My Dad had a funny story.
He was a new butter-bar in Germany, airborne Ranger, about ten years after the war.
He had cut a fairly straight piece of oak for volksmarches and used it for a swagger stick (of sorts) on company marches, and cut notches in it to commemorate stuff. I have it now.
There were a couple of oldtimer WWII sergeants who thought they would have some fun with him, so they got him alone.
He put up with the abuse for a few seconds, then thumped one on the head with his staff knocking him out and doubled the other one over with a gut-shot.
From then on they were very respectful.
Maybe I didn’t tell it right ... oh well, it was funny when he told it.
My father was career military. He was very strict and began teaching me self-defence from the time I was eight, while we were living in Okinawa.
Once we moved to Japan, we lived on a base and were bussed to a private school in Yokohama. One day I missed the bus and was standing rather forlornly at the bus stop. A marine in a jeep pulled up and asked me if I’d like a ride home. I decided that my father would not object, so I climbed up and he drove me home.
I don’t think that either of us said a single word during the drive and when he dropped me off, I thanked him and he responded politely. He must have been very young, because I was only twelve and he didn’t seem terribly old to me.
All of my experiences with military men were positive. Polite and professional, I have always had the greatest respect for them.