Today is Dec. 7 – according to Franklin D. Roosevelt, a “date that shall live in infamy.” The same day in 1941 when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and 3,500 Americans were killed or wounded.

My dad was there. John H. Elliott, a young Navy man, recalled eating a ham sandwich, jawing with his buddies, when the blasts began. Daddy and the other men rushed outside to find the source and be of service. In minutes, he was issued a gun and told to seek cover from the bullets, bombs, and shrapnel exploding everywhere. And so began World War II for America.

And for my dad.

Daddy was a bombardier and flew through WWII and the Korean War. He was never wounded. A blessed man. Many were not.

Recently, I revisited WWII history when I wrote my mystery, Medals in the Attic. There was much research needed to write an accurate and believable story about my story’s hidden war hero. As I read the true tales of the men who fought and died, I was often moved to tears. My heart swelled with pride at their bravery and sacrifice.

America is now sixty-nine years away from that blighted day at Pearl Harbor. And many of our survivors survive no more. Few media outlets even remember to mark the day. But we mustn’t forget.

I won’t ever forget. Or cease to be grateful for the ultimate sacrifice of these men and women. And their legacy.

That includes you, Daddy. My heart salutes you.

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