A VETERAN'S THOUGHTS ON VETERANS DAY by ROBERT VAUGHAN

I stood at the top of the incline, looking toward the long, black wall, with the more than 58,000 names just a blur. I watched people moving slowly along the wall…from those too young to have any memory of the Vietnam war, to those people whose hair had been bleached white by the passing of too many years.

Sometimes there would be a couple of men staring at the wall, engaged in quiet conversation.

“I don’t believe Smitty ever bought a cigarette of his own.”

“No, but he was a good man. You needed somethin’ done, you could always count on Smitty.”

“Problem with him, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He was always talkin’ himself into trouble.”

“He only had three weeks ‘till his drop date when he was killed. Can you believe that? Three weeks.”

Ruth had gone to check in the book to help me locate some of my friends. They aren’t listed alphabetically, they are on the wall chronologically, according to when they were killed.

She came back with the names. The first name was Dan Lambdin. Dan and I were friends from Germany, in Vietnam at the same time, but not serving together. I found his name on the wall, and, as dramatically as if it were a scene change in a movie…the wall, the people around me, tone and tint, disappeared. I could hear the sound of rotor blades, I could smell jet exhaust, I could feel the oppressive heat of the flight line at Phu Loi, Vietnam.



Dan was in Vung Tau, and I had flown over from Phu Loi to deliver a helicopter. Dan’s roommate was gone, so he invited me to stay with him. We lay there that night, talking across the dark space between our bunks, remembering funny incidents from Germany, talking about what we had encountered in Vietnam.

“The first thing you have to do is to learn not to be afraid you’re going to be killed every time you go out,” Dan said. “You need to stop worrying about your mortality and think only about the momentary reality.”

But we wondered what it would be like to be killed. Are you aware beyond death? Where does your soul go?

“Ha! You better believe, I won’t be staying here,” Dan said with a chuckle.

The next day we went down to the airfield together. I was going to fly back to Phu Loi, and Dan was going to deliver a generator to a Special Forces “A-Team” unit near Binh Khat. We exchanged some off-color remark by way of goodbye, and went our separate way.

When I landed at Phu Loi, the line-chief, who had served with Dan and me in Germany, came over to tie down the aircraft. “Chief, did you hear about Mr. Lambdin?”

“What do you mean, hear about him? I just left him. Hear what?”

“He was just shot down and killed near Binh Khat. He was delivering a generator.”



“No,” I said. “That’s not possible!” I spoke those words while standing at the wall, but they reached back across the almost forty years that separated then from now in an instant.

Then, with my throat choked, and my eyes dimmed by tears, I continued my sojourn down the wall, putting my hands on 22 more names, feeling each of them, seeing them as the young, vibrant men I remembered. Looking around I saw that I wasn’t the only one traveling through time and that day. To me, my fellow time travelers were no longer old men with gray hair and drawn skin. They were young, and they were wearing jungle fatigues and flak vests, and they had M-16s slung over their shoulders, or .45 pistols strapped to their sides. Their eyes weren’t filled with tears…they were set in the ‘thousand yard stare’ that we all wore then.

VIETNAM REFLECTIONS by LEE TETER
http://www.art.com/gallery/id--b19052/vietnam-veterans-memorials-posters.htm
I said one more goodbye to all my friends that day, then I walked away, leaving the wall behind me, but not the ghosts and memories. They will be with me until I cross that great divide. Vietnam was but three years out of my 76 years of life...but the impact those three years made on me is incalculable.

On this approaching Veterans Day I think not only of my Vietnam and Cold War peers, but of all 40 million who have served this country since its birth. We are one long line stretching through the battles that mark our history; Bunker Hill, New Orleans, Matamoros, Shiloh, Little Big Horn, San Juan Hill, The Marne, Iwo Jima, Chosin Reservoir, Ia Drang, Baghdad, and Fallujah, and I am proud to say that I am a brother to all of them.
Robert Vaughan - CW3 - US Army (ret)

All of us gave some…some gave all.
SOLDIER SEES DAUGHTER FOR THE FIRST TIME

THE SADDEST TWENTY MILES by CHERYL PIERSON

People say all small towns look the same. The old brick buildings guarding the streets silently speak of the past, when they were new and full of life. The traffic light on Main Street measures the slow pace of life in increments of green, yellow and red. Most times, the Christmas decorations go up on the streetlights after Halloween and don’t come down until the first warm day of spring.

The flag at the courthouse is no odd sight; flags in small towns are common and patriotism runs high along with societal values. The speed limit is no more than 35, and everyone knows that. There’s no reason to rush, anyway.

My first clue that something was different about Madill that August day was the sign. On the very far northern edge of the “city” limits someone had placed a huge banner by the side of the two-lane highway. It stood unfurled between two wooden poles.

