In Which I Celebrate My Escape from the Reaper

Well, Hey...Happy 63d Anniversary of D-Day!

And yes, I do remember it. I was eight (I think I am the only person on the planet actually born in 1936). I took a profound interest in the war, because I figured if they didn’t get it over soon, I would grow up, and they would take me, and I would be killed. I knew D-Day was coming. I came downstairs to breakfast and the sound of the radio news. Does this mean the war is over? No, not yet, but soon.

I remember the succeeding months: Bastogne, Ardenne, Aachan (first word I had ever seen with two “a’s”). I suppose you could say I learned something about the meaning of patience.

And then it was over (and FWIW, I never doubted for one moment that it would be over, and that we would win—it was only a matter of time).

Fate wasn’t quite done with me yet: we had Korea. “It means,” my camp counselor explained upon inquiry, “that we are finally taking a stand against the communists.” He seemed please: I thought of it as another plot against my well-being.

But luck was with me again: I turned 17 in the Spring of ’53, just as Korea was winding down.

At last I did go in the Army, for a short stretch as a Reservist in 1958. It wasn’t that bad, actually. I lost some weight, learned a few things, had some good times. Most important, it was peacetime: I never heard a shot fired in anger. “Just you wait,” our sergeants would say, “someday there’ll be a real war, and you’ll wish you had listened.” We would taunt them back. It was all pretty good natured and relaxed.

E.B. White said: The wrong time to have a son is 18 years before a World War. On that measure (and many others), I am one of the luckiest men alive.