I never had the privilege of knowing him. He was born, lived his all too brief life, and was gone, long before I came along-but I do know that he loved his family, was kind and compassionate when it came to his fellow human beings, had brown eyes and a sense of humor, and liked to whistle. Many of the same traits I can lay claim to myself.
What I can’t possibly ever know is the misery he endured as a prisoner of war-what it was like to suffer and die like he did.
But I can remember him.
My Uncle Pete.