“A TRUE AMERICAN HERO,” the lettering read, and below that, “2ND LT. JOE CUNNINGHAM.”

Red and blue magic marker starbursts filled the white void of the background around the letters, leaving no doubt that the banner had taken hours of loving, painstaking precision to create.

And the rockets’ red glare,
The bombs bursting in air…

The banner stood as the beginning of what was to be a somber twenty miles of driving for me that day. Only a few feet from where the banner had been placed, small roadside flags were planted in the parched Oklahoma soil. There had been no rain for weeks, and with our record-breaking number of triple-digit days, I could only imagine how hard it must have been to push those small, fragile twelve-inch sticks into the rock-hard ground at such measured intervals.

If you’ve ever lived in a small town, you know Saturday mornings are the liveliest, busiest times of the week. Not so on this Saturday morning. As I topped the hill and the main part of town came into view, my heart skipped a beat. I had never seen such a profusion of color. Red, white and blue—everywhere. Flags flew from every porch, every small business, every conceivable place visible…and that could only mean one very tragic thing.

Gave proof through the night
That our flag was still there…

I slowed down to twenty-five as tears blurred my eyes. A car pulled out in front of me a little further down the road, and I looked to my right. The side road had been blocked off. There were at least two hundred motorcycles parked beside the First Baptist Church. The Patriot Guard Riders had come to pay their respects—and to be certain that everyone else did, too, should a certain crazed group of fanatics from Kansas decide to make an appearance.

Across from the motorcycles, a huge, beautiful American flag was unfurled, the field of blue lending its stars to heaven, the stripes perpendicular to the ground. In front of that flag stood perhaps fifty lawmen of every type, a mix from both sides of the Red River, Texans and Oklahomans.

The parking lots for the businesses in the immediate area were full to overflowing, even though none of those businesses were open. Signs filled the windows under where the flags flew: “CLOSED. BACK AT 1:00 P.M. REST IN PEACE, JOE.”

I stopped at the light on Main Street. The courthouse flag was, of course, flying at half-mast. There were no other cars on the road. The one that had pulled out in front of me earlier had turned off a block back, at the first available parking place, a long, half-mile hike away from the church. I was driving through a ghost town.

The signboard at the Grab & Go read, “OBAMA MAY BE PRESIDENT, BUT GOD IS STILL IN CHARGE.” Any other time, I might have smiled, but not with that small picket of flags that still sporadically lined the road, reminding me of the terrible loss this town was reeling from.

Another hand-lettered sign by the road: “WE’LL MISS YOU, JOE. GO WITH GOD.”
And yet, another: “REST IN PEACE, JOE. WE WILL NEVER FORGET.”

I drove out of Madill, headed for Kingston, another small town, a few short miles away.

Small towns, close together, are usually rivals on the high school football field and in most other things, but when all is said and done, we remember that we are, all of us, citizens of the same wonderful country, and that’s what matters—more than who wins the game on Friday night, more than which town has the best point guard on the basketball court, and more than which quarterback has better chances with the big college scouts. As Americans, we all have equal ‘bragging rights’—we are Americans, and no other country pulls together as we do when the going gets tough.

I couldn’t think of anything, anywhere, any time being tougher than losing even one of our young men to war. A bright smile that would never be seen again, coming through his parents’ door; two arms that could never open to hug his best girl again; the echoing sound of emptiness forever where once his steps fell—an aching, empty hole in the lives of every person he ever knew that could never, never be filled.

My thoughts rolled over one another as I drove. I wondered about him, about his family—about what he’d left behind, and how the people he’d known would ever manage to survive without him in their lives forevermore.

I was on the fringes of Kingston when the roadside flags started up in earnest again—though they’d never completely stopped. But now, it looked as if someone had planted a beautiful garden of red, white, and blue flowers in the cracked, dry Oklahoma soil.

As Kingston came into view ahead, flags fluttered in the wind at every business. Some buildings had bunting on their storefronts.

It doesn’t take long to cover the few miles from one end of Kingston to the other. But with every inch of ground I traveled, there was no doubt that 2nd Lieutenant Joe Cunningham was remembered, respected, and revered.

As I drove out of town, yellow ribbons tied around several branches of a tree in someone’s yard caught my eye.

“HE IS HOME. REST IN PEACE.”

No small town rivalry, now. As Americans all, we share only a unified, joint loss of a shining star; the precious, irreplaceable light of someone’s life.

He was 27. He loved to hunt and fish. He had dreams of becoming a highway patrol officer and finishing his degree. He always wore a smile.

I will never drive that sad stretch of road again without remembering a man I never met. A hometown hero is gone forever, but he will never, never be forgotten.