This memorial Day I remembered my Grand-uncle Wesley Weeks, who died in WWII when his destroyer ran aground while pursuing a Japanese submarine. The sub came back and shelled the boat until it was pretty much gone.
And my Grandfather William Eugene Weeks, who volunteered for the Navy right after Pearl Harbor. He was on a subchaser (basically a fiberglass flat-bottomed destroyer) up in the Aleutians, as an enlisted radio repairman. He was underworked in his primary duties so he learned all the duties on the ship. A large storm with bad visibility caused a large strike package (hundreds of planes) to ditch en-masse in the ocean, so all available ships were put to sea to help in the rescue/recovery effort. His ship was 50% manned with most of the crew on shore leave, including all of the officers except for one very junior ensign who didn't know anything about anything. My Grandfather was given a field promotion above the officer of the watch, and he took the little boat out into the storm with half a crew. I don't think they found anyone but he got the boat out and back without losing anyone else so they sent him to OCS for a regular commission. He finished the war as a classified courier in the DC area, some pretty spooky cloak and dagger stuff apparently. He remained in the reserves and retired after about 50 years of service as a Commander. He pinned on my 2Lt bars and gave me my first salute at my own commissioning 21 years ago, which still chokes me up a bit when I think about it.
And a dozen or so friends/comrades who have died on duty and after retirement/separation over the last 25 years I've been in uniform. I think they all knew how important their service was, and that's important to remember, I think.
