Forever Forgotten Forever Remembered is both a true story and fiction. At the impressionable age of fifteen, I was the young boy who witnessed the tragic loss in 1967 at the death of a young Marine named Ronald Mayberry and in 2007; I went back to the wall to trace the name that had haunted me for so many years.
The fictional part of the story is every parent's nightmare having sons and daughters in the armed forces as soldiers, sailors and air persons serving in harms way and in doing so, they hope they will never have to suffer the loss.
The four-chapter story is a little dark but I wanted to make sure the reader understood...the cost.
Chapter 1
Ronald
Every day in Vietnam is the same. Today, November 7, 1967, is my seventy-fourth day in South Vietnam. I arrived on August twenty-sixth, one of the young and the proud, one of the few. I am a Marine. Every day I awaken, I sweat, I dress and I eat.
The dream of going home is just an illusion while fighting in a war for another country's freedom. Everyday the fear and apprehension, that it will be my last day, is of little consequence to me. Could the loss of my earthly freedom be bad, when compared to eternal freedom?
This is Monsoon country, Charlie country. My first few months, I slogged through mud. Today, I'm grateful. The Monsoons are over. If I die today, I won't be in the mud.
My day started at third Marine Division compound in Quang Tri City. General Tompkins was pursuing his battle plan, "Operation Checkers." Funny name, "Checkers." Ironic since, in this war, I always thought I was a pawn in "Operation Chess!"
As always, the morning mess was full of rumors about heavy fighting in Hai Lang jungle southwest of base. I hadn't begun digesting the chow when our platoon got orders.
Board the Huey gunships at ten hundred hours. Heading back to quarters I thought about writing another short letter home but, this time, I skipped it. Instead, I geared up and threw up. You never fight on a full stomach. Looking back, I shouldn't have been in such a hurry to die.
Boarding the transports en route to the helicopters, I reflected on the machines and their crews. The Huey, harbingers of life and death were the center of our lives in this war. These instruments of war were our best friends and the roles they played were as varied as the men who flew them. Without them, living and fighting in the hell called Vietnam would have been impossible.
Bouncing along we talked about anything but where we were going or what was waiting for us, and when we reached our destination, five Hueys were loaded and ready for business. So were we.
The last men boarded as the powerful turbine engines began to whine, straining to turn the massive single blades. Rising above our compound, their distinctive "whopping" pounded the quiet air; our calling card, the deep, familiar portent of our angel of death.
Too swiftly, we passed over the jungle canopy, Charlie's domain. Like a ghost, Charlie never made it easy. Fighting him was always on his terms.
Approaching the LZ (landing zone), we peered out, looking for the signal smoke. I hoped it was yellow! Yellow gave us time. Squinting in the haze and the glare, I spotted the hilltop, cleared of vegetation, and the signal. It was red.
A red LZ is the worst. There's no time. No time to land, no time to hover, no time to think. The Huey comes in low, slow, guns ablaze on full auto; you jump out when Huey's still at three feet. I hit the ground, knees bent, absorbing the weighty shock of my gear.
The rest of the platoon dropped the same way, every man alive, moving toward the sound of gunfire. Freed from the weight of human cargo, the lightened Hueys shot up into the sky above the trees to circle the jungle canopy, serving just a short time as lookouts and diversions.
Returning only when summoned, they would come back to pick up the living, the wounded and the dead. If we're lucky, the first option. The living.
The jungle drew us deep inside. We didn't want to go, but others were depending on us. Quietly, furtively, our shadows disappeared into the darkness as looming death smothered the light.
I don't know when I died. Our platoon was well-trained, silent, careful; we did what we were taught. One second, we were stealthily moving through trees; the next, Charlie opened up. The deafening roar of heavy fire was unlike anything I'd ever experienced.
We never gained an upper hand. We returned fire, focused and determined. We used everything and, when our weapons were exhausted, we used our fists. We killed ten to one and with nowhere to retreat, we fought until there was none of us left to fight. Semper Fi, do or die, we did our best.
Forty-five individuals, forty-five men's stories, were forever silenced on this Tuesday afternoon. I had loved but once; now, my days of future, passed.
