When I was growing up, my father, a submariner from World War II, had one particular obsession — that I not be a coward. We lived in a kind of ghetto of poor whites and blacks with our share of bullies who did not practice racial discrimination when they picked fights. So there were plenty of opportunities to be brave, including a time when, returning home from the deli at night, I was mugged by two boys my age and my race.

This obsession with bravery, though, resulted in a very mean fight between my father and myself. My father hit me because I would not hit another kid who was picking on me. It was the only time he struck except for ritual times with the traditional belt. The bruise on my arm lasted for weeks. I suppose today a teacher would notice and call some sort of protective services.

Lately now, between Veterans Day and Thanksgiving, I think about the horrors that our veterans went through. At the 50th anniversary of WWII, veterans finally felt free to talk on television about their experiences. One veteran from the Battle of the Bulge admitted that there had not been a day in his life since that he had not thought about the battle and all the blood, the dead and wounded.

My father died before he would talk about the fear.

When I was a boy I saw a movie about American submarine warfare where the enemy dropped depth charges. I asked my father what the depth charges were for.

"Oh, nothing," he said. "They just shake you up a little."

I was much older when I found out that they could sink a submarine.

Sons of the veterans are starting to speak now and it turns out that we have a common experience: the obsession of our fathers with bravery. Or I should say, their obsession that their sons not be cowards.

What happened in their experience of war that made them so fearful? Perhaps a statistic like the battle of Okinawa, where more than 1,000 soldiers broke down emotionally, has something to do with it.

Well, my father, for all faults, was a member of the greatest generation as was my mother, who went to weld submarines in New London, Conn. This great generation gave up their lives for years. We are the beneficiaries.

There was another obsession my father had and that was with poor children. There were families poorer than us and my father insisted on leaving things ... like our toys ... on a trash heap so the local kids could find them. He would watch from our porch to see them happily rescuing the things.

He had done the same in the different ports during WWII. He and his crew would put discarded but usable food out in separate containers and not mix it into swill so the local kids could eat something instead of starve.

He always reminded us of that at the table when we balked at something.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Rev. Halbert Weidner is the pastor of Holy Trinity Church and parish priest for the Ukrainian Mission of St. Sophia.