Memorial Day and My Dad

       I hope everyone had an enjoyable Memorial Day yesterday. I know some of my family members got together and visited cemeteries. Mom was surely seated beside my dad's gravesite for a portion of the day. My husband and I had friends over for a BBQ. At times throughout the day I thought of my late father. Not because he sacrificed his life in the armed services, but because he served during wartime. My dad (pictured below) sacrificed years as well as a portion of his emotional well-being to the things he witnessed in war. I feel for our servicemen and women, and I thank them all for their sacrifices. They are our protectors and heroes.

Remembering Our Honored Soldiers

This day I  pay tribute not only to our fallen soldiers but to those in the armed forces who suffered the loss of comrades while serving to protect the rights and freedoms we cherish.  I have overwhelming respect and admiration for those who stand strong in our armed forces, those willing to defend the defenseless.  

My grandfather, my father, and my husband served in the army at different times, under different circumstances.  Included here are pictures of their days in service.

Not too long ago, my father gave us the gift of his memories regarding the war in Vietnam in which he fought.  He wrote out the experience in a book and then handed out copies to family members.  Below is the preface to his story, which I think is quite fitting for this holiday:  

I begin this history of my Vietnam experiences by stating a fact.  One that all readers should be made aware of and keep in mind throughout this reading. That fact is no one who has ever been in actual combat can make a non-combatant understand what war is like; neither mentally, spiritually, or physically. You must be a participant to understand what war does to both body and soul. Those who’ve been there understand. Those who haven’t should be thankful and appreciate the sacrifices of those who did participate on their behalf. I hope all will understand that this writing is an effort to tell my own story. My goal is to bring all non- combatants closer to an understanding of what war does to the combat soldier.   I do “not” want to infer to the reader that I’m against war. War is “Hell” and should always be a last resort, but to resist war to the point that it jeopardizes freedom is cowardly and not what the creator of man intended. May God bless all those who have been willing to fight for the freedom of others. 

My father wrote about his first real combat experience, including how frightful it was.  I am sharing his words in hopes that it will cause all who read it to stop and ponder the thousands in our armed forces who have shared similar experiences.   Fallen soldiers and survivors alike deserve our best thoughts and highest regard.  

To insure our security we were sending out platoon size patrols to check out the area around us to insure the enemy was not infiltrating to a position of advantage around the LZ. We were careful to not establish any pattern to our patrols to hopefully make sure we wouldn’t walk into an ambush. Several patrols had been hit by sniper fire and had found evidence of movement in the area. We were told the purpose of our relocation to this fishhook area was based on the reported existence of a large NVA (North Vietnamese Army) battalion in the area. 

It was nearing twilight and the third platoon from our company was out on patrol. They were hit by an ambush taking two KIAs and two wounded. They were pinned down about 300 yards from our perimeter. We got orders to saddle up and move out to assist them and bring them back in. We moved out carefully in a column of threes. My squad was on point walking in the center. We moved to the right flank of the third platoon and set up to provide cover fire across their front in a “V” type arrangement. We opened up with everything we had and third platoon withdrew behind us taking their dead and wounded with them. 

The plan was for us to move across their front and withdraw with covering artillery fire. The NVA are the hard-core regular army of North Vietnam. They opened fire on us and had us in crossfire, staying in close to prevent us from calling in the artillery fire to cover us during our withdrawal. We crawled into a nearby bomb crater for cover. Miraculously none of us had been hit. We returned fire and called in artillery, using the crater for cover. It was now dark, too dark to safely try a withdrawal. We resolved ourselves to spend the night and wait for daylight to initiate a withdrawal. Our FO (Forward Observer) set up pre-planned artillery positions to cover our front in case the NVA got brave and decided to overrun our position. 

This was the first major combat I had been involved with and I was scared to death. You don’t get scared while the gunfire is going on. You don’t have time to think. You just react with your adrenaline flowing at a high rate. It’s after the firefight is over and you start to think about what happened that the fear sets in. As I lay there in the dark thinking about what had happened I started to shake all over. I crawled over to talk to the men in my squad. They were all huddled against the sides of the bomb crater just looking out into the dark. 

