Because the Medal of Honor is presented “in the name of the Congress of the United States,” it is frequently called the Congressional Medal of Honor.… - Cole C. Kingseed

It is my personal conviction that almost any one of the newborn states of the world would far rather embrace Communism or any other form of dictatorship than acknowledge the political domination of another government, even though that brought to each citizen a far higher standard of living.

I remember him as if it were yesterday. The old soldier emerged from the elevator in the hotel lobby at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, dapperly attired in a dark blazer with the crest of the 101st Airborne Division on his pocket. His neatly cropped gray hair reflected a military man far younger than his current seventy-nine-plus years. I am not sure what I had expected to see. At the time of our initial encounter, most veterans of World War II were in their late seventies or early eighties. Most veterans who visited West Point to share their reminiscences with the cadets walked with the aid of canes or walkers. In Winters's case, there was a noticeable spring in his step that belied his age.

Quiet is easy to achieve," Dick repeatedly said, "but true peace must come from within." That was where the farm came in, a quiet piece of Pennsylvania where he could forget about the war. Without that refuge, Dick's thoughts always returned to the war, those horrendous battles, those fallen comrades, those lucky ones who suffered the million-dollar wound and returned to the States while the survivors went on.
He approached the subject of what he referred to as "flashes from the past" only after we had known each other for five years. He turned to me once, changing the subject that we had been discussing, and said, "Don't you think it's strange that fifty-eight years after the war, I can't get these images out of my mind?"
"Not at all, Dick. Every soldier bears the emotional scars of combat long after the war ends. War is only attractive to those who know nothing about it. I remember how one of the war's correspondents, I think it was Ernie Pyle, but I'm not sure, said at war's end, 'All we can do is fumble and try once more- try out of the memory of our anguish- and be as tolerant we can.'