The Sacrifices He Made; the Memories He Carries

Sylvia Barry contributed this Local Voices story in time for Memorial Day 2011. We're re-posting it again because it resonates on Veterans Day as well.

My friend came to dinner the other day, a big Teddy Bear kind of guy, silver haired, gentle mannered, dog spoiler and a very dry sense of humor.  I love chatting with him whenever I see him out and about.  We always have a good laugh.

Must be because it was the Memorial Day.  Somehow he mentioned he always celebrates March 4.  We were curious.  Oh, that’s the day when I came home; he said, matter of factly, and I have been celebrating that day since.

He was 22, fresh out of college in Seattle with dreams for future when he was drafted.  He decided to fly home first before heading out.  I can’t imagine what must have gone through his mother’s mind to send her beloved son off; heartbreaking, I can only assume.

Oddly enough, he said, he remembered what he did the first three days of Army life, even after so many years – to keep the young soldiers occupied; they spent three days washing and polishing garbage cans, climbing in and scrub shiny the bottoms of oceans of garbage cans!  Mindless job to calm the jitters, just before Nam!   

He talked about the fall of Ho Chin Ming city and how for three nights straight, 1800 soldiers each night were slaughtered trying to gain control of Ho Chin Ming Trail.  The only ones survived were the ones who held onto the helicopters for their dear lives.  What brilliant minds must have planned that, he mused.

After so many years, he can still tick off details of the soldiers in his platoon; must be like yesterday. They were 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, all young kids from different backgrounds and different parts of the country, forced to be together and to trust each other with their lives.  All one wanted was to go home; the other loved the war; one had big dreams for the future; another was not be equipped to survive the outside world. 

My friend was the sergeant in his platoon.  It must take a year or two to be a sergeant, my son said.  Oh, I made it in six months, he said casually, but then you really don’t want that because the only ones who rose so quickly were in infantry.  I did not have the heart to ask him how many young men from his platoon came home.

Coming home through Seattle brings another bitter moment.  Seattle was fiercely anti-war.  Wearing new cloths and boots (how ironic that they could not get boots when the need was so great fighting in the tropical mud, but were handed new clothing so they can look spiffy coming home), he was greeted by a long-haired, robed man (you would call him a hippie, I guess, he said), inches from him – "How many babies and innocent people have you killed?" the long-haired man demanded.

The young soldier did not understand why they were so hated when all they did was to follow the orders and to try to survive another day. They did not have a choice.

Three days later, he was back in college; like Nam never happened.  But he recalled how when he first came home, he found himself underneath the bed when his big, old cat knocked over a sprinkler, creating clunking sounds; or the time when he instinctly jumped out and crawled underneath a car when he heard an unfamiliar sound in broad daylight.  Distinct, yet crystal clear memories.

He goes to VA hospitals now for his regular medial care and he can’t help but notice how different vets from Nam are different from those served in WWII or even Iraq or Afghanistan.  Many are still in their real or make shift uniforms, decorated with real or make-shift medals; somehow, they continue to live in a bad dream that just won’t go away. 

I wonder how he ended up doing so well and became so successful after all these.  Maybe because I was older and more mature than the others when I went, he said.  All 22 years of maturity, I thought to myself!

My friend left, leaving me wonder; all that sacrifices he made, all that memories he carries; and all he does is to celebrate March 4, the day when he came home facing an angry sea.  I can’t keep the young friend out of my mind; a lonely, young man many years ago, and now, a graying gentleman, looking back, of the inequities in life and taking all that in stride while looking forward to what’s still to come – a new puppy, maybe soon!