The lieutenant crawled over to me and told me what sector he wanted my squad to defend. We agreed we would keep three men in each squad on guard though the night and no one was to fire unless he was sure of a target. We did not want to give away our exact position prematurely and provide the enemy with an easy target. I was not very happy with our position, with about 30 of us crammed together in this bomb crater. It was too easy for the enemy to toss a grenade and get us all. The area was however heavily wooded with trees and bushes, which made throwing a grenade a risk for both them and us.  

I told my men to dig in as best they could and to be prepared by daylight to move out on command. The crater was 65 feet in diameter. I guessed it had been a 1000-pound bomb. The bottom of the crater was white gooey clay, which stuck to everything. I slowly dug me a stand-up foxhole up to my neck using my helmet. I don’t think any of us slept that night. It was the first time in my tour when I wasn’t sure I’d make it. I’m not ashamed to say I did a lot of thinking about home, and a lot of praying to the man upstairs. 

Later that night the lieutenant crawled over and told me the plan for our withdrawal in the morning. The squad to the right of us (first squad) would move out while we covered their front then my squad (2^nd squad) and the third squad would withdraw covering the rear. We would all move upon command from the lieutenant. Artillery would lay down some cover fire before we moved out. Two other platoons were going to be in position to give us cover fire on our way in so it was important we stayed tight and retreated directly toward the LZ. 

It was a long night and every little noise sounded like the enemy was crawling in on us. Everyone kept their cool and kept quiet. As soon as it was light the artillery cover fire started up and we all ducked our heads. They were laying them in pretty close and you could feel the ground shake around us. They lifted the artillery fire and the command to move out was given by hand signal. The point man and the back up man made it out of the crater when shots rang out and the point man fell. 

We all opened up with cover fire and the back up man pulled the wounded point man back into the crater. The medic worked on him furiously to stop the bleeding. The lieutenant told us to limit our field of fire to the front because the two backup platoons were moving in to cover for us. I thought a sniper from the trees had wounded the point man as I had only heard two shots. Two cobra gun ships were brought in to provide cover fire for us. Our job now was to get the wounded on a chopper and off to medical care. 

It was only seconds later when a medivac chopper appeared over the crater. I was to the front as the chopper approached so I lay on my back and guided him in. It was like flying down a chimney. I can still see the pilot holding that stick and looking down at me as I would motion him to maneuver right, left, front, or rear to avoid hitting the trees. I remember asking God not to let the enemy shoot the chopper because we would all have been killed. 

About a half dozen of the men lifted the wounded point man up to the chopper and I waved the pilot to pull it up. As soon as he cleared the trees they were gone and we prepared to withdraw back to the perimeter. We didn’t receive any fire during the withdrawal. This further convinced me the enemy had left behind a sniper and had withdrawn their main force during the night. 

This incident gave me the ultimate respect for the medivac pilots. I witnessed many other brave acts by these pilots to pick up our wounded in the field. They are true heroes in my book. We later learned the point man had died on the way to medical treatment from massive blood loss. It was my first time to witness a KIA.

Take time to remember the great heroes who have fallen as well as those heroes who suffered and survived.

That There Indomitable Spirit

Across from campus there’s a wooden bench that sits beneath a cluster of cherry trees.  From there one can look to the right and see a dignified university decorated with red brick and crème lattice.  On the left, a new playground sits in the middle of a green park, popular among children who giggle and shriek as if silliness were their universal tongue.

I found the bench, my favorite reading spot, occupied that afternoon by an older gentleman in a black ball cap.  The gold insignia above the bill was a badge denoting some military cavalry.  His smile was a more powerful draw for my attention; he seemed to be enjoying the nice spring weather. 

I took a seat on the far end of the bench, a couple spaces down from him.  He appeared lost in thought when I glanced his way, mesmerized by the youthful scene taking place a distance out on the playground.

“So, what’ve you been up to today, son?”

I squinted at the man, a bit startled by his raspy voice, uncertain if his question was meant for me.  There was really no one else within earshot.

“Um…”  It was the most intelligent answer I could manage in my befuddled state.

The old man twisted his neck to look at my face.  His wrinkled smile stretched even farther as he waited patiently for me to provide a better answer to his question.  I fumbled around with a physiology textbook and placed it in my lap.

