Sixty-four years ago, I showed up in Columbia, Mo., with a wife, a child and an ancient, battered Studebaker that had coughed its way across the country. I was in Columbia to resume my education, which had been interrupted four years earlier by a war. I was in the middle of my junior year in the University of Missouri’s School of Journalism when I enlisted and when I returned.
I needed a job, but first I needed a degree that would allow me access to the publications that turned to Missouri to fill staff openings. Problem was, even with back military pay, I didn’t have enough money either to pay an out-of-state tuition or to support my family while I finished my degree.
Then, into this fix I shared with millions of other returning citizen-soldiers, came — like a post-war angel — the GI Bill of Rights, offering to pick up the tab for my education and even providing 90 bucks a month for living expenses. And so I gratefully accepted, graduated, had a choice of three jobs, and started a lifelong connection with the field I had coveted since boyhood. God knows when, if at all, any of this would have happened without the GI Bill of Rights.