I just heard about the worst thing I think I can remember. A Battle of the Bulge veteran described an encounter with a German boy soldier. On his approach with bayonet raised, he heard the boy shouting “Mommy! Mommy!” When he asked the boy what he was doing, the boy replied that he wanted his Mommy, because he didn’t want to die. He said he told the boy to pretend he was dead, and pretended to bayonet the boy. He pressed forward, leaving the boy to his own devices. I have some hope for humanity.

Just a few days before Memorial Day, I lost my last touch of the Second World War. My grandfather had been something of a boy soldier himself. Or, rather, sailor. Unlike my paternal grandfather, who had waited to the ripe old age of 16 to enlist, my maternal grandfather had enlisted at 15. He served in the Pacific from 1943 to 1945. As the vast American fleet sat off the coast of Japan, his vessel, PGM-27, was sunk in a typhoon. All the sailors aboard survived. Over six decades later, my grandfather spent his last few years disabled and at the edge of poverty. As he waited out his last hours, his sons found that he was eligible for some awards he had never received.

I last visited a little over a year ago. Speaking to my grandmother, I am struck by how much one grows together with another after 68 years of marriage.

The generation that made this country as we know it is nearly spent.

They are missed.