“Well, I uh…”  I thought back to the beginning of my day and rehearsed it for him.  “I woke up late this morning and had to hurry to my seminary class—drove two miles on an empty tank of gas.  Luckily my old Ford manages pretty far on fumes.  Then, after class, I purchased breakfast from a vending machine before hustling to take a grueling calculus test.”

“You a math major?” the man asked.

I shook my head.  “No, sir, not really.  Pre-med.  But I’m good at math.  My other classes are organic chemistry and human physiology.”  I lifted up the textbook in my lap as proof.

The old man nodded.  “You a lucky young fella.  A religious boy?”

I gestured affirmatively.  “I wouldn’t drag myself out of bed at five o’clock every morning to attend seminary if I wasn’t, I suppose.”

“I s’pose not,” the man agreed.  “Did you fight for your seat in that class?”

“Fight?” I repeated, confused. 

“You pay for it?”

“Oh….no, no, no.  Seminary’s free of charge.  Anyone can attend if they care to rise before the sun and sanity.”

The old man chuckled, but I got the feeling it wasn’t because he found me funny.  Then he went on to make an announcement, pointing a finger at my nose as if it were important. 

“That there religion—that’s Andy Shindler’s right arm.”

I waited for an explanation, but none came.

“Oh,” I finally breathed and opened up my textbook.  There was a section on facial muscles I needed to read.  Another odd question hit my ear before I could find the right chapter.

“Someone force you to go to school?  They makin’ you learn what’s in that book?”

“Um, no.  No, sir, I’ve always wanted to be a doctor.  I chose to take this class.”  Again, a rigid finger was pointed at me.

“Hmm.  That there choice—that’s James Kennedy’s legs, both of ‘em.”

I tried not to look at the man as if he were talking crazy, but….

“Oh,” I nodded.

“And that there book—”  His stern finger nearly reached to touch the colorful skull painted on the front cover.  “—that’s Donald Maccaby’s left eye.  Lost his left ear too.”

“From a book accident?”  I couldn’t help but ask.  I imagined a shelf in the library falling over, the edge hitting an unsuspecting man named Donald Maccaby in the face.  Ouch. 

The crazy old man chuckled again.  He didn’t answer me but kept right on talking.

“I call all this here Willy Whitman’s.”  His pointing finger gestured to our surroundings, mostly to the campus at the right of us.  I wondered then if the guy was lost.

“Sir, that’s not Whitman College.  It’s the University of Washington.”

The old man looked at me, smiling, staring patiently as if I were actually the lost one.  But I attended classes in those buildings every weekday; I was quite certain of the name of my own university.

I’d about decided to bury my head in my book and ignore the gawking madman when his features fell.  The smile that had appeared pinned from ear to ear collapsed, and his twinkling blue eyes glazed over, dull and sober.  His next words were not that of a madman at all, rather those of a wise, seasoned soldier.

“Andy Shindler, James Kennedy, Donald Maccaby, William Whitman—they were all privates who years ago served overseas under my command.  Those men made great sacrifices in war.  Lost limbs and other body parts.  In William’s case, his life.  Their sacrifices—their losses—paid for the rights you and I and all these here people take for granted.  The right to religion and school and books and writin’ and speakin’ and makin’ choices that freedom allows us to make.  That’s why every time I see a token of such freedoms, I think of my old friends.  They are those freedoms, son.  They spilled blood for ‘em, so you may as well call ‘em by their rightful names—Andy, James, Donald, William, Logan, Jacob, Ryan, Michael, and thousands more valiant soldiers.  Don’t you ever forget it.”

My head bowed, humbled.  I finally understood. 

“I won’t forget,” I promised.

“Good boy.”

The man’s smile returned as bright as ever.  I closed the pages lying open on my lap.

“Sir, may I ask your name?”

He seemed pleased by the request and immediately shared it with me. 

“Henry Starr, First Air Cavalry.”

I pointed to the throng of children twirling, jumping, and running on a green expanse of American soil without a care or fear in the world.

“That there indomitable spirit—that’s Henry Starr.”

This story is from "Making Wishes: Quotes, Thoughts, & a Little Poetry for Every Day of the Year".