by Carla Wickline-Shorts

Created on: October 31, 2008   Last Updated: September 30, 2010

The Heroes Who Protect Our Votes

Right about now, we're all bone-weary of the most protracted presidential campaign in U.S. history. We're tired of the pundits. We're tired of the polls. And we're especially tired of the insipidly smarmy TV ads. But it's important that we persevere right up to the lever-pulling conclusion on November 4.

Whether your issue is the economy, underscored endlessly by the yo-yoing global markets and the unprecedented government bailouts of private enterprises, or the War in Iraq, or the precarious balance of sanctions and concessions keeping Middle East unrest to a containable smolder, every American citizen who is legally registered must get out and vote on November 4.

We've been taught that voting is a privilege, and it is, but maybe we should also acknowledge it as an homage to our nation's heroes, those who put their lives on the line so that we would be free to decide the country's direction every year. (In fact, Election Day could be characterized as the quintessential day of remembrance, rolling Memorial Day, Independence Day, and Veterans' Day all into one.)

As we prepare for another Election Day, let us think about these heroes and allow their names and faces to scroll through our thoughts, perhaps giving rise to a tear or a knowing smile, and let us be thankful - thankful for what they did and thankful for what they mean to us still. Today, I'm going to share my heroes with you.

I never even met my first two heroes, but their stories were entrenched in my early memories and my appreciation grew as I developed a more mature frame of reference. These were my godfather's two brothers, both casualties of WWII. One was a Ranger killed at Normandy Beach on D-Day, June 6, 1944. The other was a tail gunner who had completed all his missions by April, 1945, and was slated to return home, except that he volunteered for one more flight to drop supplies behind enemy lines. His plane was shot down and he was buried somewhere in France, without fanfare. But the white cross marking his grave and those of his fellow defenders whispers a constant testimony through the years, "Remember me, America, and live free; live well."

My late father also fought on the European front. On a frigid Christmas Eve, 1944, he boarded a troop carrier, the Cheshire, one of two which were to make their way across the English Channel with fresh troops to reinforce our Army in the Battle of the Bulge. On the way, the other carrier, the Leopoldville, was torpedoed

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