In the early morning of a cold November day in 1918, a German negotiator signed the Armistice in a railroad car stopped deep in the Compiegne Forest north of Paris. Six hours later -- in the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month -- a truce began, effectively ending the first World War.

A year later, President Woodrow Wilson declared the anniversary of the signing Armistice Day, saying: "To us in America, the reflections of Armistice Day will be filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country's service and with gratitude for the victory, both because of the thing from which it has freed us and because of the opportunity it has given America to show her sympathy with peace and justice in the councils of the nations."

Congress approved a federal holiday in 1938, which was changed after World War II in 1954 to substitute "Veterans" for "Armistice" and thereby honor all former servicemen and women. Since then, on the 11th day of the 11th month each year, the nation celebrates the sacrifices these people have made in its name.

These are the stories of four Utah County heroes whose collective service spans two centuries, four foreign engagements, and countless nights spent on enemy soil, far from smiling faces and the comforts of home.

Tom Taylor

Navy radioman, World War II

Tom Taylor had a penchant for upholding the law beginning in grade school, when he volunteered to be a crossing guard. Born in Provo but raised in San Francisco in the 1930s, the seaside upbringing led naturally to romantic notions of military service -- particularly on days when the seamen docked and came into town.

"I just grew up around the water and the armed forces," Taylor said.

So in the early 1940s, as a recent high school graduate, Taylor signed up with the Navy. His sole job qualification? Crossing guard. After a brief screening process, he was assigned to radio duties, a job he would keep throughout his three years of service. In 1945, he was stationed with a naval beach battalion in Pendleton, Calif., just south of Los Angeles.

Then on Aug. 6, a B-29 bomber named Enola Gay flew over the southern Japanese city of Hiroshima and dropped a 9,700-pound uranium bomb. About 70,000 people died in the initial blast. Taylor was one of the first wave of soldiers to inspect the damage.

"It was just like a desert. There wasn't a lot to see beyond the rubble and the devastation," he said. "I walked over where the University of Hiroshima used to be, and the only thing that was left was a few reinforced concrete columns."

The experience was harrowing, Taylor said, but would be punctuated by further developments later in life. Unbeknownst to Taylor, the radiation he was exposed to at Hiroshima would lead to major health complications, including cancer.

"I was just a kid, and I didn't have enough sense to be worried," he said. "Then I started to worry, after it was all over."

After leaving Hiroshima, Taylor's ship was caught up in a massive typhoon en route to Okinawa. He remembers waves towering over the vessel and destroying other ships nearby. To save the ship, its captain took it out into the open sea. The maneuver probably saved the crew, Taylor said.

"When you look up and see the swells coming in right straight for you, it lets you know how insignificant you are," he said.

Taylor was released from the Navy in 1946. He returned to Utah, where he graduated from the University of Utah's law school. He went on to have a 43-year career as a trial attorney.

C.V. "Skip" Anderson

Marine Corps rifleman, Korean War

Springville native Skip Anderson's commitment to the armed forces was less a spurt of young patriotism than the product of a slow day.

Working at the old A&W Root Beer in Provo in 1949, after the 11th grade, a friend suggested something to alleviate the boredom of routine sales.

"We had a guy there with lots of good ideas," Anderson said. "He said, 'Let's all join the Navy and get a tattoo.' "

Instead, just two of the four enlisted with the Navy, while the other two -- Anderson included -- signed up with the Marine Corps instead.

"Three weeks later, I knew it was a mistake," he joked. "When I got to Marine Corps boot camp, I couldn't believe how brutal it was."

It was just a year later that the Korean War broke out. Just like that, Anderson was shipped off to North Korea, a newly minted Browning automatic rifleman.

"I was only 18 at the time, and I wasn't too concerned about it," he said.

Part of the reason Anderson felt confident was a rumor that circulated among the troops upon their arrival: If they could get up the Yalu River by Thanksgiving, they would be home for Christmas. That rumor proved false on Nov. 27, 1950, a day when Anderson said his comrades "weren't really expecting anything."

Instead, 120,000 Chinese troops ambushed the United Nations forces, which numbered about 30,000. Within the first 10 minutes of conflict, Anderson was shot above the left knee. Luckily, it was a clean shot, missing any bone and leaving through the back of the leg.

"The only bad thing about that was, it put two holes in my pants, and the temperature was about negative 40," he said.

Rapidly, the men around Anderson began to fall. Both Chinese and U.N. forces began to pile up -- until you couldn't walk 100 yards and touch snow because of the volume of bodies on the fields, he said. He regrouped with a few others, and they began to make their way across the nearby mountains to help another company that had been surrounded for five days.

