November 11th ranks right up there with all of the other significant dates of the calendar year for me. It is now known as Veterans Day but in my youth was called Armistice Day. It was the day WWI ended and an armistice, or truce, was signed between the Americans, their allies, and Germany. The day became a national holiday and was known by that name until 1954, when it officially became Veterans Day.

Our family has an added reason for celebrating the day because on that date in 1953 our oldest daughter, Donna, was born. Her birthday is a happy day for me for obvious reasons, but has had sobering personal overtones for me ever since Dec. 7, 1941. I never cease to reflect on how Veterans Day impacts so many American families.

Its start was meant to commemorate, “The end of the war to end all wars.” We have long since learned the fallacy in that pronouncement. Less than 40 years later, the world was once again thrown into worse turmoil than was ever evidenced from the epic that spawned the war to end all wars. I grew up in an era where there were many veterans of WWI in the community. Those veterans became my heroes and as I learned of their personal sacrifices and feats of heroism I was inspired.

I was 14 when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, an impressionable age especially for young males, and I quickly developed an interest in world affairs, government and patriotism.

In my hometown of Phoenix, N.Y., the war came home early to us with the death of one of our own young men at Pearl Harbor. His name was Lawton Woodworth, a farm lad well known to the majority of the people in our little community. After that, it was a steady progression of area young men who, after setting aside their own plans, went to defend not only their own country but many other countries as well. Many made the ultimate sacrifice. Some joined the Canadian armed forces, fighting in England before the U.S. entered the conflict, and became part of our own military after Pearl Harbor. I was quick to note the increasing number of gold stars appearing in local homes as I peddled my papers. (Editor’s note: Gold stars were placed in the windows of families who had lost members in the war.)

One of the lucky ones to make it through was Ted Boardman, who was one of the most highly decorated veterans of WWII. No one in the community knew about it until long after the war had ended. The real heroes never talked about their service after returning home. They picked up where they left off, with little mention of how they had contributed so much to the nation.

Young men in my age group could not wait to become old enough to join the older guys and become part of, what seemed to us at the time, the ultimate life experience. When people you had known all your life left and never returned home, you soon acquired an urge to become a part of the process to end it. We were instilled with a new pride of who we were and how lucky we were to be part of a system that stood for honor, duty and country. When neighbor kids two or three years older than yourself, like Rosario Caltibano, one of your mentors, were killed in the retaking of the Philippines, it became even more personal. The aura surrounding the experience becomes a part of your life that remains with you forever. It follows you where ever you go.

It followed me to Old Forge and as I became immersed in the local scene and learned the  local history that had been part of the process, it continued. It began early on after learning from one of my first friends about the WWI record of old time local Art Tickner. I looked at him with a different perspective after learning about that. The normal respect that was inherent because of his age became that much more enhanced to me. The same became true for many of the other local veterans as I gradually became aware of their military service and they became friends.

One was Jack Christy, who could not escape the evidence of his sacrifice. He wore a scar on his neck and chin like a badge of honor from the German bullet that put it there. It reminded me every time I interacted with Jack that I owed him a debt of gratitude. The stories behind such sacrifices are the things legends are made of, but are hard to come by. Modesty and the sense that they had no choice but to defend their nation, and the idea that what they did was expected of them, precluded any thought of expounding on their deeds even to their families and closest friends.

One such local stands out in my memory and his wartime experience certainly was unique. Bud Russell was a cousin of Jack’s and suffered severe and lifelong disabling injuries as a result of direct combat. He lay on his back in a farm field in France with seven machine gun bullets in his body, watching a German soldier walking purposefully toward him with his rifle at the ready thinking it was all over. Suddenly he heard a buddy to his rear say, “Don’t worry Russ, I have the bastard covered.” After the story was leaked to me, I asked Bud about it and he made me promise not to write about it.

I do so now because the knowledge of such acts are the stuff that inspires other young Americans, as it did me, to be proud of our country and those who have kept it free. If you are as curious about what happened to the German soldier as I was, Bud told me that he helped carry him from the field to a medical aid station and hospital, where he spent months recuperating.

Both Jack and Bud are gone, along with a host of their generation — and we honor them and all veterans of all wars with this day.

Thanks to all veterans for your service.

This is a reprint of a column Mart wrote in 2008. It is being run in honor of Veterans Day.