You’re prob around my dad’s age. 73. He said the same. Virtually all the men when was growing up were WW2 vets.
Growing up with those guys all around was special. I really didn't know that at the time, but it sure was.
An example of how special they were, consider this story: One man in my dad's congregation was a B-17 tail gunner. He flew 25 missions in South Africa. On the last mission he got hit by two 20mm rounds from an ME109. The turret was turned to the side and the hydraulic lines were cut. His eyes, feet, and hands mostly froze. He had monster holes in both legs. The pilot forced the flight surgeon at gun point to attempt to recover those rather than amputate. He was sent back to the US to recover. Once he could walk he re-upped for 25 more missions, this time to fly in Europe. They put him back with his original crew since they had all re-upped as well. Much to everyone's surprise, they all lived and returned home.
He stayed in the service, and worked his way through B-29s and eventually a B-36. They didn't allow him to go to the Pacific theater, but had him teach in gunnery school.
He was my Cub Scout Den Daddy and later Boy Scout leader. He taught Sunday School and kept the church in repair.
The congregation was full of those guys; and, they all pitched in to help and take an active part in the community. Another fellow parachuted behind Normandy on D-Day. He was in the same company as the guy who got hung up on the church bell tower in Sainte-Mère-Église. He watched most of his comrades get killed by the Germans as they landed. He was taken prisoner, and spent the war in a POW camp.
They always smiled, always gave a helping hand. They ate like machines at the potluck dinners.