What would Brigadier General Robin Olds want us to remember on Veteran’s Day?
In the early mornings of 1962, before my sister and I left for school, our tall, handsome father, in his Air Force dress blues, would kiss us goodbye, leaving traces of Old Spice on our cheeks, and then he’d head off to his job at the Pentagon. We didn’t have a clue what he did there. The Beatles were becoming the rage and we were headed for two years in England. For two girls, ages ten and eleven, nothing happening in the Pentagon was as important as the music on our transistor radios. My father was home every night and most weekends. There was continuity, love and warmth in our young lives and, consequently, very little understanding of his military service. All I knew was that he hated nuclear weapons. It helped me believe nuclear war would never happen when we huddled under our school desks during drills. After we arrived in England, in June 1963, I clued in that Col. Robin Olds was a big deal around Bentwaters AFB. He was saluted everywhere we drove or walked with him, and he had
