On the edge of a goat farm in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom sits Luke’s Military Museum, an aluminum trailer that serves as a loving testament to the nation’s veterans.
The museum’s 15-year-old founder, Luke Morrison, has amassed an impressive collection of military artifacts and collected war stories through hundreds of conversations with veterans. He is always on the lookout for new subjects to interview. The most obvious tell is a service cap, though Luke will often venture a guess. “If I’m in the grocery store and I see an old guy, I’ll be like, ‘Were you in the military?’ And usually it’ll be, ‘Yes,’” he said.
Exhibits include the uniform of Tim Bedor, an Iraq war veteran; the jump boots of Vinny Matteis, a Vietnam airman; and a Marine pin from Pete Racine, a daredevilish World War II veteran who, at 92, was said to be the oldest man to stunt flip a car. The antique camper holding these artifacts was purchased by Luke’s great-granduncle, Dwight Cooley, a World War II veteran whose photo sits on a shelf.
Luke may be the youngest person keeping alive an age-old tradition: to process war through the memories and mementos of those who experienced it. This work is invaluable, occasioned by two federal holidays — Veterans Day and Memorial Day — with additional reminders immortalized in monuments and etched on gravestones. Veterans’ memories inform how this country understands its past conflicts — and ought to influence whether we embark on new ones.
On a recent tour, Luke told me that before his death, a local Vietnam veteran, Harry Swett, donated shoulder patches to Luke’s museum. He also hosted Luke a few times in his living room, where, over hours of war stories, Mr. Swett shared the highs and lows of his military service.
“There’s nights that he’s sleeping in a foxhole that was full of water — I mean, completely submerged,” Luke told me. “And then there’s other times where he’s telling me about having fun with friends.”
Mr. Swett criticized draft dodgers, but after his son, Joseph, was born, he said he would shuttle him north to Canada to avoid the draft if another war broke out — only to lose him in a snowmobile accident at 19. Luke understood Mr. Swett’s wishes. While he relishes the noble stories of military bravery and camaraderie, he understands the perilous stakes for those who serve.
Military technology is promising to reduce human danger in warfare by sharply curtailing our participation in it. In January, America’s defense secretary, Pete Hegseth, announced that the Pentagon would become an “A.I. first” institution, integrating artificial intelligence wherever possible from “campaign planning to kill chain execution.” There is a clean logic to this technological drive, but also a danger of sanitizing conflict.
War memories like the ones Luke’s museum is dedicated to preserving yield lessons, instincts and wisdom that cannot be computed by A.I. World War II’s staggering human toll forever haunted Dwight Eisenhower, supreme commander of the Allied forces in Europe. Days after returning to the United States, Mr. Eisenhower told a joint session of Congress that the best way to honor those killed in battle was to ensure “this will not happen again.” As president, Mr. Eisenhower staunchly supported diplomacy and the United Nations, ended combat in the Korean War and, in his famous farewell address, warned about the dangers of the growing influence of the “military-industrial complex.”
Proponents of military technology argue that automation is simply the latest innovation in a long chain of advances that have moved combatants farther away from one another. While the saber required intimate violence, a plane can now deliver mass casualties from thousands of feet in the sky. But humans have always been solidly in charge, able to override a bad order, provide mercy or even defect entirely. It’s hard to picture A.I. doing any of these things.
During my visit to Luke’s museum, I was moved by the experiences of veterans like Mr. Swett, who was hard-working, patriotic and, according to Luke, very funny. His service in Vietnam was an expression of his belief in this country — and Luke loved him for it.
Mr. Swett died in October 2023, a few months before Luke’s museum opened. In the weeks that followed, Luke routinely called his widow, Claudette Swett, to check in, and invited her to his family’s log cabin for Christmas Eve. Luke was still in the process of renovating the trailer, so his bedroom served as a temporary exhibit, cramped with mannequins, uniforms and black-and-white war photos.
“He had a table just for Harry,” Mrs. Swett recalled. She was sad that her husband couldn’t see the fruits of Luke’s labor, but she knew how much Luke’s earnest curiosity about Harry’s service in Vietnam had nurtured him in his final days. It is remarkable, Mrs. Swett concluded, that someone of Luke’s age has worked so hard to imagine what it meant to be there.
Jasper Craven is a freelance reporter covering the military and veterans. He is the author of “God Forgives, Brothers Don’t: The Long March of Military Education and the Making of American Manhood.”
Amina Gingold is a photographer and filmmaker based in New York.
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