It is hard to believe that Dec. 7, 2016, is the 75th anniversary of the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor, triggering our entrance into World War II. On that Sunday, I was a 7-year-old boy walking home from Sunday school along the Main Street of the mountain village of Saranac Lake when sirens and whistles started screaming all over the town. Upon rushing home, I found my parents glued to our radio, learning about the early morning bombing in Pearl Harbor.

A few years ago, I was asked to review the manuscript of the book entitled “Flags of Our Fathers,” about the Marines who raised the U.S. flag on Mount Suribachi during the desperate fight with the Japanese for Iwo Jima.

It was a horrible battle with every one of the 25,000 Japanese defenders being killed, as well as thousands of our marines killed and wounded. A picture of the flag raising has become a classic and has been memorialized in a bronze sculpture at Arlington National Cemetery.

The author James Bradley, son of one of the flag raisers, interviewed survivors of the battle and many of the loved ones of the participants. Those interviews bought back many personal memories to me of life during World War II.

Because of the war, I became a news junkie at a young age, reading newspapers and listening to the radio. These were days before TV, satellites and instant communications, so news was often days and weeks old.

Eight of my uncles ended up in the service. These men were in the Army, Army Air Force and Coast Guard. They fought in Africa, Europe, South Asia and the South Pacific. One was wounded three times, in Europe, Saipan and later in the Korean War. One was captured by the Germans in the Battle of the Bulge, escaped the same day and got back to his outfit.

One was a bombardier and had just made his 18th mission over Germany when the war ended. His B-17 was shot down twice, but the pilot managed to keep the damaged aircrafts aloft until they were over friendly territory so the crews could bail out and be able to fly again.

Another drove an LST landing craft to land troops at Normandy and later learned his brother, an infantryman, was killed the same day on the same beach. One uncle fought in the line for 343 days straight before his outfit got relieved.

They could never tell us where they were, but we usually had an idea and watched intently for news from that area. The war was always with us on what was called the home front. While we were not at risk like the men overseas, life was far from normal. The constant tensions caused by worry over our loved ones overseas — and shortages of necessities like clothing, fuel for cars, cooking and heating, tires and foods like meat, butter and sugar — made life a struggle. But we recognized that the needs of the war effort had to take priority.

Anything made of metal, rubber or wood — like furnaces, bicycles, cars, trucks or a home — could not be replaced and had to be patched up to last as long as possible or what was called the “duration.” This became a hated word representing an undefinable time since no one knew when the war would be over or even if we would be victorious.

I can remember wearing shoes with holes in the soles because new ones were impossible to get and, like everything else, were rationed. Kits could be purchased with heavy synthetic rubber soles plus a tube of glue to repair soles, since getting a replacement leather sole was impossible. It was not unusual to see a youngster walking down the street with soles half off and flapping due to a poor repair job.

New bicycles were made with light, skinny metal frames and called victory bikes. Everyone was encouraged to plant “victory gardens” to grow vegetables for the family. Most households canned surplus fruits and vegetables to make produce last beyond the growing season.

Butter was impossible to get, so we had to get used to a spread called oleo, which was grey in color and came in plastic sacks. Inside was a small yellow bubble of material that needed to be mixed in by hand to give the spread a butter-like appearance. Meat was rationed and good cuts never available. Horse meat, unthinkable now, could be found in some butchers’ cases.

Weekend jaunts in the family car were rare since gasoline was severely rationed and cars needed to last for the “duration.” Trips were limited to absolutely essential needs. Commuters to work shared their vehicles with as many as five or six passengers in exchange for money or gas rationing stamps.

Cigarettes were in short supply, and it was not unusual for people at home to roll their own. In fact, small machines were available for home use and widely used.

School children were provided names of servicemen and encouraged to write if they did not know anyone in service, since mail from home was so important to the GIs out of the country. In the third grade, I was taught to knit 6-inch squares which were sent to the home-economic classes to be sown together to make afghans for our men in hospitals.

Public schools were staffed almost entirely by woman since every able-bodied man was in uniform or involved in critical war manufacturing. The Catholic Church provided thousands of nuns to public schools to help meet the teacher shortage.

Air raid drills were common in schools, and usually the cafeterias were sandbagged and children climbed under tables. Buildings, including homes, needed blackout curtains to shield all lights during nighttime air raid drills. Block wardens would patrol streets during drills and notify people whose blackout was inadequate.

Banners with gold or silver stars were displayed in front windows of homes. The gold represented a combat fatality and the silver a wounded or injured serviceman. You could not walk down a residential street of any community in this country without seeing flags. And people were respected for the sacrifices of their loved ones. Every five and dime store like Woolworths and Kresge’s sold small banners with woven cords that draped over window locks for window display. A huge supply was needed.

I corresponded with one of my uncles, an 18-year-old infantryman. I have copies of his letters as he fought through North Africa, landed at Anzio and fought in the mostly forgotten but terrible series of battles for Italy. I had asked him why they called the holes in the ground foxholes. He said he did not know since no “self-respecting fox would live in one, but they do help us stay alive.”

His division fought up the boot of Italy, breaking the Gothic Line. It was a slaughter, with his division taking 14,000 casualties out of 16,000 men. After the battle, those still alive did not know how they survived the conflict and were grateful for the reprieve. But if you asked any one of them, they would proudly say they would run the same risks again to preserve our way of life.

This country had just come out of a deep depression, leaving many citizens in desperate circumstances. This was a terrific battle in itself and probably bought our people closer together. This country, while just getting on its feet, mobilized and equipped our armed services, and also equipped the English and Russian armed services who were essential to victory.

Many of our men paid a terrible price but felt this country’s freedom was worth dying for. Bradley’s book repeats this haunting inscription from a brass plaque at the entrance to the U.S. National Cemetery, where so many of our heroes are buried: “When you get home, I want you to tell them and say: for your tomorrows — we gave our todays.”

The United States was magnificent then, in its finest hour.

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Ronald E. Campbell lives in Latham.