There weren’t very many American Jews stationed at Dachau during the war crimes trials after the camp had been liberated. Odd duty, to say the least for a Jew, guarding German officers who had tortured and killed so many Jews, escorting these Nazi officers from their cells to the courtrooms, listening to the testimony about their crimes.

My father had landed in France on the day the Nazis were defeated, and traveled from there to Dachau, seeing the destroyed remains of Europe, rubble everywhere, bodies awaiting burial, the walking wounded wandering the streets. Then the nightmares of the holocaust, on the very ground where some of the worst atrocities were committed, were poured out daily in the courtrooms as the dust of death continued to blow through the air.

My father knew of only one other Jewish-American soldier there at Dachau. Today, sadly buried in the fog of dementia, he can’t remember the man’s name, but he remembers the time they spent together. One of their jobs was to destroy all the left-over munitions from the German army. They spent half their days firing munitions at nearby hills, loading, aiming, firing, over and over and over again, so that the munitions would be spent and the Americans could eventually leave Dachau without fear of those weapons being used by the Germans again. They also spent time moving German prisoners from cells to courtrooms and during their spare time, they would sit in on the trials.

Dad’s buddy drew gate duty one night, standing in a little shack at one of the entrances to Dachau, letting people in or out. It was cold that night and he used a little space heater to take the edge of the chill. The heater was defective and suddenly blew up, killing the man. Dad says he was the last Jew to die at Dachau, Dad’s only Jewish friend in a very terrible place. Soon, the munitions were finally gone, the German officers convicted or acquitted, some hung, some jailed for the rest of their lives. One American who should have been able to go home, wouldn’t, just because a stupid heater blew up. Dad eventually went home, went back to work at the job he’d held as a 17 year old, a job he would keep until he was 62 (he’s now 83).

I share this story today because it is Veterans Day, and I’m thinking about my father, and the rows and rows and rows of graves we pass by every time we go to see him. Today he lives in a house right near the San Francisco Golden Gate National Cemetery. Whenever we drive by he looks at it as though it is the first time he’s seeing it. He stares, and he whistles, and he says “so many people…. so many soldiers…”

Today our brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, daughters and sons, husbands and wives, are fighting and dying in Afghanistan, Iraq, and in Texas. No matter what anyone thinks of the rightness or wrongness of being at war, we all need to ask ourselves “who will be the last _______ (fill in the blank) to die in Afghanistan, Iraq, Pakistan” and what are we doing to bring an end to war? What, if anything, are we doing to support the men and women who are fighting and dying in our name? Whether that means working your tail off to bring our troops home, giving to the USO, volunteering at a nearby VA facility, or just slowing down the car as you pass by a military cemetery long enough to see the rows and rows and rows of graves, whistle, and think about so many soldiers, so many lost lives……..

On this Veterans Day, and tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that, remember that people are fighting, killing and dying in our name, and we have a responsibility to do something about it and for them, lest one more forgotten soldier dies standing in a shack just trying to keep warm.