Who I remember on Memorial Day

I wrote this two years ago, so forgive me if you’ve read it already.

I joined the Army just after combat troops were withdrawn from Viet Nam. Everyone above the rank of Buck Sergeant had a combat patch and a CIB in my first units. None of the guys I knew had flashbacks or night sweats, none were drugged out freaks like they were all portrayed in the movies. Mostly, they were just like me. They got a little tanked up on off-hours, they liked to chase the ladies and they liked to tell tales. Some were happily married and went to church every Sunday, others weren’t.

During training, they were deadly serious, though. They pounded every performance measure into our rock-hard heads until it stuck. They ran us in the morning like our lives depended on it – 5 miles in 35 minutes was an easy PT day. When we had time between training, they’d quiz us on things we’d learned the day before and warn us to be prepared for the next day.

Money for training was scarce, so they used what they had to teach us. Some would dig into their own shallow pockets and buy training aids at the local pawn shop that some pogue had sold the week before. Every minute of every day we were preparing for war. Because they, the survivors of Viet Nam knew from first hand experience what happened to ill-prepared troops on their first day of contact.

Our politicians knew, too. After all, who doesn’t know the fate of the Union Army at the first Battle of Bull Run, or those greens troops who first met the Germans at Kasserine Pass. Or the fat garrison troops who had made up the hastily assembled Task Force Smith. But, in those days, the military was a low priority. We were political bastard children. In the eyes of the Washington elite, the troops had let them down in Viet Nam, although, as history has proven, the reverse was true. The politicians had forsaken the troops despite the military’s consistent overwhelming tactical victories.

The seemingly impossible task of rebuilding the military fell on the shoulders of a relative handful of men who were determined that when danger loomed, the military would be ready to respond. And, to a man, they’d all bathed in the fire of Viet Nam.

Men like CSM Henry Caro, who was my battalion sergeant major. He’d assumed command of a company in Viet Nam as a staff sergeant when all of his superiors became casualties. He had metal pins in his back and holding his leg together from when he’d been raked by machinegun fire in that role. He was out running with us every morning. He was killed soon after I left for another assignment in a training jump. The NCO academy at Fort Benning and the gym at Fort Stewart (where he died) are named in his honor.

Men like CSM William Acebes, who had been my squad leader. He made a name for himself in Viet Nam as a tunnel rat. He also had a talent for blending in with VC patrols (he is Filipino) and interrupting their nefarious plans. Every detail of every military performance measure was in that man’s head, and he had a solution to every problem.

Men like my old platoon sergeant SFC Martin (forgive me for forgetting his first name after thirty  years) who had made Captain in Viet Nam but was RIF-ed down to E-7 (a promotion by my standards, though). He knew every inch of jungle in Panama, every edible and poisonous plant and he could smell another patrol 200 meters off.

I can see all of their faces and I can still hear their voices. There were hundreds of them, too numerous to mention here. But they trained us as only combat veterans can train. And they instilled in us a tiny voice that reminded us that the next battle might be just over the horizon. That training is for war, not for a pay check or for a free college education.

I sat a table with some of them on a Sunday morning in the Howard AFB snack bar as we usually did when we were off on a Sunday. A stunned silence interrupted the usual good-natured bragging about the previous night’s conquests. The headline of the Miami Herald told us that President Carter had pardoned the draft dodgers.

Each looked as if they’d had a dagger run through their hearts. All of the friends they’d lost halfway around the world, had just been made mistakes. The politicians had just swept them under the rug. The VFW hadn’t allowed them membership, they’d been rejected by friends and family, and finally their country dealt them this low blow.

The men and women who served in Viet Nam did so from within themselves. It was never very likely they’d get support from their neighbors or communities. It was a personal, or family, thing. And they did so from a personal commitment to this country. Then, a large number had the intestinal fortitude to stay and teach the next generation of warriors to be prepared for the next war.

That’s who I remember on Memorial Day – the troops who went off to serve without marching bands and streamers on their ships, and the ones who came back still thinking about the welfare of this nation when no one else cared.

Welcome home.

Editor’s note: If you want to support the troops this Memorial Day weekend, you’re near DC, and you’re not John Edwards, be at the Rolling Thunder/Gathering of Eagles joint rally for the troops tomorrow at 11:00 am. I’ll try to get pictures up tomorrow afternoon when I get back.

Update: Mike at Flopping Aces wrote a great Memorial Day tribute. Stop by and turn your speakers on.

Category: Historical