Bad war, good war - for those who fight, it’s all the same - means death, disfigurement and horrors no human heart is equipped to bear. Before it’s too late, we ought to reach beyond the nostalgia and myth and embrace the truth of war and the Greatest Generation. World War II vets die at the rate of 492 a day. Of all the men and women who served in the armed forces during World War II, less than 6 percent, about 850,000, are still alive, according to the Department of Veterans Affairs. “Many of them looked okay because they went to work, got married, they raised families - but it doesn’t mean they didn’t have PTSD.” “Our conceptualization of the Greatest Generation is that came home and got to work,” said Paula Schnurr, executive director of the National Center for PTSD, who has worked with World War II veterans since the 1990s. Though the reverential books of Tom Brokaw and Stephen Ambrose glossed over it, the hidden anguish of the Greatest Generation has always been there. The soldiers I interviewed nearly two decades ago, and tens of thousands of others like them, were painful and often poignant proof of that. Yet those costs, as hard as the nation tried to ignore them, did not go away. By the 1990s, amid the mythology of the Greatest Generation, the psychological costs of the last “good war” had been forgotten. But with the passage of time and the prevailing male ethos - the strong, silent type - World War II was soon overshadowed by the Cold War and eventually Vietnam.
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Though it was referred to by other names (shell shock, combat fatigue, neuropsychiatric disorders) the emotional toll of World War II was hard to miss in the immediate postwar years military psychiatric hospitals across the nation were full of afflicted soldiers, and the press was full of woeful tales. Those of age in the late 1940s would have known differently. “Bad war, bad outcome, bad aftereffects,” is the way historian Thomas Childers put it. The symptoms were familiar to the world by then, but post-traumatic stress disorder, the diagnosis that came into being in 1980, was widely assumed to be unique to veterans of Vietnam. They talked of night terrors, heavy drinking, survivor’s guilt, depression, exaggerated startle responses, profound and lingering sadness. Each had survived Omaha Beach, the Ardennes Forest or the Pacific Islands, only to have the psychic residue of combat shatter their golden years. There were also guys named Otis Mackey and George Swinney, and a half-dozen other vets who inspired my novel of the Greatest Generation that was published this spring. “You’d think you could forget something like that,” said Crumby, whose own war ended with a shrapnel wound in the Battle of the Bulge. “It was nothing but arms and legs, heads and guts.” “As dearly as I loved that woman, her death didn’t affect me near as much as it does to sit down here and talk to you about seeing those young boys butchered during the war,” said the white-haired World War II veteran, who was 71 on that day in 1997. His wife had died a few years before, but Crumby said his tears that day weren’t for her.
I sat in the suburban Dallas living room of Earl Crumby as the old soldier quietly wept. Tim Madigan, a freelance writer living in Texas, is the author of the novel “Every Common Sight.”