When the spirit leaves the body, it stays close to its shell until its body is properly laid to rest. Death must be acknowledged, grieved for and rituals observed. As Charlie approached to carry out unspeakable butchery, I turned away. Finally, we were left alone. The Hueys returned. And soon our platoon left Vietnam forever. Forty-five flag-draped coffins, neatly lined up inside the military transport, were accompanied each by its own spirit standing at attention.
While my body was being returned to Las Vegas, Nevada, a single car turned onto Wilbur Street. The driver, a lone Marine in full dress blues, slowly cruised to my parents' house and then parked. He appeared preoccupied as he left the car and quickly lit a cigarette. After hesitating on the sidewalk, he began pacing outside the home of our neighbors. This warrior was young, untested in battle, overwhelmed by his current assignment.
It was his misfortune that this order had fallen upon his inexperienced shoulders. Vulnerable, feeling completely unequipped, he struggled to find dignified words and a manner that could acceptably convey his compassion. How do you break hearts? How do you tell a family that their son has been killed in action?
Betty was our gracious neighbor. Her window always clean, her eyes always open, she was blessed with a sharp mind and a loving heart and she was always ready to help.
She walked out to the young man in uniform and asked pleasantly, "Are you looking for someone?"
His cigarette hastily snuffed under his black patent leather shoe, the strained Marine re-checked his paperwork, "I'm looking for 5654 Wilbur Street?"
"That's Bill and Jean's house," she responded, and pointed to our house. "Is there anything wrong?"
Meeting her eyes with a grateful but guarded expression, he took a deep breath, "Yes Ma'am; but I really need to speak to them directly."
Betty understanding the significance of his visit tucked her arm inside his and leading the way, she advised him, "Bill is at work, but Jean's at home. Let me help."
His arm rigid against hers, Betty knocked firmly on the door and prepared to greet Jean with gentle warmth.
Jean opened the door with a confused smile, "Hi, Betty; who's your friend?"
Finding his moment, the Marine spoke softly as he gently nudged Betty forward and into the house. "Ma'am, may we come in?"
The party seated themselves in the living room as Jean vacillated between enjoyment of company and curiosity about Betty's companion. She smiled and told them that she had just finished wrapping a Christmas package to send her son in Vietnam, not noticing as Betty edged quietly closer.
The Marine, alone on the love seat, waited for his opportunity. He held his dress blue cover and nervously caught himself and stopped turning it in his hands. As Jean finished, he cleared his throat and spoke. "Ma'am, I am here bearing bad news. It concerns your son."
His somber tone conveyed and betrayed everything. Jean pressed her fingers to her lips not wanting to hear, unable to speak. Still struggling, the Marine continued, "Ma'am your son was killed yesterday in hostile action."
The words stabbed my mother's heart, a loss so great, so sudden, that killing her would have been kinder. "God … please no. Not my son. No. There must be some mistake?"
The Marine stood, the burden now transferred from his shoulders to my mother. With kindness, he knelt before her and spoke softly as he took her hand. "I am so sorry for your loss." Then he stood, nodded his dignified thanks to Betty and walked to the door. After re-donning his cover, he stood at attention and saluted, then closed the door behind him.
Standing outside, he gathered his shaken emotions and breathed deeply. Since boot camp, he had not experienced such passion. Maternal grief had temporarily disarmed him. As he walked back to the Marine Corps sedan, he reflected bitterly on the popular mantra of the day, attacking Lyndon Baines Johnson, the thirty-sixth President:
"Hey, Hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?
Hey, Hey LBJ, how many kids did you kill today…?"
When grief is so great, so all-consuming, time ceases to exist. As the sun set on this cold November day, the room grew darker, unnoticed. Jean remained seated on the couch, staring at nothing, waiting for her son, Jerry, and her husband, Bill, to return.
Random, disconnected thoughts materialized and disappeared like static bursts. How long had Betty been gone? Had she really been here? What was the name of that Marine? Was she hallucinating?
Funny, tragic. Up until a few hours ago, Jean had two living sons, now only one.
On his way home from Valley High, her younger son, Jerry, stopped off at a friend's. Now summoned home, he was the first to face her, a mother damaged and changed forever.
Bill had been working out of the office at the Nevada Test Site at Mercury. He had a very long and lonely drive home. Finally together in huddled synergy, the survivors stood and held each other, as each one individually was unable to stand alone.
