Throughout my childhood, my dad told me many stories.The one that's really stuck with me is about Vietnam.

It allstarted when his parents divorced. His mom threw him out of her house sohe moved in with his dad. Then he decided to join the armed services andgo to war.

He told me how his dad (my grandpa) got teary-eyed."Son," he asked, "you do remember me telling you aboutbeing in World War II, right?"

"Yes, sir," my dadsaid.

Then my grandpa's attitude changed. "If you want to dothis," he said, "and you really have it in your heart to go,then I won't stop you." My dad said good-bye to his father andleft.

He doesn't like to talk about what he did in the war; hefeels ashamed of the killing. But he did tell me about a guy named Bill."He was the best friend I could ever have," he told me. Theybecame such good friends that they were almost inseparable.

Onetime, they were shooting at the Vietnamese when there was a bigexplosion. Dad and Bill were right next to each other, but when Dadlooked over, Bill was on his back, not moving a muscle. My dad turnedBill over and it looked like the whole right side of Bill's body hadbeen blown off. My dad ripped off his own clothes to cover Bill's woundsand called for medical help. He watched as Bill was carried away on astretcher while bombs and guns went off all around them. My dad neverknew if Bill had died or survived.

One day a few years ago,there was a knock at the door. Dad opened it to see a tall, old-lookingman. It was Bill. He walked with a cane, but other than that he was asfine as can be. He wanted to thank my dad for saving his life and beingthe most wonderful friend in the world. Bill told me my father is thebravest, most caring man ever, and that I should be proud to have him asa father. I am.