Why I Hate War!

On a brisk, snowy evening in the winter of 1945, my mother and grandfather Oleson and my 1 ½ year old brother Eric and I...I was three...rode in Papa’s car the 1/4 mile to the train station on the East Side of Berlin, New Hampshire. We waited for just a little while and then the steam engine chugged into the station.

Mom pointed out my father carrying his sea bag as he made his way down the aisle in the train.. "There’s Daddy!" she said.

Dad had spent 2 ½ years in the South Pacific; Hawaii, the Phillipines, Okinawa as a Carpenter’s Mate in the 125th Construction Battalion (the SeaBees).

Home at 480 Champlain Street were waiting my great-grandmother Ingerson, my grandmother Oleson, and a couple of aunts and uncles. I don’t remember which ones. I remember the blue couch and chairs in the apartment. Dad sat on the couch with someone...I can’t remember who.
My father had gifts for Eric and me that he said he had gotten in Hawaii; a stuffed teddy bear for Eric and a bag of molasses candy kisses for me.

After some coffee and sandwiches and cake, the relatives left.

During the night my brother Eric go out of his crib and went into my parents' bedroom and crawled into bed. My father...using his fists..almost beat my brother to death.

My father’s youngest sister, Topey, once told me that Otto went to war her best friend and came home a stranger.
I hate war.