The new family of only three grieved inconsolably, not understanding today, much less, tomorrow.
At the funeral home, I watched over my body bag in the refrigeration room and observed the mortician. He was dressed warmly, but I could not feel the cold. He checked the bag, then my paperwork. After retrieving my parents' phone number, he dialed.
Forgetting for a moment my altered state, I experienced a surge of excitement and reached to grab the phone and talk to Mom. But I could not grab or talk; so I returned to my silent vigil.
My mother's arrival sharply rekindled my attention. I clearly remember her lost expression the day I left for boot camp. It was nothing, compared to the total devastation I beheld now. Guilt and pain pierced her tear-filled eyes as she stood beside me and tenderly laid her hand atop my body.
My mom was such a strong woman; perhaps, sometimes too strong. She had formed a special bond with me, her first-born that overshadowed my life. When I graduated from high school and began my college courses, focused on my premed major, I fervently embraced the freedom and stimulation of the campus and life away from home. I was pursuing my lifelong dream of becoming a doctor and I was thrilled.
But Mom could not stand to have me gone. Her letters and phone calls were relentless with loneliness. I knew better, and I hated myself for it, but I was weak. I caved in, dropped out and moved home. When dreams are lost, you tend to blame someone; Mom was an easy target.
Perhaps nature's cruelty is kind, when mothers abandon or drive their offspring away. Bitter at my mother, myself and my predicament, I ran away, finding the one place where my mother could not follow. I became a Marine and Charlie became the focal point of my anger.
Now, my ravaged mother faced the mortician and softly demanded, "I want to see my son."
The mortician, shocked and mortified at the request, stumbled over his words. "Your son has just come in from Vietnam. We notified you immediately, so we've had no time to prepare the body."
Staring at the black bag that held my remains, my mother repeated, "I want to see my son."
Almost beside himself, the mortician pleaded, "I beg you, please; give us some time to work with your son …."
Raising her eyes, Mom pinned the poor man with a look I had never seen and spoke in a steely voice, "I want to see what they did to my son."
I observed the entire process in horror. She could not see me standing next to her, nor could she hear my spirit screaming, pleading, for her to stop. "I know what's in the bag, Mom. Please Mom, don't open the bag."
Reluctantly, with a palpable dread, the mortician slowly unzipped my body bag. From head to toe, the sound of the zipper sounded as if death was again tearing at my soul. No bullet or horror I had experienced could match what was to follow. He stepped back as my mom stepped forward to the stainless steel table.
I could not look, but then, I could not look away. As she peered into the bag, her face became a swift flood of emotions. Anger was quickly followed by denial, then remorse; then devastating loss took over, as a terrible sense of finality pervaded every cell of her body. Tears streamed down her furrowed cheeks as she saw that my head had been sewn back onto my neck, after decapitation, and that my leg had been severed and re-sewn as well. There are no words.
Broken and caught in a surge of despair, she sobbed quietly. I could do nothing. Unable to cry I could only whisper a whisper heard by angels, "I love you Mom."
Chapter 2
Rod
I met Jerry through my older brother. They were classmates at Valley High, they hung out a lot and I was often allowed to tag along. I barely knew his family, but anybody who'd met Jerry knew that his older brother was a Marine in Vietnam.
In the 1960's, Las Vegas was still just a big town. Ronald's family was the only personal connection I had to that war. I was fourteen years old, fascinated by history. Every day I watched TV and saw newsreel footage of people protesting the war, and of our soldiers and sailors fighting it. Every day, I heard why we shouldn't be there and why we should. Every day, I tried to make sense, not of the war in Vietnam, but of the war of words at home; and every day, I failed.
Every night, I heard Walter Cronkite, in the somber tones of a tolling bell, intone the daily body count. "This brings a total of thirty killed today and 275 killed for the week which brings us to a total of 19,560 killed or missing in action."
There was no question about where he stood on the war.
When I heard that Jerry's brother had been killed in action, I knew I had to attend the funeral. The first thing I saw when I walked into the chapel was his flag-draped casket. It made such an impact on me that I knew I would never forget it.
Young and impressionable, I could not tell you what was said. I only remember sensing the unspeakable agony felt by the family in their terrible loss. In the silent anteroom, so quiet were the silent screams of pain, that heavy soft snowflakes falling in a high mountain forest made more noise.
