I have written about my Dad, his horrific war wounds sustained in D-Day, but I wish to pass this along.
He quit school at the 8th grade. He left home, became a train jumping hobo during the Great Depression. Whatever money he made, he sent to his Mom so his little sisters and brothers got someting to eat. His impetus to join the Army at age 15, lying, saying he was 18, was because he had visited his older brother's barracks, and pre-war, back in the 30's, had been allowed in the mess hall.
He ate. And ate.
He told me he had never eaten to his fill. Never.
He sustained so many gunshot wounds to his torso, blowing out so many body parts, never losing his awareness of events, such as the medic nearby that took a knife, ripping his shirt to keep the blood filling his upper body from being constricting. You or anyone would think that is the ultimate pain. He says a bullet (at least 8 or 9 machine gun bullets) do not hurt at the moment, but after a while, it is a burning sensation.
He said, and still says, hunger pain is worse. He says the worst pain he knows is hunger. He cries about that. Tears up about being shot by a machine gun.
When he was discharged in 1945, he became a farmer. He produced food. Rice. Then, corn, peas, peanuts, by the acres. And them gave most of it away.
He is 92 yrs old. To this day, he will tear up about the people he saw killed and maimed in war, but will put up a warrior's fight for food.
To this day, he tells me how to plant my corn, my peas, my tomatoes.
And he insists I share my bounty with the local senior citizens, so nobody hurts the unimaginable pain of hunger.