas. He was the youngest male in his family and thus didn't have to sign up. He made it into Belgium on the German border before the war ended. Myself and my family got to know him when my parents bought the golf course back in 1987. He took me under his wing and tried to teach me the golf swing and the nuances of the short game. I am sure that I frustrated him more than any German shooting at him did. We became very close and spent many hours golfing on the course together. He talked to me about the war always when I asked him about it, both good and bad stories. Told me how scared he was crossing the Atlantic with explosions going off non stop it seemed until he got to England. It didn't get better as he got to the continent to spend the next 18 months on the front lines. He to his amazement survived the war and had a family, retired and enjoyed life, or so I thought. I always knew that he was tourmented by his time in the service, but I as I leanrned about PTSD, he suffered his whole life from it as did many returning servicemen. He died a private man who suffered with mental anguish from serving his country as part of the Greatest Generation. His wife stopped into my wifes store after the funeral and said that she was happy that he was no longer suffering and that he felt that he should have died overseas and had been living on borrowed time all these years.
Take care my friend, you're at peace now.
Take care my friend, you're at peace now.
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