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Joseph R. Torrell
Bellefonte
My dad served his country during World War II. On Aug. 8, 1944, a young man from rural Jefferson County, Pa., found himself in the waist of a B-17 bomber flying a mission in the skies over France. Dad rarely talked about that experience, only to tell us both his plane and he took a bad hit. Dad recalled that he thought he saw his leg fly away from his body and out the door of his plane that day. It was a grievous wound, but dad made it back to base where his injury was tended and he was eventually sent back home to Jefferson County. Dad limped from his war wound the rest of his life.
I have dad’s Purple Heart sitting on my bookshelf. Beside it is the flag that was given to my mother when dad passed away. Dad’s Army picture and a picture of his flight crew hold places of honor on that shelf.
That August day in 1944 was not a good day for my dad. There were no thumbs-up gestures, no smiles, but rather terrible fear and pain. Dad is buried on a quiet country hillside in the aptly named town of Soldier. An American flag catches the breeze and flies peacefully over his grave. It is a sacred site to me.
I would not let Donald Trump anywhere near dad’s final resting place.