Futures are up sharply on AI enthusiasm. Yes, again. Coreweave (CRWV), which was circling the drain last week, beat estimates and delivered a sufficiently rosy forecast that it popped over 15% higher…

…goosing the rest of the AI dependent S&P 500 at the same time.

Today is Veteran’s Day, a day meant to honor those who have served in the United States armed forces. It’s also a great reminder of the promises made to veterans in exchange for their service. I came across a wonderful essay by Thom Hartmann that begs the question:

America Makes Billionaires Out of War. Why Does it Make Veterans Beg for Care?

I’ve known many veterans in my life. My father fought in World War II, enlisting in 1939. He ended up in the 89th Infantry, the division that liberated most of the German concentration camps toward the end of the war. He died when I was young, but I’ve read about the 89th. From the Holocaust Encyclopedia:

“As Allied troops moved across Europe in a series of offensives against Nazi Germany, they found tens of thousands of concentration camp prisoners in deplorable conditions. Malnutrition and disease were rampant, and corpses lay unburied. The soldiers reacted in shock and disbelief to the evidence of Nazi atrocities. In addition to burying the dead, the Allied forces attempted to help and comfort the survivors with food, clothing and medical assistance.”

The 89th operated as a spearhead for General George S. Patton’s Third Army, the division which executed a 640 mile rapid advance from the English Channel deep into the heart of Germany. My father was in the Signal Corp, which meant he carried 20 pounds of camera equipment in addition to the 30-40 pounds of gear every soldier carried [I hiked the 500-mile Camino de Santiago a few years ago and struggled with a 25-pound backpack.]

I’ve always wondered how he dealt with the horrors of what he saw and documented in the concentration camps. Perhaps the answer is in the handful of pictures I have of him and my mom, also deceased. Very few of them show him smiling. It’s a grim lesson in the reality of war.

My father-in-law was also in World War II. He was at Pearl Harbor when it was attacked in December 1941. His best friend died in his arms on the tarmac. Like many WWII veterans, he never talked about his experiences. My uncle fought in Korea, and never talked about his time there either.

I was also fortunate to know Michael J Novosel, MOH and his son, Mike Jr. Mike Sr. had flown a B-29 in World War II, retiring from the Air Force after Korea only to give up his retirement and Lt. Col rank to join the Army as a Warrant Officer to fly medevac helicopters in Vietnam.

By then, Mike Jr had grown up and joined the Army, becoming a pilot in the same Dustoff unit as his dad in Vietnam. Mike Sr. rescued him when he was shot down in 1969. He returned the favor a week later, rescuing his dad after he was shot down.

Mike Sr and Mike Jr talked about their experience quite a bit. Mike Sr wrote a book about his life and career, and spoke publicly on many occasions. I met him in 2002 while working as a writer/producer at Warner Bros, which had sponsored the Gathering of Eagles celebration of aviation luminaries.

They flew us in a C-17 up to Edwards Air Force base. While everyone else swarmed Chuck Yeager, I was drawn to the helicopter pilot who flew 2,543 missions and rescued over 5,500 people. We became close friends, and I was honored to adapt his book into a screenplay.

Mike’s feelings about war evolved significantly during his two tours in Vietnam. Unlike WWII, when he dropped bombs while flying thousands of feet above Japanese cities, Mike’s missions in Vietnam usually meant hosing blood and body parts out of the back of his Huey. It was up close and personal, especially after his son arrived.

It’s an apt allegory for the typical American attitudes toward war. If we think about it at all, it’s because it costs too much to fill up the car. Like Captain Bonespurs and his idiot sidekick Hegseth, we are only too happy to delegate the job of protecting us to others. We don’t care until our own son comes home in a wheelchair or a body bag.