10/22/2026
The whole reason I went into the history field is embodied in one veterans's story.
Today, October 22, marks 82 years since my Dad was wounded in action. 82 years since that pitch black night when he slept in a foxhole, his buddy standing watch. 82 years since he je**ed awake to a bayonet being stuck in his chest. Dad found himself surrounded by J**s in the dark as he stumbled towards the corpsman's foxhole. They hacked at him with bayonets, cutting him across the chest, his right leg and arm. He struggled with one of them in hand to hand combat and the J*p fired his pistol sending a bullet through Dad's arm. The American machine gunners cut loose at the noise, sending a .50 cal round through his upper left leg and tearing a 14 inch wound channel across his thigh. A second one tore through his calf. As an adult and knowing more about the size of the bullet, I asked Dad if he was sure it was a .50 and not a .30. He looked at me and said, "Son, if a Corpsman can put his entire hand in your leg, that wasn't a .30" The fighting raged around him as he finally crawled to the corpsman's position. When morning came, 129 dead J**s were found within the perimeter and Neil Varnell's part in WWII was over. He was evacuated, placed aboard a hospital ship and sent on a long journey home, culminating in 6 different Naval hospitals and a doctor telling him he would never walk again. Dad told them they were wrong and set about proving it. He turned down 100% disability and took 20. Forcing himself to move the leg and slowly regaining his strength, he was back climbing poles at the Electric Power Board by 1946. Dad never saw himself as a hero, stating that if they gave medals for being scared, he would have had a chest full. But, to me, no man walked larger nor more heroic than my Dad
