I know my father served from almost the start of World War II until 1946 when it was all over. He was nineteen and studying pre-med when he enlisted. He told me that the carnage he witnessed during the war caused him to study something else, entirely, when he came home and completed University.
…and this, and I don’t know the location of either, but they appear to be in Germany. He was a reconnaissance photographer, and had something to do with sending code—which I’m sketchy on—because he told me most of what he did in the war was classified, and I never knew anything more.
I know he and my mother, his college sweetheart, were married a month before he was sent to Europe. They were teenagers when they married, and 23 when they were re-united. A few years before my mother died she told me my father had a relationship with a Belgian woman during WWII who worked for the Office of Strategic Services, a military intelligence service that later became the CIA. I must have looked stunned when she said so, because she immediately went on to say, “He was 19—young—we were separated for four years. He told me about it. It was over. And he came home to me. Women loved your father. But he came home to me.”