Parents aren't supposed to bury their children. There is no greater pain. Greater yet was the loss suffered from the endless abyss called Vietnam:
A war in which it seemed that we never knew the score,
And, in the end, 58,192 dead - plus one more.
Life and time inexorably move on. I grew up, did what teens and young adults do. From time to time, I would reflect on the loss of the young Marine. At thirty-two, I was divorced from a youthful marriage and Mr. Mom to my three kids. When I read in the newspaper that the national tour of the Vietnam Memorial was coming to the Las Vegas Convention Center, memories of that funeral came sharply back into focus.
Excited, I made arrangements to take off the afternoon from work, while the kids were in school and in daycare, and I went to see the traveling wall and the name of my ghostly friend, a Marine I couldn't forget.
The spring day was bright and warm as I walked into the building, the replicated wall laid out before me. Overwhelmed but determined, I started at the point and slowly made my way into the memorial. Names, names …. There were so many names. Walking back and forth, I looked for my Marine.
The search was like the war itself - protracted, confusing, and frustrating. My children needed to be picked up. I was out of time and had to leave. There were just too many names to find one.
As life moved on I remarried, this time finding my soul mate. Tami had suffered the devastating loss of her young husband in a car accident and was rearing her only child, a young daughter.
Together, we blended our families to rear our four children. At eleven, Tami's Loren was the same age as my Chris. My Nick was nine and my daughter, Jamie, my youngest, was seven.
Like most blended families, ours had "challenges"; but Tami and I were determined. She helped fill the void left by an absent, often reckless mother and ex-wife, and I did what I could for Loren.
I knew I could never replace or heal the void left from her beloved dead father. One thing I did learn from raising Loren, you can never compete with a ghost.
As the four kids went through their teens, it seemed that our marriage had better odds of being struck by an asteroid than it did of surviving; but we held on.
Eventually, the children became young adults. And just as we began to relax, life took another turn. Tami continued to work while Parkinson's disease forced me into early retirement.
With great pride, we saw our rambunctious boys become young Navy men. Chris became a Naval Flight Officer, rear sear of an F18 Super Hornet. Nick, our "incorrigible," learned Arabic for the Navy and, just as when he was as a teenager, we never knew, nor would we now be allowed to know, what he really did!
Loren became an attorney. Jamie married a Marine computer whiz and worked as a legal clerk. No amount of success is more joyful than having all of your kids turn out happy in their careers and eventually fall in love with their soul mates.
When my father passed away, I was again haunted by my Marine ghost. My father was buried at the Boulder City, Nevada Veteran's Cemetery. His pallbearers were my civilian nephew, two army soldiers in full military dress uniforms, and Chris, Nick, and our son-in-law, Sean. In that order were Army, Navy, and Marines.
Now retired, and time heavy on my hands, I searched the internet. I found the location of my Marine ghost's name on the Vietnam Memorial: Panel 29E Line 41. I decided to go to Washington, DC, visit the Memorial and make a rubbing of his name.
Nothing prepares you for the Vietnam Memorial. One wall points to the Washington Memorial, the other to the Lincoln Memorial. Looking from afar, it becomes a shallow "V."
Shallow is such a harsh word. Shallow could mean lacking physical depth. Or, it could mean lacking in depth of intellect, emotion, or knowledge. Shallow would not fit the 58,193 souls who gave their lives in this war, or the 2,594,000 who fought and lived.
The wall's designer, Maya Lin, once said, "In all of my work I have tried to create works that present you with information, allowing you the chance to come to your own conclusions; they ask you to think." In creating the Vietnam Memorial, Maya Lin succeeded.
Walking up the East point, I started counting panels. I slowly walked deeper into the memorial, like my Marine friend had walked into the jungle so long ago.
27E … 28E … 29E.
Stopping and turning, I faced panel 29E. Slowly, I walked up to the black granite panel. I was mirrored by my shadow inside the wall, reflecting the shadows of the 58,193 souls, all waiting for someone to visit and remember.
My heart beat faster as I started counting the lines: 39 … 40 … 41. Lifting my hand, I touched the first name in line and slowly passed my fingers lightly, lovingly, over each one until my fingers stopped. As if my fingertips had eyes, they stopped on line 41.
