But what I can’t tell you about is the fear and loathing of Communism. And I certainly can’t tell you what it felt like to be afraid—viscerally, palpably, genuinely terrified—of the Soviet Union launching a nuclear attack on the United States. Because thirty years ago whenever good ole Bert the Turtle instructed me to “duck and cover,” I kneeled down under my desk with a smirk on my face and a near-empty head, my only thought being whether Mom had packed a Kit Kat bar in my lunch that day.
What do we owe our fallen soldiers? That’s the question I was turning over in my mind one morning in March as I drove to work down Billy Farrow Highway. Speeding past Baptist churches and modest houses and farmland, I thought about Lt. William Grover Farrow and his short yet exemplary life. A few days prior, Brian Gandy, the resident historian for Darlington County, had educated me on Farrow’s participation in the WWII Doolittle Raid, a bombing campaign on strategic military targets in Japan in 1942.