Posted by
Cyber Pastor on Sunday, May 27, 2007 1:09:20 PM
What Memorial Day Means To Me.
Submitted by Lew
Like many, I am a product of the post World War Two ‘baby boomer’ generation and grew up in the 1950’s, coming of age in the turbulent 1960’s. I grew up in what then was known as strong disciplined house. Today, it would be abusive. But, grew up I did.
My father and all of my uncles were Veterans of World War Two, Korea or both. None ever spoke ill of either war. All are gone now and took whatever experiences they had to their graves, rarely discussing what they saw or had to do.
I grew up with Memorial Day being a very exclusive day in that my father was the Post Commander of the North Miami, Florida, American Legion Post. We would be held out of school shortly before every Memorial Day to help the post raise money through their annual poppy sales. We attended every Memorial Day parade and were taught to place our hands over our hearts when the Flag was marched by.
Memorial Day was deeply instilled in me, but it never actually held any meaning, having not endured what those WW2 Veterans had and not having served our country yet.
Like too many, my Dad and I had a falling out in my mid-teens and at 18; I left without saying goodbye and on bad terms. Listening to the hippie crowd, I somewhat bought into the notion of ‘peace’ and ‘free love.’ I didn’t do the drugs, wild dress or ever receive any of this ‘free love’ I always heard about. A couple Memorial Days came and went as I ignored them, opting instead to enjoy a day off. After all, I hadn’t sacrificed anything and the day represented what my Dad stood for, therefore must be rejected, I felt.
Viet Nam had been building as I went through High School, graduating in 1966. A few I knew went in the Army and were sent over. A couple didn’t come back, but they weren’t close buddies, so it held no special meaning to me. I was working, making my own money and living on my own. Life was sweet, I thought.
Early in 1969 that was to change when my draft notice came in the mail. My cousin, an Army Captain at the time, had told me if I was drafted, I would be in the Infantry and sent to Viet Nam. To avoid that fate, I went down and enlisted before my induction date and since I asked for Aircraft Repair, ended up in Viet Nam before any from my Basic Training Unit who went Infantry, as I was placed in helicopters, the OH-6A Scout LOH (Loach).
From my background and years in the Boy Scouts, I adapted to the Army easily. I enjoyed flying in, repairing and maintaining the helicopters, even in Viet Nam. Shortly after being assigned to the unit I was, a helicopter crashed, killing both men on board and one that I had the tail rotor off of just two days earlier. Initial word was that it crashed due to tail rotor failure, the very part I had off. Enough was recovered to show that I did not do anything wrong, but it hit me hard that I could have had some share of responsibility.
In all, my unit lost 13 men while I was in it. Most where in the very helicopters I took care of, usually flying ‘low and slow.’ None were due to sloppy repairs but were shoot downs, other than the first two. 35 years later, I found out the crash was caused by a design flaw in the tail rotor and pilot error. But for 35 years, no one ever told me.
Since Viet Nam, after going through years of denial of my service, not acknowledging that what I did mattered, Memorial Day came back to me, just as my Dad had instilled in me. It is a very solemn day for me in that I recall those 13. ‘Scotty,’ the gunner who took a round in the thigh and blocked off his own spurting artery while the pilot flew faster than he should have getting him back to the Hospital in Qui Nhon, damaging the helicopter. How he was progressing well enough to be medevaced to Japan, only to have the artery start bleeding again while he was asleep on the flight and it went unseen due to wearing a body cast, only to die. I recall ‘Otis,” a young PFC who merely slid off the hood of a ‘Deuce and a half’ to drown in the river at An Khe. I recall the coldness I made myself feel when someone died, only to have that coldness turn to tears and a lump in my throat today.
I recall my best buddy, ‘Ron’ who was shot down shortly before his tour was ending, killing the gunner in the back seat, three months before his daughter was born. I recall hearing how ‘Ron’ pushed the pilot out of the burning helicopter only to see him flee the crash sight, leaving “Ron’ tangled in the wreckage to extricate himself. He too was medevaced to Japan before I could visit him in the hospital and we lost contact, hearing or knowing nothing of each other for over 30 years. We re-contacted a couple years ago and to my amazement, he was wondering and worrying about me.
What does Memorial Day mean to me? How can one aptly put it into words? I learned my Dad wasn’t as corny as I once thought, both of us patching things up after my first tour. It is a very solemn day to me, recalling not only the 13 I knew, but also the 58,000 that didn’t come back.
Today we have lost over 3,000 once again to another war. I grieve every time I read an article about a new death. At the same time, I thank God that people as that willingly places themselves between our enemies and us, to keep them from our shores.
John 15:13 tells us that greater love has no man that he give his life for his friends. Every one of these fallen heroes has shown that ‘greater love.’ The very least we can do is take a out few moments, one day out of 365, to thank God for sending them to us.
Lew
Viet Nam 69 -71