Who Pulled the Trigger

I guess I should start by telling you a little about my father.
At 14 and a half, he convinced his parents to take him to the recruiter one county over and convince him that he was 15 and a half, turning 16, legaly old enough to make his own decisions, and joined the Army, well ... the Army Air Corps which became the Air Force.
He grew up in the mountains. At 12, if not younger, he used to go out in his bare feet pre-dawn, so he wouldn't disturb anything, and shoot a squirrel or whatever so they would have meat on the table that day. His father had gone into the coal mines at 10, couldn't read or write, and seeing this, my dad figured there was a better way.
He learned to drive in Alaska, because that's where the Driving School was. Little known by most people, but the Japanese invaded Alaska. Our guys pushed them off the tip of the Aluetians and little has been made of it. So at the end of WWII, this kid from the hills was quite possibly shuttling supplies and soldiers to a shelling station. Quite possibly asked: "Can you make this shot?"
In the aftermath, he was in Germany, trained with a camera, a Contax Ziess Ikon, to take photos. He met my mom while stationed in New York, and they later were transfered to England, on a former Air Base where the Hell's Angels flew out of. There I was born.
I have that camera.
He had been to Korea, and as part of an expeditionary force, walked all the way up to Vietnam to see what it looked like. When they tried to send him to Vietnam, he had already been in two wars, already seen it, had his 20 years, and retired. Besides, he had a kid to raise.
I was six months old when they returned to the States. Mom says that on the flight over, I was pulling pacifiers and baby bottles out of the mouths of the other toddlers on the flight. I remember Shaw AFB and living off base up until I started kindergarten. We were in Oxon Hill and Woodbridge. There's a picture of me, in Oxon Hill, against a fence in tears with a dog barking on the other side of the back yard. They had taken to dressing me in a burgundy one piece when going to church on Sundays and while the parents were gabbing with a neighbor, I slipped out an ran into the backyard; tried to say hi to this strange new beast.
I have his Service Record.
He took me out on the shooting range when I was 14; lined up a shot at 50 meters with a 22 and a scope; said: "I'll bet you 5 dollars that you can't beat that." He had put a hole in a crosshair target that had drifted to the lower left. "You have two options: you can either compensate or adjust the scope alignment." I lined up the scope crosshair high to the right and nailed the cross, handed the gun to him, and said "you can keep your 5 dollars, guns are for killing, and I don't ever want to have a gun in my hands again." As young boys do, I had a BB gun. Dad decided to take me out deer hunting with him once, and we sat at the edge of a field near what he had identified as a deer path. After what then seemed like hours to a little kid, we heard some dogs barking in the distance, and then not twenty feet away, a deer appeared, frothing at the mouth, frozen at the precipice of the field staring at us. I didn't move, nor did I consider using the gun dad had shown me was the next step past the BB gun. After the deer had run off, he asked me: "why didn't you shoot?" I looked at him, and with a swagger that only a naive young buck could pull off, said "it wouldn't have been a good kill." He considered that for a second, replying with a smile: "you're right. It was run out from the chase, and the meat would have been tough."
Even younger, I recall being in Ohio with mom's side of the family while dad was trying to secure a post Service job. He came back one day and said let's go fossil hunting. So I jumped in the car and he drove. And drove. We went to Texas. Seemed like we were in a field. "Do you want to see a parade?" Well, what kid doesn't? "Look here." Looking through a magnifier of some point, I could see a bunch of people lining a street. "Here, take a picture." "How do I do that?" "Put your finger here."

I have that picture.
When I went to college, he died during my second semester. Just before Spring Break. That fifth heart attack finally stopped him smoking. I changed majors from music, because the reality of having to actually find a job that pays set in. Got a job after college, worked 25 years on government contracts that brought me in contact with all kinds of former servicemen. Once, when training people to use computer graphic interfaces, the work, administrative assistant assigned to accompany me on travel, in Korea, offered up when he had been in service in Korea. He had been a part of an expeditionary force, really just two or three people with local guides. They were out in the field with their kitchen rations, tinned meat affectionately call K-Rats, when the guides were grilling some small animal over on their side of the camp. The aide tells me that one of our guys, and I'm presuming this to be my father, which is why this aide was assigned to me, goes over to the guides and asks them to try what they're eating ... . They say no, you really wouldn't normally eat this. My dad goes "you see what we've got, this canned crap; that smells really good!" They go back and forth until the guides were convinced they our guys wouldn't turn their noses up and waste any. Turns out it was rat; a field rat; a healthy, grain fed, succulent grilled beast. The aide tells me it was good eating. During the course of their journey, they take pictures; one with how friendly different cultures can be when you really get down to basics.
I have that picture.
Throughout my quarter century of a career, many times people would walk by the office and would hear them say, "is that him, does he know?" What? About my father?
There is a picture of dad receiving a commendation. It is in front of a portrait that is conspicuously obscured by an American Flag at rest.
I have that picture.
"Does he know?"
"Of course I know. Who do you think pulled the trigger?"