Soldier's Magazine asked me to write a guest blog for their Black History month recognition. I love sharing my family's history.  I made one minor change, since I felt bad about leaving my brother's service out of the story.  Here is what I sent them.

A family’s legacy of service

Growing up, I would sometimes hear stories of my family’s military history. One of the earliest tales I heard was about my grandfather, John Doyle. My father’s family made their home in Mississippi, remaining in the same area in which several generations of my ancestors had labored as slaves.

John Doyle looked older than his 17 years in 1917. He was charged with draft dodging in Mississippi by the local sheriff (although he wasn’t yet 18), after which he ended up in the Army. He was eventually shipped off to France during World War I.

The story goes, that one day John made the three-mile walk into town to pick up the mail. He was a tall, gangly kid who probably looked older than his 17 years. Barefoot and wearing his raggedy work clothes, he traveled alone down the dirt country road into town. It was the summer of 1917.

John picked up the mail and was headed home when he was confronted by the white sheriff, who was surprised to see a healthy young man walking the streets. There was a war on after all. Most of the white boys in town had already joined up and shipped off to serve overseas.

So then and there, the sheriff arrested John, charged him with draft dodging, stuck him on a truck headed north and shortly thereafter, John was shipped off to France, where he wrangled mules throughout the rest of the war.

John made it back home after the war and raised a family in the same Mississippi town.

By the time World War II started, my father was 19. He didn’t hesitate to answer the nation’s call, understanding the adventure and the freedom release from his

My mother, Ruth Doyle (Kokesh) found her own kind of freedom during WWII as a member of the Women's Army Corps

oppressive Mississippi town would mean. He was assigned to one of Patton’s all-black tank battalions, landed on Utah beach the day after D-day, was cheered as a liberator by Belgians, fought in the Ardenne Forest during the Battle of the Bulge and eventually came home a man who could no longer tolerate the harsh segregation of the south. He moved north.

My parents met after the war, in Minnesota, where my mother, after having served during the war in the Women’s Army Corps, had found her own kind of freedom. She and my father largely ignored the social stigma that accompanied their interracial union.

I grew up hearing stories about my father’s war, my grandfather’s war, my mother’s service and even about my mother’s father who had been a cavalry Soldier on the plains of the Dakotas. Military service was part of our history. The Army had played a major role in changing my father’s opportunities. And had largely been the reason my parents met.

So my father wasn’t a bit surprised when I told him I wanted to join the Army. My brother, who had already joined ROTC and was well on his way to being an Infantry officer, had dared me to do it, saying I could never make it through basic training. Of course, I had to prove him wrong, but aside from his juvenile taunt, everyone in the family was supportive.

Joining the Army Reserve was the best decision I ever made.

This picture was taking during my deployment to the Bosnian peacekeeping mission in 1997. The deployment is the basis for my first novel, THE PEACEKEEPER'S PHOTOGRAPH.