Billy Joe loved his grandpa. In fact, he was named after him. He loved sitting around the kitchen table, or in the den, listening to the stories he shared about his war experiences. Grandpa Joe told him of the friends he'd made and how they had fought and how some had survived. Being a survivor, he appreciated life even more.

He spoke of bombs and weapons and the grueling terrain they were required to navigate. The trenches they had dug, and the sleepless nights they spent, crouched, waiting for the enemy. He remembered the horrifying noise of planes swooping low, which drove him insane, a sound that still reverberates in his mind.

He spoke of the heat during the day and the bitter cold at night, and always feeling hungry, for food was rationed and there was very little of it. Sometimes he felt that it would never end.

He spoke of narrow paths, fighting shrubs to make way and of the mosquitoes that plagued him. The constant buzzing which almost seemed relentless.

He remembered the weight of his rifle as he carried it close to his chest. And crawling on his belly in the high grass, preparing for an attack.

He described the constant ringing of gunfire in his ears as shots were exchanged and the fear and adrenalin that was pumping as they forged forward. There was little rest.

He spoke of the wounded and dying, and of the sadness and loss that he felt. He had made many friends and lost so many too. Sometimes he felt guilty that he was still alive, but that was a thought he had to dismiss in order to survive.

Grandpa Joe, when speaking of the war, would often pause for a moment, and wipe a tear from his rugged face. It was as if he had transcended time and had left the room.

I loved my grandpa Joe and always listened intently to the stories that he told. He shared a time in his life that was challenging and cruel and yet he was not bitter. He was truly my hero.