When There Is No One Left To Thank

I have thought about three men a lot lately, Robert Claggett Brown Jr., Uncle Ken, and a man who I don’t know his name.  They are all three relations to my wife.  The first is her father, the second two uncles.  The one I don’t recall his name was a fighter pilot in WW II and was shot down and killed over Belgium.  His parents never got to visit his grave.  Once on a trip to Europe Betty and I did and placed flowers on the cross marking his grave.  The second one, Uncle Ken, was a B-27 pilot and was shot down over Germany and captured, exposed to unbelievable hardships and spent the remainder of the war as a prisoner.  I visited a few times with this man, fairly steeped in the aged vices of hardness.  I liked him deeply!  Betty’s father, Robert Claggett Brown Jr. fought up the islands of the South Pacific ending up in Hiroshima Japan.  I spent many a day sitting alone with Bob, listening to him unload his memories of those fateful years of his life.  He liked me and for that I faithful love him. All these men are dead now and every year I have such a longing to thank someone for their sacrifice for me and mine—there’s just no one left to thank. 

Betty's father, Robert Claggett Brown, Jr.
I carry this picture in my briefcase.