It's been quite a while since I made an entry here, three weeks, to be exact. Within the next few days, I'll post an entry addressing that. However, there's something more important on my mind.
Tomorrow, America remembers those who have died in the various wars she has fought. I ask each of you to take a moment to add your positive thought for those who have taken up the uniform, and laid down their lives in service to their country.
You may not agree with the justifications for one or more of the wars. I know I don't. But that doesn't matter. It's not about supporting war, in general or specific. It's about paying respect to those who were willing to place themselves in harm's way, offering their service - and their lives - to the society of America as a whole.
The first war to directly touch my life was Korea, although only after the truce had been called. My father spent a year there, working as an engineer. To the best of my knowledge, he did not know anyone killed or hurt during or after that conflict.
The same cannot be said for Viet Nam, where he served two tours, one as commander of a helicopter company, the other as the commander of an engineering battalion. I don't believe he lost any of his engineers - at least not to the war itself, although heroin may have taken one or two - but he lost many men during his helicopter tour, and many times many were wounded, and my father deeply mourned every one of them, accepting another weight of guilt for each loss.
My father almost never discussed his time under the gun. I can count the times he talked to me about it on one hand without the thumb. He did talk about non-military activities from those times, but not about the combat. In fact, there are things about my father's life - amazing and truly heroic things - that I learned from his friends and comrades-in-arms, a history that left me dumbfounded. The only time I ever asked him about one of the stories I'd heard, he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "It's not worth discussing," he said gruffly. "I just did what needed to be done."
"But, dad," I replied, "they say you're a hero."
"They say I am. I don't." He say quietly for a moment, but tensely. I could see his eyes first loose focus, as they do when a person drifts into their thoughts, the begin to well with tears. Finally, he continued: "You know who the heroes are? Those boys I had to send home to their mothers in boxes. They're the heroes. Honor them." With that he turned away and said no more. Ever.
Every year at this time, I remember his words. "I just did what needed to be done." I wonder how many of the fallen would say the same thing of their own actions? I think the percentage would surprise many of us. Thousands upon thousands who died in an attempt to save someone else, who placed the value of another's life above their own, and in so doing, acted in the only way their conscience would allow.
"They're the heroes,' he said. "Honor them."
And I do.
I hope you will join me.
Tomorrow, America remembers those who have died in the various wars she has fought. I ask each of you to take a moment to add your positive thought for those who have taken up the uniform, and laid down their lives in service to their country.
You may not agree with the justifications for one or more of the wars. I know I don't. But that doesn't matter. It's not about supporting war, in general or specific. It's about paying respect to those who were willing to place themselves in harm's way, offering their service - and their lives - to the society of America as a whole.
The first war to directly touch my life was Korea, although only after the truce had been called. My father spent a year there, working as an engineer. To the best of my knowledge, he did not know anyone killed or hurt during or after that conflict.
The same cannot be said for Viet Nam, where he served two tours, one as commander of a helicopter company, the other as the commander of an engineering battalion. I don't believe he lost any of his engineers - at least not to the war itself, although heroin may have taken one or two - but he lost many men during his helicopter tour, and many times many were wounded, and my father deeply mourned every one of them, accepting another weight of guilt for each loss.
My father almost never discussed his time under the gun. I can count the times he talked to me about it on one hand without the thumb. He did talk about non-military activities from those times, but not about the combat. In fact, there are things about my father's life - amazing and truly heroic things - that I learned from his friends and comrades-in-arms, a history that left me dumbfounded. The only time I ever asked him about one of the stories I'd heard, he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "It's not worth discussing," he said gruffly. "I just did what needed to be done."
"But, dad," I replied, "they say you're a hero."
"They say I am. I don't." He say quietly for a moment, but tensely. I could see his eyes first loose focus, as they do when a person drifts into their thoughts, the begin to well with tears. Finally, he continued: "You know who the heroes are? Those boys I had to send home to their mothers in boxes. They're the heroes. Honor them." With that he turned away and said no more. Ever.
Every year at this time, I remember his words. "I just did what needed to be done." I wonder how many of the fallen would say the same thing of their own actions? I think the percentage would surprise many of us. Thousands upon thousands who died in an attempt to save someone else, who placed the value of another's life above their own, and in so doing, acted in the only way their conscience would allow.
"They're the heroes,' he said. "Honor them."
And I do.
I hope you will join me.
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