When I was a kid, my grandfather gave me a German helmet and a few other things from his time in the war. I was maybe eight or nine. My mom warned him I’d probably wreck it, but he handed it to me anyway with that quiet grin of his. Somehow, all these years later, I still have that helmet — heavy enough to break a brick — along with the leather ammo belt and a few other things.
Back then, I knew he’d been in the war, but it didn’t mean much to me. It was just “Grandpa’s stuff.” I didn’t understand the weight those things carried.
Years later, when my dad retired from the Air Force, we lived with my grandfather for a while. The room I stayed in had a box tucked away in the closet — filled with papers, badges, and his discharge forms. That’s when I started to piece together who he really was. He’d been a tail gunner in the 72nd Bomb Squadron of the 13th Air Force — “The Jungle Air Force.” He flew in the Pacific during World War II, in long-range bombing missions where danger was constant and silence afterward was the only way to keep moving forward.
After the war, he worked as an aircraft mechanic for United Airlines. He didn’t have a fancy workshop — just rows of tool chests lined up along the patio from the kitchen door to the end, maybe a dozen of them, each one packed tight. Around the back of the house, he had a little workroom filled with jars of nuts and bolts, bits of metal, and gadgets that only made sense to him. Inside, on the shelf in the room where I stayed, were thick United Airlines service manuals — full of wiring diagrams and technical notes. I used to flip through them, not understanding a word, just amazed that someone could.
He didn’t talk much about his work, just like he didn’t talk much about the war. But now I realize both were about the same thing — keeping people safe, doing what needed to be done, quietly and well.
My dad’s service looked different. He joined the Air Force by choice, mostly to avoid being drafted into Vietnam so he could serve on his own terms. He spent most of his career in personnel, and about eight years as a recruiter. Later, he served during Desert Storm — not overseas, but right here at home. He told stories about how, when orders came down, they’d have to strip rooms of anything with speakers or wiring — even clock radios — before processing deployment paperwork.
Two very different kinds of service. One in the sky under fire, one behind a desk making sure others got where they needed to go. Both mattered.
I think about that now, especially around Veterans Day. As a kid, I just saw the objects — a helmet, a hat, a few medals. As an adult, I see the stories inside them — the courage to serve, the humility to come home, the steadiness to build a life afterward.
And maybe that’s what Scouting teaches too. That service doesn’t always look the same. It isn’t about the size of the stage or the sound of the applause. It’s about doing what’s right, showing up, and carrying responsibility with quiet pride.
That’s what my grandfather did on those long flights over the Pacific. That’s what my dad did behind the paperwork and recruiting tables. And that’s what we can all do, right here, every day — in our homes, our communities, and our units.
That’s the quiet kind of brave.