"There really wasn't any way to evacuate," he said.

But the trip over the mountains would prove treacherous as well. A shrapnel blast perforated his left eardrum and broke his nose. Enemy gunfire sprayed across his stomach four times, but an ammunition belt saved him from serious harm.

"I was actually hit six times in four days, but wasn't severely wounded," he remembered.

On the other side of the mountains, Anderson was eventually evacuated for severe frostbite. He spent time in four hospitals across Japan, Hawaii and California before returning home to Utah in 1952.

Anderson went on to earn a civil engineering degree from the University of Utah. He worked for the state for 30 years, 11 of those as its chief highway engineer.

Jim Theriault

Army helicopter pilot, Vietnam War

"I'm no hero."

That's the first thing Jim Theriault says about his service in the Vietnam War. But the Saratoga Springs resident's history offers evidence to the contrary.

Theriault was deployed to Vietnam in 1965 as an air traffic controller, but that job didn't last long. Enemy troops mortared his base early in his stay. He remembers rushing to the tower to broadcast a message to other troops to stay away. He remembers the tower began to sway.

Then he remembers waking up in a medical facility.

Later in the year, the pilot and crew chief of a helicopter were killed during a mission. Because of Theriault's aviation background and because there was no longer a control tower to work in, he was sent back to the states to train as a pilot. He learned to fly UH-1 Charlies and Deltas, which often flew in combat with gunners firing from the side doors.

"With one pass, you could put the equivalent of a .30-06 on every square inch of a football field," he said.

Over the next three years, Theriault flew tirelessly. In one timespan during Operation Junction City, a search-and-destroy mission along the Cambodian border, he flew for 72 hours straight, stopping only to refuel. He remembers being injected with something to keep him awake.

"We were just constant turnaround -- just go, go, go, go go," he said.

During that three-year span, Theriault was shot down no less than five times. But he never hesitated to jump in the pilot seat again.

"The only thing you could think of was, if you didn't do your job, somebody else was going to die," he said. "I never saw a pilot refuse to fly because of his fear."

But Theriault was not immune. He still gets choked up when talking about his last flight, in which some still-unknown device knocked his helicopter out of the air. It flipped end-over-end, throwing him out the side. The remaining crew burned to death inside.

"I didn't figure I would make it back," he said.

But he did, and he lived to return to the United States with a Purple Heart for his effort. Theriault doesn't take much pride in that.

"In our day and age, the government gave medals away just to try and make the war popular," he said.

Later in life, Theriault continued working for the federal government, first as a contract officer for the Navy and then as an investigator for the Department of Labor.

Isaac Yates

Army interrogator, Iraq War

As an intelligence officer, Isaac Yates of Lehi can't talk specifics about his job.

He spent most of 2007 interrogating insurgents in Iraq. From leaders to bomb-makers to militants suspected of decapitating their enemies, Yates said he's seen the lowest of the low. Even as a professional the job takes a toll, he said.

"I've lost a lot of confidence in the human race because of my experience," he admitted. "Doing the job itself doesn't always make you a pleasant person to be."

Still, there have been diamonds in the rough, Yates said. He fondly recalled Amar, an Iraqi generator mechanic who worked with his group. When a fire broke out in a building next-door and several troops were trapped inside, Amar rushed to help save people he didn't know and couldn't even communicate with.

"He was willing to jump in and risk his own life for a complete stranger," Yates said.

Yates's military career started on a lighter note. A fifth-generation Lehi resident and third-generation Utah Army National Guardsman, he served a first tour in Iraq from 2003 to 2004 as a mechanic before getting a chance at interrogation.

He returned in November 2006 a fully trained interrogator, but wasn't prepared for what happened. In his first try at talking to a source, the man argued, faked a seizure, claimed abuse and finally threatened suicide.

"It's funny looking back at it," he said. "At the time it was like, 'Why me?' "

Yates has been home for about a year and now teaches interrogation techniques to other soldiers. As someone who's practically never spent more than six months in one place over the past decade, he has been enjoying the rare portion of stability provided by the position.

The transition back to life in the United States was tough, he said. His training taught him to be suspicious of everyone, a habit that is still wearing off with time. But it also helped him see certain things clearer.

"I've seen the crap that you need to worry about," he said. "I try not to sweat the little stuff so much."

• Ace Stryker can be reached at 344-2556 or astryker@heraldextra.com.