For so many years, they had waited to feel his name: The name of the only person I had known to die in Vietnam; the name of the only person I had known to die young and leave a family devastated; the Marine whose funeral had honed my reflections on life and death at such a tender age.
As I held my fingers to his name, the wall seemed to be alive, a time portal pulling memories from the living, merging them with the souls inside. Bowing my head I whispered softly, "Your memory has never faded or been forgotten. I tried to find you before, on the traveling wall, but the names were never-ending. Truly, they signified the tragic sacrifice of so many fallen heroes. When Tami and I were in San Diego many years ago, we visited the Vietnam Memorial located inside the Point Loma War Memorial. The dates on the markers of the Vietnam dead were of kids who barely knew life. I thought of you, and your sacrifice came again to my heart. I never knew you, but I knew of my life has progressed, I've come to understand the cost you paid. When my life is over, at peace with God, and I meet you on the other side, I can finally call you friend. To a fallen hero, I thank you, from the bottom of my heart." Tears streamed down my cheeks while I stood, frozen in time, my fingers still pressed to his name. Happy, sad, I had found my friend.
Reaching into my pocket, I retrieved a pencil and a small sheet of tracing paper.
I gently put it over his name and traced the letters one by one. Taking a half step back, I carefully folded the precious paper and put it in my shirt pocket. Then, standing erect and looking at his name, I brought my feet together and slowly, respectfully, saluted. From deep inside the black granite, Ronald returned my salute.
Chapter 3
The memorial
Leaving the Vietnam Memorial, I made my way back to my rental car. The Cherry trees were just starting to blossom, their beauty and color bringing vibrant life to the nation's capitol. I traveled the short distance across the Potomac River into Virginia; the next stop, The United States Marine Corps War Memorial.
I had wanted to visit this memorial since reading Flags of Our Fathers, the compellingstory of Iwo Jima and the six American flag-raisers who were forever immortalized by Joe Rosenthal's photo atop Mount Suribachi.
As I sat down in front, I was taken back to my childhood and my father telling me the story of Ira Hayes, a Pima Native American Indian from Arizona, one of the Marine flag-raisers. I remembered reading about the difficulty and guilt Hayes felt for surviving and being called a "hero." The only battle he lost was his battle with alcoholism in trying to drown the pain and memory suffered from being a living casualty of war. How
symbolic and ironic that Ira Hayes is buried at Arlington, a little over a mile from the memorial that depicts the single event in his life that he tried so hard to forget.
I had been staring at the memorial, so deep in thought that I hadn't noticed when I gained a companion on the bench. A grey-haired man dressed in fatigues, was sitting a few feet away. Breaking the silence, he spoke, "Their war was different."
Surprised but respectful, I answered, "Isn't death the common denominator in all wars?"
The man gazed at the bronze flag-raisers, nodding in agreement. He sighed, "Not if the sacrifice meant or stood for something."
Turning, I held out my hand. "My name is Rod Stephens."
The man smiled and we shook. "I'm Lange Tripis, glad to meet you."
Interested in his fatigues I asked, "Are you a Vietnam Vet?"
Lange proudly responded, "Yes, I am! It probably seems strange to you that I'm wearing my old fatigues but I like to go visit my buddies at Arlington and wearing my uniform is my way of showing respect."
I bowed my head in acknowledgement and looked back at the memorial. Staring at the black granite plaque with gold lettering, I read aloud: 'Uncommon Valor was a Common Virtue.' That pretty much sums up World War II."
With a quick grimace, Lange replied, "The cast of villains, Tojo, Hitler, and Mussolini, were such polarizing figures that once Pearl Harbor shocked our nation, the nation united behind the cry for war. Our country was prepared to pay any cost and, in the end, 462,016 American men and women paid the price. The biggest horror of the war
was the atomic bomb. America was preparing to launch Operation Downfall, the invasion of Japan. The atomic bombs, unexpectedly and prayerfully dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, brought the war to an end. America was spared the cost of 400,000 to 800,000 additional casualties."
