The Hancock-Henderson Quill, Inc.
By Elaine Slater Reese
I had only seen him in public places. But I had decided he was somewhat arrogant, rude, tough, and certainly unemotional. He was always a part of the Memorial Day Service in our small town. He often appeared cocky as he stood on the stage dressed in his World War II uniform.
But as the years passed, his hair grew white. His shoulders drooped, and he shuffled up to the microphone for his part in the program. He always read his words from the little index card - which I assumed he hadn't looked at since he tucked it into his pocket the year before. I appreciated what he had done for our country-but I didn't really need to know that fellow.
And then one day, there he was in the senior facility we visit. He, of course, did not recognize me. I asked if we could chat for a few moments. He smiled and pointed to the chair next to him. I couldn't believe this was the same man. He was polite, but most of all mellow. He had stories to tell now. Age had given him that right.
That was the first of many of our visits. Most were the same. But I never tired of the repeated stories. They were always about three subjects. Tears filled his eyes when he talked about his deceased wife. There was such a gentleness and love as he told about their life together. I wondered if she had sensed that or if it all came after she was gone.
He always perked up when I asked about his occupation. Time after time he told me of the cities where he lived and the innovative things he had done for the company. He told me how much he missed being needed.
Then I would ask about the third subject he loved to discuss-being a soldier. For him being a soldier meant pride in serving America. He told of places where he had been stationed, the battles he had been in. He told of fallen comrades. But ALWAYS, he ended with the same story. There would be the long pause and tears in his eyes. His hands would be shaking. He always looked down when he started to tell this part, and I felt the humility this soldier (the one who I had thought was unemotional) was experiencing. Then he would look at me-the pain in his eyes piercing mine. "Of all the things that happened in the war, the toughest was when I had to make the flag presentation to a Gold Star Mother. That's a mother who has lost a child in the war. Only God got me through those presentations." He put his head in his hands and cried softly.
And I wondered who I thought I was to have judged this soldier. I had not been by his side as he defended our country. I was not there when he pulled back his best buddy-parts of his body shot off. I was not there when he marched through the cold, heat, storms-weak and hungry and lonely for home. And now when I look at the American flag, I feel I know what material it is made of-and I don't mean a type of fabric.
Dear Son,
What you have accomplished both personally and professionally as a soldier can never be taken away from you or diminished by any one but yourself. You are the bearer of your integrity and your self esteem.
The things you have experienced are shared by your brothers in arms, they are frightful, and uplifting at the same time. You have lived in rotten conditions and suffered from hunger and little sleep. You have been in fear of your life and taken another's.
All these things shape how you see and will react to the world for the rest of your life, each of us takes something different from our shared experiences. Use the positive, define what's important to your life and enjoy it. Remember that having experienced this you can do anything.
But also remember to be humble, there are other men and women out there who have each fought in their own wars, some under more favorable conditions and many under much worse.
You may never know when the old man you help through a door survived the Bataan Death March, stormed the beach at Normandy, or lived through the Battle of the Bulge.
Your service is something to be proud of, not to be used as an excuse for bad decisions or behavior. People think highly of our fighting men and women and we all need to act in a way that enhances that vision.
Be proud of your country, your fellow soldiers and the veterans that have gone before. Be sure and remember the support from the home front, the people who shipped food, the farmers who grew it and all those who cried over every soldier lost in battle.
Love,
Dad
To Her Son In The U.S. Army
Dear Son,
Your Pa has a good job now, the first he has had in 48 years.
We air a grate deal better off now than we wer. Yor Pa gets $14.93 every Thursday-so we thought we would do a little fixing up. We sent to Monkey Wards for one of them new fangled things they call bothrooms you hear tell about in some homes.
It is put in shape by a man called a plumer. One one side of the room is a big long thing like the pigs drink out of, only you get in that and wash all over. On the other side is a little white thing they call a sink this is for light washing such as your face and hands.
But over in the corner, now son, I'll tell you we've really got something that-this little contraption you put one foot in and wash it clean and then you pull a little chain and you get fresh water for the other foot.
