Having gotten to know so many WWII veterans by virtue of my father's career (and of those a few became personal friends) this is something I think about quite often. The entire world owes a debt of gratitude; and we may never understand their value and perspective (until, I fear, it's too late). My father got his wings in 1938. I attended several of his flying class reunions - until, at 91, he was the last one to remain. He rarely reflected on that openly, but I knew it was a sorrow he carried.