He paused a moment, lifted his arm, and pointed to the plaque on the memorial, then continued a serious tone, "In our war, Vietnam, there was a lot of grey when it came to identifying our enemy; but that plaque also speaks of us. With fatal vision, the black granite panels left blank are to be etched with battles yet unfought"
I spoke with regret. "I missed serving in Vietnam. By the time I graduated from high school, it was over. I remember the evening my father, mother, brother and I were eating dinner and the civil defense sirens started to whine. Looking back, the sirens' hollow tone cried for a divided nation and its fallen heroes, those who paid the ultimate price. I looked at my family and said 'Well, it's over.' The date was January twenty-seventh, 1973. It's funny how dates can play tricks on you. In seven more years, that date would also be the date my first son was born. Sometimes, I feel guilty for not going to Vietnam and serving my country."
Lange smiled and slowly shook his head. "You didn't miss anything. You missed everything."
Confused by Lange's response, I asked "What do you mean?"
He took a deep breath and answered, "The ghost of the dead is different than the ghost of the living."
More confused than ever, I said, "I don't understand!"
Lange continued. "The lives that were lost in Vietnam were tragic. But in dying, their journey and earthly struggles were over. The living came home from a hated war. They had to deal with a divided country, with the ghost of what they had suffered and experienced in Vietnam, and the unjust persecution they would suffer at home."
Staring back at the monument, I finally nodded in understanding. "I was never as angry as I was when my sister-in-law commented that she hoped her son would never be sent to Iraq. She inferred that only stupid people join the military. She didn't understand that when you have sons or daughters serving in the military, the doorbell can ring at any time. She's so selfish, so emotionally handicapped that she has no understanding or desire to understand the weight and cost a military family bears."
"Both of my boys are in the Navy. My oldest, Chris, is a Naval Flight Officer. Part of his training was on a T-39 Sabreliner, similar to a business Lear jet today. He finished his training and the next group boarded the same jet the next day for theirs. On the return flight home to Pensacola Naval Air Station, it crashed and all aboard was killed. My wife, Tami, and I cried for their families' losses of their loved ones. Our son's life was spared by one single day of rotation. "
Lange stood, "It was like that in Vietnam. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason why some lived and some died. It seemed that some of the ones that should have died, lived; and some of the ones who should have lived, died."
With the day slipping away, I stood up and reached out to shake Lange's hand goodbye. "Thanks for your time. I enjoyed visiting with you. Do you need a lift?"
He nodded appreciatively, "Thanks. If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you take me over to the Vietnam Memorial?"
I felt my spirit soar at the idea of spending a little more time with this thoughtful veteran and joyfully motioned the way to my car. "I'd be delighted!"
We luckily found parking not far from the Lincoln Memorial and both of us lingered behind the car. Lange spoke first. "Where are you going next?"
Pointing, I replied, "Lincoln's one of my favorite historical figures. It would be a shame if I came all this way and did not visit his memorial."
Cocking his head, Lange asked, "Mind if I join you?"
"To the contrary, I'd be honored."
As we walked up the steps, he giggled. "The way Lincoln sits there always made me think of Captain Kirk at the helm of the Enterprise: 'Scotty, phasers on emancipate, full power!'"
Laughing with Lange, I had to agree. "I never looked at it that way but you're right. I can see the resemblance!"
Reaching the top of the marble steps, we turned, standing together on the steps, looking over the National Mall and the Washington Monument, its image shimmering in the Reflecting Pool.
Of one mind, we sat down to enjoy the view. "At Gettysburg," I began, "an audience of 9,000 listened to Edward Everett speak for two hours about the battles fought at Gettysburg. Comments from local newspapers said, 'He gave us plenty of words but, no heart.' When Lincoln delivered his Gettysburg Address, in just a little more than two minutes, he spoke 272 words, expressing the belief he had been formulating all his life.
"When he finished, the crowd was still. As he walked back to his chair and sat down, Lincoln thought that the speech and its contents were a failure. Instead, his address brought about his hope. The Gettysburg Address started the healing process from the Civil War and reset the moral compass of our nation. On these same steps that were erected in Lincoln's honor, almost a hundred years later, Dr. Martin Luther King delivered his own speech and finished what Lincoln started."
Lange took some time to reply. "In Vietnam, we were in a time capsule, removed from the rest of the world, fighting a war that divided a country; while we were fighting to preserve a divided country."
