Three little boys and their hats

All three men remembered the old soldier in the same way.  When they were five, he was young, virile, someone to look up to.  Look up to him they did.  In 1952 he had fought a war that most everyone was behind- he'd killed Nazi's and that was a good thing in their young minds.  A hero. 

The soldier's son, born after the war, watched his dad leave for Korea.  Another war- more heroism- his pride overwhelming his impulse to cry and beg his father to stay.  His father left for that war on a night when all three boys were together- his son in his little twin bed- the Daniel Boone coonskin cap on his bedpost- the other two boys bunking- the boy on top, army helmet on his bedpost- the boy below, cowboy hat on his.  Little men.

It was the middle of the night when his dad woke him to say goodbye.  "Don't cry, son.  Your father will be back."  "Yessir."  "You three boys take care of each while I am gone, and take care of your mother."

Saw the old soldier again in 2006, this time he was 78 years old.  His son had been missing in action for at least forty years- MIA, Viet Nam.  Surely he's dead, but could never be sure- his body was never recovered.  The Army kept coming up with remains- DNA testing from the maternal remains- only proving that, while several GI Joe's had made their way back to American graves and long-suffering families, none of them had managed to be this old soldier's son. 

He didn't mind so much for himself.

It was the boy's mother who suffered so.  She descended into some kind of grief-induced dementia and finally died. 

She'd run around naked and start fires everywhere. 

Towards the end he had to put her on a dog leash to keep her safe.