Today, along with most of the rest of my countrymen, I would like to offer a remembrance of those who have fallen in battle during their military service to America.
I remember, not long after my father came home from WWII, going with him to a national cemetery in Minnesota. I recall asking what all the white crosses were for (I was only about three at the time, and had no ken of such things). My father explained that they were men who had died in the war. I remember feeling shocked. I knew that my father had been away in the war (that had been explained to me), but not that lots of people could die in a war. I also remember being awestruck with the sheer number – the sea – of white crosses stretching across the field. I, who could not yet count very high and truly comprehend a number that large, simply could not fathom the carnage. It further frightened me because I had some vague idea that my diminutive condition would end some day – that I would be grown up and might some day be killed as well; pretty spooky idea for a three-year old to contemplate.
I did go to my own war in my own time, and was lucky to draw relatively safe duty. The worst I had to face, in the final analysis, were over 100 clumsy rocket and mortar attacks, and a few anxious weeks during the Tet offensive. Sometimes, in the evening, I would walk out to the perimeter wire of my compound, look across the mine field at the sunset, and let the experience settle into my mind and soul. Out there – somewhere, right now – there were people who wanted to kill me and, given half an opportunity, would do so. I didn’t know them. They didn’t know me. I had done nothing to them personally. Hell – I didn’t even want to BE in their friggin’ country. Still, they wanted me dead. If I had been given to more expressiveness in those days, my jaw would have hung slack while I stared and slowly shook my head. To this day, I can’t get that feeling out of my head – of people wanting, and trying, to kill me. How terribly odd!
In the end (obviously) I was lucky. I could have cock-strutted around like Col. Kilgore in Apocalypse Now – never ducking, never entering a bunker, never even carrying a weapon – and still sailed off in a Freedom Bird at the end of my 13 months.
My comrades in the infantry did not have it so good, nor were they so lucky. I personally knew only a handful, but, having shared some of the same experiences, I knew them in their hearts. They didn’t really want to have to be there either, but they saw it as their duty and they did it. Some may have been more gung-ho and willing than others, but they all did their duty – and tens of thousands died in the process.
For all those who have fallen in battle, I send now my prayers. It doesn’t really matter whether or not their country’s causes were just. It doesn’t really matter whether or not there was tangible gain from their sacrifice. What matters is that, with whatever degree of enthusiasm, they embraced their duty to their country and gave their lives in that service; and, as I salute them, I cannot forget to salute the brave families who survived the deaths of their loved ones – families who sacrificed so terribly much as well.
I only wish that no one would ever have to fall in any battle again, and that no bride, no mother, no father, no brother, no sister would ever have to grieve over a white cross in a seas of crosses – or ever again have to explain the carnage to a three-year old.
20th PMU, VIETNAM 
MEMORIAL DAY
Posted on
Today, along with most of the rest of my countrymen, I would like to offer a remembrance of those who have fallen in battle during their military service to America.
I remember, not long after my father came home from WWII, going with him to a national cemetery in Minnesota. I recall asking what all the white crosses were for (I was only about three at the time, and had no ken of such things). My father explained that they were men who had died in the war. I remember feeling shocked. I knew that my father had been away in the war (that had been explained to me), but not that lots of people could die in a war. I also remember being awestruck with the sheer number – the sea – of white crosses stretching across the field. I, who could not yet count very high and truly comprehend a number that large, simply could not fathom the carnage. It further frightened me because I had some vague idea that my diminutive condition would end some day – that I would be grown up and might some day be killed as well; pretty spooky idea for a three-year old to contemplate.
I did go to my own war in my own time, and was lucky to draw relatively safe duty. The worst I had to face, in the final analysis, were over 100 clumsy rocket and mortar attacks, and a few anxious weeks during the Tet offensive. Sometimes, in the evening, I would walk out to the perimeter wire of my compound, look across the mine field at the sunset, and let the experience settle into my mind and soul. Out there – somewhere, right now – there were people who wanted to kill me and, given half an opportunity, would do so. I didn’t know them. They didn’t know me. I had done nothing to them personally. Hell – I didn’t even want to BE in their friggin’ country. Still, they wanted me dead. If I had been given to more expressiveness in those days, my jaw would have hung slack while I stared and slowly shook my head. To this day, I can’t get that feeling out of my head – of people wanting, and trying, to kill me. How terribly odd!
In the end (obviously) I was lucky. I could have cock-strutted around like Col. Kilgore in Apocalypse Now – never ducking, never entering a bunker, never even carrying a weapon – and still sailed off in a Freedom Bird at the end of my 13 months.
My comrades in the infantry did not have it so good, nor were they so lucky. I personally knew only a handful, but, having shared some of the same experiences, I knew them in their hearts. They didn’t really want to have to be there either, but they saw it as their duty and they did it. Some may have been more gung-ho and willing than others, but they all did their duty – and tens of thousands died in the process.
For all those who have fallen in battle, I send now my prayers. It doesn’t really matter whether or not their country’s causes were just. It doesn’t really matter whether or not there was tangible gain from their sacrifice. What matters is that, with whatever degree of enthusiasm, they embraced their duty to their country and gave their lives in that service; and, as I salute them, I cannot forget to salute the brave families who survived the deaths of their loved ones – families who sacrificed so terribly much as well.
I only wish that no one would ever have to fall in any battle again, and that no bride, no mother, no father, no brother, no sister would ever have to grieve over a white cross in a seas of crosses – or ever again have to explain the carnage to a three-year old.
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