War doesn't stop because it makes you uncomfortable to hear about it.

I've been accused of writing too much about it.

It's not that I like war:  war is hell.  It exacts a heavy toll, paid for in blood.

Their blood of those who serve(d) cries out to be heard, to be remembered, to not be forgotten.

I hear it echoing through the service of my Daddy and his four brothers.

My Mom's brother.

They saw war.  They felt the heat of battle and tasted fear on the back of their tongues.

One of my Daddy's brothers was a survivor of Bataan.  Another had three ships shot out from under him.

Thank God, they all came home, but they're all gone now.

I miss them.

My brother served.  So did several cousins.  They're alive, and I'm grateful.

THESE are the heroes.  Their willingness to sacrifice paved the way in part for my own USAF service.

I never left Texas.  Never had to worry if my next breath would be my last.

That was before Fort Hood.

Was injured in the line of duty and granted an honorable discharge.

Peacetime injuries don't bring Purple Hearts.

And that's okay.

If I do anything for my country, it's remembering those who've given of themselves for our Nation, in health, body and mind.

Their blood cries out ...

And I hear.  I hear ...

By God, I will not forget.

I can't.