At eighty-seven years of age, I may be considered part of the WWII generation. My memories date back to our home in Switzerland, where my grandfather had the basement windows protected with flower bunkers rather than sand bags.
My father was back and forth between the U.S., where he was earning his citizenship, and Switzerland, but was still a member of the Swiss National Guard. His rifle was kept in a small ante-room in the hallway, and I could see it whenever I wanted. But the best part was where they kept the gas mask.
It was on a shelf in the bathroom with the overhead pull chain to flush the toilet. I was only eight years old, and the humor of the situation dawned on me years later.
Civilization 