I studied Lange agreeing and spoke. "I'm concerned. In fact, I'm truly afraid. I dread that Iraq will become another Vietnam and somehow embroil and consume my family. I see American service men and women dying. Iraqis are embroiled in a vicious civil war over political and religious power, while our government keeps trying to create unity to support democracy among people who have hated each other for centuries!"
Lange nodded. "I understand. I was involved in an 'escalation;' they're calling this a 'surge.' The soldiers fighting for their lives have to take responsibility for their individual actions. Iraq won't fully become another Vietnam until the politicians turn on
the military and blame them. When that happens, that's when you have another Vietnam."
He paused and took a deep breath. "Our country needs to respect and unite behind the soldiers and sailors who voluntarily serve in our military. We need to remember that there are whole flags over the caskets of our fallen heroes, not half. No one can be half dead. As a country, we can be divided and argue about a war in Congress; but we need to unite in support of the military and their needs, those we are asking to sacrifice their lives. If we can't support our country's troops, we need to leave."
Lange continued with welled up eyes, "One thing I do know. This war is mortgaging the military, our country and its children's future with a cost yet unpaid. If we fail in our own future, I dare say the ghost from our fallen military would rise in anger demanding responsibility from the grave for the cost of their blood spilled, for a weakened country. "
Finished and wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he stood. "Rod, it has been nice spending the afternoon with you. I still want to spend some time going over and saying a few words to my buddies at the wall."
I embraced him with a hug. "Thank you, for spending time with me. Thank you, for your service to our country."
Lange grinned. "A Vietnam vet will always take a 'thank you,' even though it's a little late!"
Turning, he walked down the steps, to live in my memory, forever forgotten, forever remembered.
Chapter 4
Passages
Flying home, I had time to reflect on finally meeting my Marine friend and on the encounter with Lange Tripis. I felt that by making the trip to the Vietnam Memorial, I finally had peace. I had dealt with a chapter in my life that needed to be cherished, remembered, and now closed.
Tami was excited to hear about my experiences. She met me at the airport and, as we drove home, I told her all about my trip, my encounter at the wall and my meeting with the Vietnam Vet. We continued over dinner at a favorite restaurant and as we ended our dessert, I once again reflected on my restful soul finally at peace with my Marine friend.
Time moved on. Having Parkinson's disease, I awoke every morning saying, "Today is the first day of the rest of my life." I knew that life has seasons, and I made a point of being grateful for the peace we were enjoying.
It was another beautiful morning when the doorbell rang. I looked out to see a Naval Officer and a Chaplain. Their eyes told all. The season had ended. I was going to hear that one of our precious boys was gone.
Collapsing on the floor, I held in a scream of unspeakable pain, as a tearful moan escaped. Killing me would have been more merciful. I lived a terrible replay of the agony I had witnessed at fourteen. I forced myself to open the door and listen to the name of my dead son. Like Bill and Jean, I'd once had two beautiful, living sons. Now I had one.
The Naval Officer and the Chaplain remained while I called Tami. As I heard her voice, I choked, my throat convulsed. Mercifully, the Navy Chaplain took the phone and, by the grace of God, asked her to come home, explaining that there was a family crisis.
Driving home, Tami wrestled with the terror that grips every military family. She prayed that, maybe, one of our boys was just injured. She took a deep breath as she opened our front door, the door that had joyfully greeted so many friends and family and now greeted death.
I sat numbly beside her as she sobbed. The Navy Chaplain gently tried to share God's consolation. The tears kept running down my cheeks onto my shirt as I wrestled with the terrible reality, the knowledge that we were forever damaged, forever changed. Staring at nothing, I was half-dead. A son was now gone. The family would need me in the days to come. Today, I could help no one.
Left alone, Tami and I held each other, saying nothing. At last, Tami gathered herself and, going into the other room, began calling; first, our dead son's fiancée, then our other son and two daughters; still a family, now minus one.
Honoring his wishes, our son was being laid to rest with full honors at Arlington National Cemetery. On the quiet flight to Washington, D.C., my thoughts swirled around my dead son and my surviving family, praying I would be strong enough for everyone, tonight with the cherished living, tomorrow with the cherished dead.
