I am writing this at the suggestion of my wife. We were not married during my years of service, but the currents run deep and she knows it.

I began my service at age 18, just after graduating from high school. I joined the naval reserves at that time. That summer I attended boot camp in Great Lakes, then attended weekly meetings for the following year. In the summer of 1961, I became a midshipman at the U.S. Naval Academy, graduating four years later in 1965. I served in the submarine force for the next 23 years before my retirement from the Navy in 1988. All told, 28 years of wearing the uniform in service to my country.

I began my active service just as the Vietnam War was ramping up. The first 15 years of that service I spent a considerable amount of time underwater. I was never in combat, have never been shot at or fired a shot in anger in return. One can now read a lot of the history of Cold War submarines in unclassified format. That is what I did.

I was a junior officer aboard a ballistic missile carrying a nuclear submarine in the late ’60s. Our mission was to be prepared at all times to launch the first of our 16, multi-war headed missiles within 15 minutes upon receipt of a validated launch order. We trained all the time to ensure the readiness of men and equipment to perform that task.

In the middle of the night the general alarm sounded (bong, bong, bong) and the announcement was made: “Man battle stations missile for a tactical launch.”

I had never heard that announcement before and never since. It was the precursor for the real thing. We were going to launch our missiles at Soviet Union targets.

I moved to my assigned station almost in slow motion. I envisioned my wife and two sons as “cinder blocks” in Charleston, S.C. I thought of the book “On the Beach.” I envisioned the “end of the world.”

The skipper let it go for about five minutes. He then announced, “This is a drill. Man battle stations for a weapons system readiness test.” The end of the world had been postponed.

The skipper conducted that drill “on his own” with no direction to do so from higher authority. He and a few preselected and prebriefed men had all the keys locked up, and there was never a remote chance of a mistake. He did it to impress upon the entire crew just why we were in the middle of the ocean with our assigned mission. I will never forget the experience and hold no animosity toward the skipper.

The stark reality of exactly what “we” did during those years was unknown by the vast majority of Americans. We were on the tip of the spear that few understood existed. But we knew and performed our duties as best we could.

When ashore, we rarely wore our uniforms in public during those days. Anti-Vietnam fervor in the general public was too high and members of the military were generally disparaged and sometimes even abused, both verbally and physically. Some considered us “baby killers”— men with no character or consciousness. That was being a vet in the late ’60s and throughout the ’70s, all because of Vietnam.

The remainder of my years of service, the anti-military rhetoric passed away and I and my fellow submariners went about our business “fighting” the Cold War in relative obscurity. The book “Hunt for Red October” ignited public interest in our work, and the submarine force received some favorable exposure. After the Cold War, many Soviet officials acknowledged that the U.S. submarine force in fact scared them to distraction. They knew we were out there, but had no way to counter the threat either against our strategic deterrence posture (nuclear missiles) or intelligence collection efforts.

I retired in 1988, before the end of the Cold War. I was then and remain proud of the contributions our small band of brothers made to the defense of our country during those years.

Our thoughts about the military today are far different from those times. We understand at least part of the spear and who is on its tip. Public gratitude for the men and women in uniform is generally high, thank God. Many do not miss the opportunity to say “thank you for your service” to those men and women. I, of course, applaud such outreach by the public.

I also want to point out that it is not just the men and women in combat serving under tough conditions. Just look at current headlines about Fort Hood. Also consider the folks assigned to carrier battle groups who conduct at-sea operations for nine months at a time, with no port calls during that period. And yes, they hear the same general alarm that I did going bong, bong, bong from time to time. And sometimes it is not a drill for them as well.

Make no mistake. Life in military service is not easy. Family separations and low pay continue. People die, and not just in combat. And today every one of those men and women are volunteers. Even at one time the despicable Maj. Nidal Hasan volunteered for such service, may he find his place in hell.

To those men and women today, thank you for you service.

Anson Burlingame lives in Joplin. His blog “I’m Not Sure, Are You?” can be found at www.joplinglobe.com.