Fifteen years after World War II ended, I began grammar school. In those days, my friends and I loved to play war, simulating the conflict many of our dads had fought. My dad turned 20 two weeks after the attack on Pearl Harbor. Mom told me that shortly after the attack, Dad tried to enlist. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately for me, Dad was turned down because he had a gimpy leg, a defect from a difficult birth. My dad did his duty here at home, however, working at Marietta’s Bell Bomber Plant, although he lived with the lasting regret of being turned down for service. Dad’s interest in the war his friends fought inspired him to study it to the extent that when he died he had collected hundreds of volumes in a WWII library, each in its turn he had personally scoured for additional information about the war he missed. After he died, I proudly donated his library to our alma mater, Georgia Tech. Dad always felt in awe of his friends who served during the war, and I expect humbled by their service. I don’t know anyone more knowledgeable about World War II than my dad, a testimony to his patriotism and respect for those who served.