Mouse in the Library

My Opa and Oma lived through WWII. Opa spent most of the war in a slave labour camp. He talked about standing outside when the Allies flew bombing runs, cheering them along with the other prisoners. They tried to get the bombers' attention, because they were making the pipes that were being used to pipe oil to the Eastern front. Important target, y'see. Please bomb here. That, and the other option was the bomb shelter, where the SS was hiding.

Opa made his way home after the Allies got to his camp. Allied soldiers clothed him, fed him, and got him the bike that made getting home easier. Being shaved and rail thin marked him as a camp survivor on sight, and they helped him any way they could.

I Remember. For his sake, and for mine. I honour the dead, and pull my family closer to me. I honour the living who serve my country, and cry in helpless rage at the outrage of how they are being betrayed by the government that is supposed to be taking care of them.

They serve us. They have sworn to give their lives if need be for us, and we have forgotten the other side of that pledge. Not to give those lives needlessly.