This Friday, November 11th, we will observe Veterans Day, which was originally called Armistice Day to mark the end of World War I. Unfortunately, we’ve had too many wars since then, so the day had to be renamed.

“Armistice” was a misnomer anyway. The Germans thought that was what they had agreed to on November 11, 1918, but the Allies, primarily Great Britain and France, treated Germany as if it had unconditionally surrendered and imposed the infamous Versailles Treaty on the country. This treaty carved up Europe and the Middle East, as well as prompted World War II and the troubles still plaguing the Middle East.

But just as soldiers have nothing to do with starting wars, they also have nothing to do with the way their hard-earned victories are thrown away. The politicians are guilty on both counts. They start a war. Then, when the war is over, they screw up the peace and set the stage for another war. Keeps the munitions makers in profits and allows the politicians to grab more power in the name of national security.

As you can tell, I don’t have a high opinion of politicians, particularly the warmongering types, but no one should ever blame the soldiers. It is, after all, our system that the civilians dominate the military. That means the key to peace is to find a better class of civilians to put in office.

In the meantime, the veterans are about as close to pure citizens as you will find. They are practically the only ones who put their lives on the line to defend the country. They endure hell, and the best of them who survive come home, put their horrors behind them and go on to live useful lives. They deserve all the appreciation we can muster.

There are different kinds of veterans. There is, at the top of the list in deserved esteem, the combat veteran. Our military has an extremely long logistical tail, and only about 10 percent of the soldiers actually fight. Next in deserved esteem are the career men and women who devote their lives to the armed forces. They used to be called “the regulars.” Many of them are also combat veterans.

The third category is guys like me, peacetime veterans. I went when the Army called and left when it said I could go home. I am, according to the official bureaucratese, a “Vietnam-era veteran,” meaning I was on active duty during that war, but never was sent there.

The only combat I saw was occasionally a little hand-to-hand in bad bars and the barracks. The best of folks lose their tempers. I confess that I left the Army with more enthusiasm than I reported with. In fact, my shadow is still somewhere between Fort Bragg, N.C., and Florida looking for me. It was too slow to keep up. For guys like me, the country owed us nothing. I believe every citizen has a duty to serve if called upon. Even doing 18 months of active duty still leaves me way short in balancing the books. This country has done a lot more for me than I have or ever could do for it.

In our age of personal trainers and steroids, Hollywood has fostered the image of the hero as a well-cut, muscle-bound kind of guy. Your best chance of seeing a real hero is to look at the older people. Those guys who fought in World War II and Korea and Vietnam are the real heroes. My God, but they were tough. Those were slogging, mudand- blood wars, not a video game played with live bombs, and no matter how old or bent or absentminded they get, they will always be heroes to me.

—CC—

Most of our WWII Veterans have passed away and many of our Korean War and Vietnam Veterans also. I keep the following poem in my desk and am reminded of it each time one of my fellow Veterans passes away.

—CC—

We need to remember that every holiday we enjoy is because of the sacrifice of others . . . including many that we never met.

The following story makes me more aware of that fact than ever.

A Fallen Soldier’s Final Salute

It’s a Saturday morning, and I am eager to fly away. My husband and I will meet up with our son on the other side of the country to learn and explore together. Sitting now at the airport gate, my husband wanders away to stretch his legs. Moments later, he returns and whispers in my ear. I rise and follow him around the corner toward a large window facing the landing area. A crowd, solemn and still, gathers at the window and gazes out.

Now I am one of those peering in silence. On the tarmac, Marines stand straight and tall in formation, the plane door open, a ramp waiting. A white hearse is parked nearby. A man and a soldier stand on either side of a woman, supporting her, waiting for what is to come, for a sight she must surely have hoped and prayed never to see.

The ramp begins to move, and a flag-draped casket starts its descent. Airport personnel stand in reverent stillness. A few placed their hands over their hearts, as I have done. We’re joined in witness, sending love to an honorable soldier whose name we’ll never know.

The woman’s face is contorted in pain as she wails in the way only a mother can, though her cries are unheard by those of us on the other side of the window. She collapses, knowing she will never again hear “Mom” from her son’s lips. She’ll never feel his loving arms encircle her shoulders or relish his sweet peck on her cheeks.

Another face, that of a square-jawed man, grimaces in pain, weakened by grief. The father holds his head in his hands and turns it back and forth, a refusal to accept this new reality. His son, the tiny boy he no doubt wrestled playfully, the teen he probably taught to drive, the son he stood so proudly by as he donned his Marine uniform, now lives only in his memory.

Those behind the glass stay silent, reflecting on this life, this loss, as the family and soldiers depart the runway. A dozen of us women, with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks, move slowly away, dabbing our faces, and sharing a mother’s profound grief.

Soon, each of us will fly off in planes and return to an ordinary life made extraordinary by this soldier’s courage, by this family’s sacrifice, and by this love shared by all who look out the window and know.

Thank God for our veterans and our free country.