As a journalist, I’ve interviewed a variety of people, with different experiences, from all walks of life, the haves, the have-nots and all those somewhere in between. A part of my job as a writer is that of a storyteller, allowing readers a look inside the lives of others.

The people and stories meaning the most to me in my writing, are those of our former Prisoners of War. I have had the privilege of meeting and writing about men who endured the unbearable in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam.

Over Memorial Day weekend last month I had the honor of speaking at the Women’s Memorial at Arlington National Cemetery. It was a special time to remember those who died in our nation’s service. I also paid tribute to an extraordinary group of survivors who sacrificed their youth, health, and innocence while serving our nation. 
 
About 50,000 former-POWS are alive today and living among us. They might be your neighbor, congressman or Wal-Mart greeter.  It was important to me as a reporter, but even more as a human being, to share their stories of sacrifice and survival with others—especially the younger generations, so we never forget, as a nation, and as a people—the price paid for freedom.

Years ago while traveling in China, a German traveler asked about the faded red bracelet with the inscribed name on my wrist.

“Is it your boyfriend?”

“No,” I said. “I never met him. He was a private in the Marine Corps, just 19-years-old when he was declared Missing-in-Action in Vietnam in 1967.”  

The traveler scoffed. “Why can’t Americans let go of the past?”

“It’s not about letting go,” I said. “It’s about remembering.” 

So remember with me, by reading snippets of these men’s stories: 
Jim DeVane, a POW in Germany during World War II, told me of seeing bodies stacked like firewood and Jews slaughtered like animals and hung from their heels.

John Mims, a survivor of what historians call one of the greatest inhumanities against Americans during World War II -- the Bataan Death March, told me of a time with no food, no water and no mercy. Those falling out from exhaustion or sickness were shot, bayoneted or beheaded. Mr. Mims told me he’ll be forever grateful to the Filipino people who threw lumps of brown sugar to him and the other prisoners during the march.

The now late Caris Levert, a Korean War POW, told me stories of dragging the dead on bamboo mats into the forest. When the mats disintegrated the POWs threw the bodies over their shoulders. They dug 8-foot holes in the ground, covered the bodies, took off their hats and said a prayer.
Mr. Levert wondered if he would be the man dead the next morning.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget Jeremiah Denton, a retired Navy rear admiral, former Alabama senator and ex-Prisoner of War who spent seven years and eight months in captivity in Vietnam. Four of those years he spent in solitary confinement. During a 1966 TV interview, millions of Americans watched as Denton blinked his eyes in Morse code and spelled out the word ``torture.'' It was the first time U.S. intelligence was able to confirm suspicions that American POWs were being abused in Vietnam.

I remember the night before my interview reading up on Sen. Denton’s time in captivity. I was speechless. What could I possibly say to him? What could I possibly ask this man, who endured nearly eight years of torture, isolation, beatings, and starvation at the hands of the North Vietnamese?  I felt unworthy to be in the presence of this hero, yet alone asking him about those dark days.

It was an interview I would never forget. We shared tears and a hug and I learned what it meant to one man who had an unbreakable, unshakable belief in three principles -- patriotism, love of country and belief in God – these things allowed Sen. Denton to endure the unthinkable.

After years of wear, my POW/MIA snapped in two, so after the interview I gave Sen. Denton half of my prized possession. 

Today we have 1,800 service members who remain unaccounted for and missing in Vietnam, one American is missing from the Gulf War, 120 from the Cold War, more than 8,100 from the Korean War, and more than 78,000 from World War II.

Worth remembering? You bet.