Not long before Charles Scudder passed, I had the opportunity to enjoy a long, rambling, and delightful conversation with him. At the time, we were both optimistic that his procedure would be successful, and I teased him that I wanted to get him back on a tennis court before he fully regained his game. Somewhere in our talk, our mutual military service came up.

Some years earlier, Charles had visited me while on a business trip to Philadelphia. Over dinner, we swapped war stories. At one point, I told him—quite sincerely—that his was the best I had ever heard. He looked at me with genuine surprise. I explained that a “good war story” was a bit of an oxymoron—much like “military intelligence,” which, incidentally, Charles had been a part of during the Vietnam conflict.

His incredulity stemmed from the fact that during the height of the war, he had been stationed at the NATO Military Intelligence Command Center in Naples, Italy—not exactly a wellspring of battlefield glory stories. His war story was, in his eyes, rather uneventful.

But then he told me how, not long after winning a Gold Medal for the U.S. in the NATO Alpine Downhill competition—a story that warrants its own chapter—he was reassigned. His new post was at a remote Army missile installation nestled high in the Italian Alps, just north of Lake Como. It was, by any measure, one of the most beautiful locations in a country already known for its embarrassment of breathtaking scenery.

His mission? To join a handpicked group of elite servicemen tasked with instructing and demonstrating the finer points of skiing to none other than the wives of the U.S. General Staff.

As Charles relayed this with a straight face, I had to stop him. He seemed to think this was a fairly routine assignment. I insisted it was anything but. Slowly, he began to appreciate the magnitude of the “sacrifice” he had made for his country.

I won’t get bogged down in the full details of his Alpine campaign—too many war stories already suffer from excessive detail. Suffice it to say, Charles bravely endured the relentless demands of high-ranking officers’ spouses with patience, dignity, and uncommon discipline. It was an unsung but valiant posting—equal parts charm offensive and survival mission.

When Charles finished telling the story, I didn’t hesitate.

“That,” I said, “is the best war story I’ve ever heard.”

Because, as I reminded him, there really are no truly “good” war stories. But his? His was not only good—it was audacious, hilarious, and worthy of a Spielberg film. Perhaps the finest war movie never made.

Our Country, today, is in sore need of more men like Charles; he will be missed.