Did you know that today is Veterans Day (also known as Armistice Day, originally designated to celebratie the end of the First World War, when the German armies surrendered in the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1915)?  Perhaps you didn't know that.  Perhaps you don't care anyway.  However, I would suggest that whether you consider yourself a dove or a hawk -- a "conscientious objector" or perhaps even a veteran yourself -- I would suggest that Veterans Day is a worthy occasion to pause and remember the significance of veterans' sacrifices throughout the world.

I've recently reignited an old interest in the history of the Second World War.  I've been slowly watching through the "Band of Brothers" film series (whenever Marci is out of the house for an evening, since she's not so big on war movies), and I was also particularly impacted by a recent reading of Stephen Ambrose's "D-Day."  The stories from D-Day, in particular, are horrific, almost-unimaginable stuff.  The carnage and sheer destruction of so much manpower and material on June 6th, 1944 was totally unprecedented and practically unimaginable.  The people who were involved (hundreds of thousands of them) responded to the events of that day in so many different ways -- and yet each story is compelling.  Each account is unique.

And while my primary feelings in reflecting on the sacrifices made these veterans have been awe, incredulity, sadness, and patriotic gratitude -- I've also been somewhat plagued by feelings of guilt, as some scattered, fuzzy memories have been triggered, relating to interactions during my high school years with an old man whom I knew as "Doc Dowds."

I honestly don't remember all that much about Doc Dowds.  In fact, I'm not even sure that he was an officially-licensed doctor at all.  That's just what everyone on the Shelby High School varsity football team called him.  He would show up in the locker room every Friday evening before the "big game" under the stadium lights to help with taping up ankles, splinting fingers, and tending to whatever other minor athletic injuries which might need to to be shored up.  He was an "old guy" -- though I honestly couldn't tell you if that meant he was in his mid-40s or mid-70s (the difference is somewhat inconsequential to a 17-year-old kid).  He taped slowly, and he liked to chatter with the players and the coaches while he worked.  He talked kind of funny (some sort of speech impediment), and one of his distinguishing physical characteristics was some kind of facial scar, only partially buried by a white scruffy beard.  Again, my memories of Doc Dowds are very scattered and vague.  He was more or less a benign presence in the locker room.

However, I do recall that some of the guys on the team would occasionally tease Doc Dowds behind his back.  His speech impediment and facial scar made him something of an easy target for insecure adolescent boys.  One of the guys who played wide receiver on the team did a particularly accurate impression of Doc Dowds that could send the locker room into instant hysterics.  Thinking about my passive laughter of Doc Dowds is something that mildly bothers me to recall now in my adult life... But the thing that really bothers me -- even to this day -- is my memory of our locker room jokes about "Fire in the hole!"  Allegedly, if anyone were to ever shout "Fire in the hole!" at any time in the presence of Doc Dowds, he would automatically hit the floor and cover his head with his hands.  I don't believe I ever saw it for myself, but there was something incredibly amusing about the idea of ol' Doc Dowds -- usually so slow and deliberate -- instantaneously dropping to the floor and curling himself up in a tight little ball against the "terrors" of a high school kid yelling "Fire in the hole!"

I'm not sure if any of us really understood at the time what "Fire in the hole!" meant.

But now that I've read a few books and watched a few films about warfare and explosives, I know the way that soldiers program themselves to instinctively respond to the threat of "Fire (explosives) in the hole (any confined space in combat situations)!"  It's not a joking matter.  Quite to the contrary, to a soldier who has seen the worst of warfare, a warning of "Fire in the hole!" is a matter of life or death.  Of course, I still can't understand it on the personal level -- having never experienced combat for myself (and no, New Years in Amsterdam does not count, as much as I try to convince myself otherwise).  But it seems pretty safe to understand that Doc Dowds did understand that in a very personal and meaningful way.  And to think that we skinny high school football players would ever dare to make light of that is a deep and dark stain on my conscience.  I am incredibly ashamed to think that I ever participated -- even passively -- in any such humor at the expense of someone who had been through what Doc Dowds must have been through.

Maybe you're asking yourself:  "Where is the 'Joy' in this memory?"

The joy is in the fact that Doc Dowds kept coming back and taping ankles every week.  Presumably, some jerk kid had tried the "Fire in the hole!" trick on him one time (if not multiple times), and yet Doc Dowds decided to keep coming back and serving us ignorant kids -- overcoming the shame that must have accompanied such locker room humiliation -- volunteering his time and expertise (it's not too far-fetched to think that he may have once been a medic in the armed services) to participate in our mock "battles" between football teams in the Northern Ohio League and be an active part of the way-of-life that he had once fought to preserve.

It's so easy for us to sit back and take pot-shots at the ideologies and systems of the mid-20th Century, in which murder and warfare were systematized and honed to maximum efficiency.  It's easy to talk about pacifism and isolationism.  But I was deeply impressed to read about the young men who participated in D-Day -- having themselves grown up in the aftermath of the "Great War" and the Great Depression and having been taught to tend towards pacifism and isolationism.  They were not so different from us, and yet they answered the "call of duty" and put their lives on the line to allow for things like free speech, democratic government... and high school football games.

So today I'm thinking about Doc Dowds and everyone else who has served in a role like him (maybe some of whom may chance upon this post).  Please forgive us for our arrogances and ignorances, and please accept our heartfelt gratitude for your service to the world.  You have allowed for much joy in the world -- at a cost of much personal pain and torment -- and we're all doing our best to live in the aftermath.