Two lids come with the dern thing and we ain't had any use for them in the bathroom so I am using one for a bread board and the other had a round hole in it and we took it and framed Grandma's picture.
They are awful nice folks to deal with, they sent us a free big rool of writing paper with it.
Mom
Take keer of yourself.
by JD Wetterling
"Greater love has no one than this, that someone lays down his life for his friends."
John 15:16
It's been 87 of the bloodiest years in the annals of mankind since the war to end all wars ended, and the killing continues unabated. When the dark cloud of potential planetary annihilation evaporated 16 years ago, a misguided American leadership made deep cuts in our military, ignored the rants of a cave-dwelling radical half-a-world away and emboldened the most heinous attack ever on American soil. Two more wars followed:so far. Plato's postulate still holds: "It is only the dead who have seen the end of war." In theological terms, the depravity of man is the only dogma documented by two millennia of human history.
That's why Memorial Day should be the grandest American celebration of the year. Of all the blessings of the greatest nation on earth, none is more worthy of undying appreciation by our citizenry than the patriotic heroes of every generation who willingly gave their all to defend their country. That we are 229 years into the world's longest running experiment in government by the people is proof positive that America's war dead have not died in vain. What a glorious legacy. Even in this age when some of us bemoan the self-absorbed younger generation, we found no shortage of heroes to bring freedom to Afghanistan and Iraq and make the world a safer place. President Reagan called such soldiers "America's exclusive weapon."
My generation was called to fight and die for a shocking number of ungrateful citizens in our country's most divisive war-Vietnam. It was the only war in our history where our government abandoned an ally on the battlefield. It's fitting-divinely just-that the only war where our warriors were so reviled and our national leadership so wanting inspired the most profoundly moving monument to full-price patriotism ever to grace this land of the free-The Vietnam Veterans Memorial.
Among the 58,200 venerated souls on that black granite wall are four of my fighter pilot friends. My wingman, Robert "Vince" Willett, Jr. (panel 27W, line 103), crashed in a blinding fireball before my eyes in a hellish out-country post-midnight gunfight. Lance LaGrange (panel 75W, line 037) augured in for reasons known only to God while attacking a target in the Central Highlands. Lynn Hoffman (panel 51W, line 032) landed on a stormy night with bombs unexpended, could not get stopped on a wet runway, flipped over and slid through the perimeter minefield, triggering a grisly series of explosions. Lawrence Whitford (panel 16W, line 21), a Misty Forward Air Controller, launched with Pat Carroll in a two-seater F-100F on a lousy weather day:into oblivion. Greater love hath no man.
There is no earthly reason why I have not seen the end of war. The facts indicate a gung-ho young fighter pilot, who, out of fear and fear of failure, tried hard to engrave his name for the ages on that black granite wall.
As a rookie on a Sunday morning in the summer of "68, I dove down the gun barrels of an anti-aircraft artillery battery spitting more lead in my face than I thought I could fly through. I frantically pulled the control stick well past the point where that F-100's wings should have folded up around my ears. And then rather than take my perilously overstressed airplane straight home and gingerly put it on the ground, I foolishly continued to attack the guns. We left the gun battery a smoldering junkyard. My flight leader, Dick French, received a Silver Star and I a Distinguished Flying Cross. The jet took a month to fix. Sometimes hero medals are awarded to fools who survive by God's grace alone. (Details in next week's blog.)
The cross is the most popular symbol for heroism in the world, in honor of the most heroic act of selfless love ever witnessed-Christ's death on the cross. Mine still hangs on my office wall, reminding me who saved my life in the summer of "68, but more importantly, who saved my soul nearly 2000 years before I was born.
Although a vocal segment of our society strives to ban or redefine the term, I affirm our founding fathers' faith in "divine Providence"-I'm a recipient of it. Whether we acknowledge it or not, our nation is, too. So take a deep breath of the fresh air of liberty this day, then give thanks to God that by his providence you were born in the same country as my beloved brave friends, to whom I pay special tribute. They and tens of thousands of heroes like them are the only ones who have seen the end of war in this fallen world.