I can't help but tell the story of my father's participation in World War II.
Dad was a Navy yeoman serving in Washington, DC. Because he had accounting and typing skills, it was suggested by his commanding officer that he stay in Washington and serve his country there. However, my father knew he couldn't sit by while others were being shipped overseas.
He asked to be deployed and was sent to the Pacific Theatre. There, his ship was torpedoed by the Japanese. Chaos broke out among the sailors, many who were lost, either to injuries or to drowning. When the survivors were rescued, Dad tasked himself with contacting the families of those men who died, establishing friendships with those family members that continued for many decades afterward. He, himself, incurred an injury, one which plagued him for years later.
Two of Dad's brothers died during the war. The Red Cross offered to send him home to comfort his grieving mother, a widow. He told them that while he appreciated it, he could not return home then. There was still work to be done.