This time it's personal: Pete Hegseth's fresh vulgarity sends him plunging to new low

Summary

For years, when I lived in Washington, I made the same pilgrimage. I would run or bike across the Potomac on the Memorial Bridge to Arlington National Cemetery and find my Uncle Bob. First Lieutenant Robert P. Casey, a 25-year-old navigator from Bellevue, Pennsylvania, was killed in a plane crash in North Africa on December 29, 1944. My father's own father died six months before my dad was born in 1926, and Bob, eight years older, became his father figure. My dad never recovered from his death. I never got to meet Uncle Bob. But I spent hours at his grave, in the hush of that cemetery…

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