I recently became the heir to an old tattered cardboard box sent to me by my uncle’s widow by way of my daughter who had stopped off to see her as she passed through the mountain states on a summer trip. The lady expressed how I “should be the one to have this” and I now have its contents tucked away in different “safe places.” The box contented what was left of “his war stuff.”

There were items that brought memories of when I would take some of them from the dresser drawers at my grandmother’s. One was the seemingly strange piece of German technology which made the weird sound as you pressed repeatedly on its small, geared lever. It fit in the palm of the hand and generated a light when the lever was pumped but it also produced that sound which my uncle recalled as having an almost haunting effect on a dark French night as the Nazis wandered just behind their lines.

There were other things that ranged from old patches to paperwork. But the core of that box’s contents were the medals and what his widow had called “his old army shirt.” The medals were, for the most part, still intact in their cases. The Good Conduct Metal had been thrown in with the Bronze Star Medal and the oak leaf cluster that accompanied it.

But the “shirt” was almost in the exact condition as it appeared in the photo taken when its owner had ended his WWII service. I was able to lay the photo and the shirt side by side as I begin again to identify what story each small presentation on that now slightly faded khaki cloth told. One of the bars of “ribbons” had come loose at some point in time and could be found in the case with the Silver Star.

The left sleeve told that the shirt’s owner had belonged to the 101st Airborne and his rank was sergeant. The top of the left front pocket displayed the combat badge with the image of the Minuteman musket. Just above it, the two rows of ribbons gave testimony to more specifics of that combat. The top row of ribbons represented the Purple Heart, the Bronze Star, and the Silver Star. Ribbons on the bottom row represented the Good Conduct Medal, the American Defense Service Medal and the European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal given for victory in those theaters of war. This last ribbon had five battle stars on it as well as another tiny, pointed bronze image that meant he had taken part in a seaborne or airborne invasion.

Just above the ribbons was the badge known as the “jump wings.” It sat on top of a tri-colored oval patch which told that he was a part of the 506th. The wings were silver which indicated that he had finished training and made one combat jump. The gold star at the top of the parachute on the wings was there to recognize five combat jumps. The addition bronze star below it was evidence of a sixth.

The triangle shaped patch over the right front pocket signified an honorable discharge. Below it, the small blue badge with the gold frame was unfamiliar to me. It took some searching before I realized what it was. It represents a Presidential Unit Citation. It is awarded to small combat units which show “extraordinary heroism in action against an armed enemy” displaying a gallantry “under extremely difficult and hazardous conditions so to set them apart and above other units in the same campaign.” The unit citation is considered the equal of the Distinguished Service Cross if awarded individually. In the entire European-African theater there were 107 unit citations issued. The addition oak leaf clusters on the badge say that its owner took part in three of them.

The contents of that tattered old box and the stories told by the front of that shirt were but a sliver of a man’s life. It was only months from the time that he climbed aboard a transport plane in England to be a part of the 101st ‘s first combat jump to the final end of Nazi Germany. But in several ways, it defined who he was for the next fifty odd years. Perhaps without that box and shirt he would just be the man who had taught me to string and shoot a recurve bow, bulge for elk, tie a diamond hitch, easily tell the difference between the track of a grizzle and black bear, made sure I had an old but solid bronc saddle, introduced me to a variety of characters who were the very symbol of individualism and showed me a few other worldly corners that we both made sure his baby sister didn’t hear about (but I think she suspected anyway, she knew us both fairly well). But, I believe, he was always a man born of the experiences behind those stories and demonstrated it in most he did.

The stories that were packed away in that tattered box are not just mine. They belong to all of us. And I suspect that each of us have similar stories packed somewhere of those past who answered a necessary call. There may well be several generations of such stories stretching from protection of colonial settlements to desperate urban streets in strange places. I am sure there are countless seemingly small and unidentifiable items which tell their stories of debts owed to our past heroes. This is a time when we are asked to stop for a moment and remember the need for such people to answer those calls that will always be necessary – and what we owe them, both past and present.

Today we are blessed with a few special individuals who serve in an all-volunteer military who are deployed multiple times to hellholes throughout the globe so that we continue practicing a liberty that no other nation in human history has seen. At home, we have individuals wearing a different, blue uniform. They accept abuse from many corners but still unflinchingly step between our children and a shooter’s bullet, rush into places of worship to do the same for those of all faiths and daily watch for those who would interrupt our lives with their violence.

One hundred years ago in the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, a brief halt was declared in man’s destruction. Those “wise men” of the day tried to declare an end to all wars, but of course, it was not. This world will be beset with struggles of all sizes as long as humans run it. It fact, the arrogance of those who met at that time only helped to set the stage for the next, even more horrible war.

Their legacy was not a “war to end all wars” but an example that we must always stand ready to meet the world’s evil, that this readiness is always necessary. Liberty is hard won and easily lost.

All of the wounds, deaths, victories, struggles, and accomplishments packed into all those tattered old boxes represent calls answered that allow us to hold a fragile liberty in our hands, a liberty won over centuries and centuries. It allows us to live a life undreamed of in past centuries but also the ability to let it slip carelessly through our fingers. To understand this and then to live that life of liberty fully is our responsibility, our calling. Because we have the liberty won for us, we can refuse the call, the responsibility. It is our choice.

Liberty is not security. In fact, it might actually increase the insecurity woven into some parts of life because its practice brings risk, choices and individual responsibility. But it also brings an expansion of human potential that exceeds our best expectations. It is that potential that has to be passed to our next generations. That is what is owed to those who have answered the call and defended that liberty, past and present, here and abroad.