I was a wee little girl on December 7, 1941, only three years old. I remember very well those days when my dad worked at the Shipyard in Savannah. The nights we had our windows covered. The ration stamps. The red, white, and blue "Uncle Sam Wants You" posters, and the sirens. The quietness. The darkness. Also, the soldiers who were killed and whose pictures were in the local paper.
I remember the night my mom was standing in front of the fireplace, warming herself, and crying. She was holding a letter. I believe it was the letter calling my father into war. Ultimately, he was deferred because he was working for the DOD. Yes, I remember what war is like even though I was young.
My Granny Elkins saw three of her five boys go to war. Different branches of service. Different locations in the world. My Big Mother Scott saw her baby boy join the service. I cannot think of anything worse that having my children subjected to such horrific circumstances. Not knowing where they were, if they were alive, if they were warm and fed, if they were scared, and knowing they were just boys themselves doing their part.
Several of my ancestors served and some died fighting for a cause they believed in during the Civil War. Some of them were sons of immigrants from Ireland and England. Yet, they fought for what they considered to be detrimental to the future of their families.
Indeed, those were perilous times. But our country survived because they pitched in and did what was necessary during war to save our homeland. Thank you to all those who lost their lives that December day and to all those who have served before and continued since then, to defend our freedom as we know and enjoy it every day.
