A Day to Remember
It was one of his favorite days of the year, but, for the entirety of my childhood, I didn’t know; he never said anything nor demonstrated what the day meant to him. Dad was a proud army vet, but like many men who served during the Vietnam era, he seemed to hold in his thoughts.
I was born in the late sixties and have almost no memory of the Vietnam war; what memory I had was the end of the war and the immediate aftermath. The country had just effectively lost its first armed conflict, and the nation was trying to heal deep divisions that had rocked it for almost a decade. People wanted to put it behind them and move on; veterans of that era were the victims of the countries need to forget.
With that context, I grew up aware Dad was an army guy, but void of the significance his time in the army had on him and the history of military service throughout my heritage; both grandfathers served during World War II, many of my uncles and great uncles were men of uniform, and I am told my lineage can be traced to men who served both in the Civil War and the War of Independence. And yet, sadly, I missed this part of my life until I was a senior in high school; only ten years removed from the fall of Saigon.
When I met Shorty, I was working a summer job doing nothing of importance; Shorty was the maintenance guy at the facility. He came by his nickname honestly; his slight stature was only outdone by his quiet disposition; Shorty didn’t say much. Somehow, and I don’t know how, we began to sit together at an indoor picnic table to have lunch; call us two outcasts in a company that seemed to have established its hierarchy and clicks. For the longest time, we didn’t say much to each other, and then one day Shorty started opening up. He wasn’t the smartest guy in the world, but he had country common sense and had something to say.
Before long he started telling me his story—in a low voice at first—about his life and time in Vietnam. Shorty spent his tour of duty as a tunnel rat; a role that was given to men who were less than five feet five inches tall. Their task was to crawl into the tunnels built by the Vietcong soldiers to destroy the tunnel, gather intel, capture prisoners or kill them; they were alone, inside claustrophobic spaces, typically crawling on their bellies, with only a pistol and flashlight. They faced, barbaric booby traps designed to kill or maim them, enemy gunfire, and explosive devices; they also faced snakes. It was the snakes Shorty talked about; he said, “They got in my head and never left.”
I was unprepared to hear Shorty’s stories, but he needed someone to listen. Here we were a seventeen-year-old, who knew nothing about anything, and a thirtysomething year-old who needed help. I don’t know how many times we talked about his days in the tunnels, it seemed like it was every day, but his stories, and his life changed me. No longer was I oblivious to what men who have fought for the country had endured, I was learning, one story at a time, that men and women who pledge an oath to defend the nation, make that pledge with the understanding that they might be asked to do things most people couldn’t fathom.
I didn’t join the armed forces, and honestly, I don’t know why. I am not someone who lives my life replaying what I could have or should have done; it’s just not who I am. But I do believe I would have been a better person had I served; I pray I would have been as brave as the men and women who have gone before me, and who have yet to serve when asked to give themselves for a bigger calling.
Today, it is common for Americans to say, “thank you for your service.” I am sure most veterans appreciate the sentiment; but I wonder if the people saying it understand that those words pale to deliver what we owe these people. I am not suggesting we should stop saying it, although I do think some people only say it because it makes them feel better; I am suggesting we never let a phrase shortchange or diminish our gratitude into a few words. Forty years ago, no one told Shorty, thanks for your service, and sadly there wasn’t help for him to process the demons he carried. I don’t know what happened to him, it is wrong to speculate; but I do know that veterans suffer a disproportionate amount of mental illness. What are we doing for them; are we saying thanks for your service and moving on? I don’t know how to think about this. My gut tells me we aren’t doing enough.
Sadly, we will likely never have a time when we do not require young men and women to put their lives on the line to protect us; it is the way of the world. When that time comes, those who stand at the front, will be asked to do some unimaginable things, and history tells us they will do it. We need to start doing things we have thought impossible, now, to help them when their service is done.
I miss my dad, more than I can describe; I especially miss him on this day. I never failed to call him and wish him a Happy Veteran’s Day, and he always greeted my call and comment with a smiling thank you. There are almost no living veterans of World War II; soon we will be saying goodbye to veterans of the Korean War, and before long, those brave men who went to Vietnam and received a cold reception back home will begin to fade away. There is no time like the present to evaluate whether we are doing enough.
Our history is girded by our willingness to stand up and fight for what we believe in; not in our words, but our actions, in the blood and toil of those who said yes to the call. We owe it to them and to ourselves to never forget and to never shirk our responsibilities.
On this wonderful Veterans Day, I pray for the wellbeing of those who served. And to my dad, who did his duty, I say, I love you Dad, thanks for your service.
