So today I heard my dad's view point on his father.
His dad was a fighter pilot in the Vietnam War.
His plane was shot down, somewhere in Laos.
Never found a body.
Never had a funeral.
My dad was less than ten.
His plane was shot down, and he ejected the co-pilot, but didn't have time to do the same for himself.
They've recently found a crash site, but they may never be able to actually confirm whether or not it was my grandfather's.
My older brother asked my dad "If you met the son of the man who shot your dad's plane down, do you think you'd be bitter?"
My dad's answer was simple.
No.
He said it was war. They were defending their country, and he was bombing them. To them, he was the bad guy.
He said how he had thought a lot about it when he was younger. He said how it seemed like a great idea to use all the hate, confusion, and resentment in him to hold a grudge against them.
"It's not that he loved war, but he was a fighter pilot. He loved what he did. He'd been training his entire life to fly. He woke up every morning, and headed down to the base. From the time he got into the cockpit, taxied out, and took off, there were about 400 chances of something going wrong and him dying. He knew that. You can ask any of the guys around here, (we live near an Air Force base) and their eyes light up. Every day they would go out, fly, come back to the officer's club, and drink themselves stupid. That's what they loved. But it's war. It's stupid."
♥