He liked to laugh. He adored his wife. He loved his three boys more than life itself. He was handsome and when he entered a room his presence instantly filled it. He was quiet and he’d often get lost in thought. Music made him happy. He watched over others to make sure everyone was always doing okay, because nobody should ever be unhappy under his watch. The last thing he thought about at night was his immense love for his family. The first thing he thought about in the morning was how immensely he would miss them when he shipped out.
"He" was my grandfather. My dad's dad. I never got to know him because he was killed during World War II as a prisoner of war, onboard an enemy ship that was torpedoed. The little I do know about him is what has been passed down to me in stories told by my dad and grandma. He was killed when my dad was just 14-years-old. My dad became the man of the house at the very moment my grandfather died. My grandmother became a poor widow in her early 30’s, with three young boys to raise on her own, in the 1940’s.
My granddad was killed while serving his country and defending freedom so that his granddaughters, whom he would never meet, his great grandchildren, whom he would never know, and his great great grandchildren could all live in peace.
He was a good man. He loved his family. He was a hero to us and his country.
He was my grandfather.