I have the letters my grandfather wrote home to his mother while he was in France, during the First World War -- all except the particular one I was looking for, of course. The letter he wrote the week after the Armistice is now in so safe a place that I can't find it. I recall it, though. He said there were celebrations, perhaps rivaling those at home, and I think he mentioned fireworks; and he wrote of walking some distance, maybe a few miles, to have a Sunday dinner with a French family. Three weeks later, in December, he wrote that he hoped to be home by Christmas. I believe he just about made it.
The following year, on the first anniversary of the Armistice, President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed Armistice Day a national holiday, and it has remained so ever since. It was renamed Veterans Day in 1954, and it honors those who served, perpetually identified with the event that brought about their return. There was a parade in New York City in 1919, with thousands of soldiers; I'm sure you've seen the pictures of columns of soldiers ten or 20 abreast in silent-movie quick time. Conceivably, the parade could have included my grandfather, although I don't know this for a fact. This year, the marchers included my older son, an Army reservist.