My father never talked about the war. Even when we went to a commemorative event in France where he had been stationed in 1944, just north of Paris. An event with all the pomp and circumstance of town bands, bunting, a mayor’s speech and champagne reception, military brass, and the American Embassy attache. Even when we stood on the abandoned A-71 airfield in the countryside, where his planes had taken off and landed. Even as we looked around, with the handful of other American Veterans, trying to figure out where the commissary had been and the tents they’d lived in through the coldest winter in a century, which made my father hate even the idea of camping forever after.
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