My sister recently sent me a link to a New York Times article entitled, “Please Don’t Thank Me for My Service,” written by Matt Richtel, published on February 21, 2015. She asked me what I thought of it.
Like a bad heat rash on a hot summer day, the article irritated me. I agree that the “thank you for your service” phenomenon is real, but the attitudes and conclusions drawn by the veterans interviewed for this article seemed prickly and malformed; lacking in grace. Their comments made me suspect that on some level, they may still be wrestling with their war demons and have not fully resolved the conflict in the belly of their souls. They certainly do not speak for all of us.
It was 1977, seven years after my discharge from the Army, when someone first thanked me for my service in Vietnam. It was very significant to me and I can still remember every detail of the exchange.
I was working on the Alaskan pipeline in Prudhoe Bay, Alaska. How awkward and self-conscious I was when the stranger walked right up to me and thanked me for my service. Unexpectedly, I felt a relief of sorts because it broke the strange, long silence that had existed between me and “them” about the Vietnam war. “Them” meaning everyone else. It was a bridge that helped me integrate more fully into civilian life. I was speechless then, and still mumble my appreciation when people thank me. I am still uncomfortable when a speaker asks all the veterans to stand up and be recognized on Veteran’s Day. I comply because of my wife’s insistent prodding that I stand, with repeated nudges against my leg. Read More
Jimmy D Gray and I have been trying to find each other for over forty years. One day while surfing the Internet, he sees a random post on an obscure website, “Looking for Jimmy D Gray, November Company, 75th Rangers, LZ English. Call me brother.” He immediately answers, but by then I’ve moved on. Eventually, I circled back to the website and checked my old post. I’m stunned to see his reply that places us within five years of each other.
I finally have his email address. Then his phone number. The first late night phone call follows and ends with a promise to get together at the first opportunity. We’re a year apart.
A business trip to California gives me a reason to make another call and suddenly, we’re five hours apart. We settle on somewhere in the middle, the little town of Santa Clarita as our meeting place, at the local El Torito Mexican Restaurant.
In the parking lot, we walk exuberantly toward each other and embrace—a long backslapping hug before walking into the restaurant. I can’t believe I’m sitting across from him—looking into the eyes of Jimmy D Gray. He shouldn’t be here. He should have died exactly forty-five years ago. Instead, he’s sitting across the table from me in a booth with old naugahyde seats, faux Mexican wall tile and a bowl of crummy salsa on the table between us. He is smiling. A lot of life has passed between us. We don’t know each other now, so we start with what we do know. We know we are brothers, our kinship forged in the fires of war.
In 1969, we were both teenagers—he was from California and I was from Colorado. We first met at Advanced Infantry Training in Fort Gordon, Georgia, and then earned our Airborne wings at Ft Benning. In Vietnam, we’re stationed at LZ English, home of the November Company Rangers, 75th Infantry, 173rd Airborne Brigade, running recon missions deep into enemy territory in the Tiger Mountains of the Central Highlands, crisscrossed with a vast network of NVA supply lines from the Ho Chi Minh Trail.
Jimmy D goes to Bravo team and I’m on Charlie team, but we have each other’s backs. Every time we come in from a mission for a day to rest, resupply and reload, we check on each other’s well being. Just as I was doing that day it all came down for Jimmy D. Read More
Soul Ranger
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