At the hotel, Tami and I were grateful to see our kids. Remembering the devastation and inconsolable grief in losing her first husband, Tami embraced our son's fiancée. A few months more and she would have been a widow. Now, she was in marital limbo, but her pain was just as real; the loss of a soul mate, the aching, empty void. In the restaurant, Tami sat on one side of her, I on the other.
The next morning, we drove to the cemetery in Arlington and I realized that I wasn't sure when I'd last slept. As we passed the United States Marine Corps Memorial, I realized that my Navy son would now take the place of my Marine friend.
Still broken and dazed, we made our way to the Administration Building to meet the Cemetery Representative and the Navy Chaplain who would guide our family through the regulations and rituals. We introduced ourselves to the two gentlemen and spoke
briefly. Later, none of us could remember either of their names. The Officer in Charge accompanied us to the transfer point and took a few minutes to go over the funeral protocol.
Nothing prepares you for the beginning of the end, when you start to say goodbye.
The hearse pulled up beside the caisson. The black symbolic, horse-drawn gun carriage would now carry our son. Six Navy pallbearers waited at attention. Once the door of the hearse was opened, they marched forward and, with exquisite precision, transferred the casket to the caisson.
Stirred by the weight of the casket, the black horses tapped the pavement with their steel shoes and pulled the leather harnesses, causing the limber of the caisson to emit a deafening groan.
We joined the pallbearers facing the flag-draped casket and held our hands over our hearts until we heard the sharp bark of command, "Order Arms."
Following the Officer in Charge, our family passed the flag, again, our right hands over our hearts. Then we walked to the front of the funeral procession and stood silently as they completed the final preparations. The marching band, then the platoon passed by; silence followed then came the horse-drawn caisson, the brass metal clasps jingling with incongruous merriment as the horses pulled their heartbreaking cargo. As it once again came before us, we gave a final salute to the passing flag and our fallen son. And when the pallbearers had marched on we followed, not as willing participants but as humans caught up in the vortex of war.
At the grave site, the pallbearers gently and respectfully removed the casket which carried our beloved son. Our family followed the Officer in Charge, waiting for the pallbearers to start their five-step turn from the caisson. With the orders "Ready, Step," we led the way, the pallbearers following to the gravesite.
Tami stood, first chair, first row, I was next, followed by our son's fiancée. The rest of our family stood behind us. We waited, our hands over our hearts, as the casket was brought to rest and the pallbearers again snapped to attention and faced each other across the casket.
With a trance-like unity, our family sat down and turned to the Navy chaplain as he preached the eulogy and rite of Christian burial. His words ringing on mortal ears, I stared at the flag-draped box that held the remains of my child. I had now come full circle. The past of my Marine friend and the present of my son had merged into one.
As the rite concluded, a row of seven riflemen fired three volleys. As I watched, my eyes caught the shadow of another man, standing at attention on the ridge above them. He also was saluting our son's flag-draped casket.
The echo of the rifle volley pierced and resonated throughout the cemetery, the sound quickly dying as it was absorbed by the common markers of fallen heroes from wars long ago. The following awful silence was broken by the wail of a lone bugle, as "Taps" broke our last reserves.
Through our tears, we watched the pallbearers' reform to fold the flag. Their presentation of the standard to Tami sealed our reality, as their representative knelt and
softly spoke. "On behalf of the President of the United States, a grateful nation, and a proud Navy, this flag is presented as a token of our appreciation for the honorable and faithful service rendered by your loved one to his country and the Navy."
Tears flowing unchecked, Tami hugged the flag to her chest. This noble flag, loved and honored by all of us, could not fill the aching void left by a joyful, loving child, held so many years ago to the same bosom, and now gone.
Standing with my family, I was both surprised and bewildered to see the man still standing on the ridge, looking down at us. Squeezing Tami's shoulder I asked, "Do you mind if I leave you for a few minutes and go to see who that man is?" As she softly cried with our son's fiancée, Tami gave me a small smile and shook her head.
After carefully walking between many rows of markers, I realized that I was approaching my Vietnam vet friend, Lange Tripis. I shook his hand with a confused and grateful smile and asked, "How did you know about my son's funeral?"
He gently smiled back and, wrapping an arm around my shoulders replied, "I have many in my charge."
More confused than ever, I asked, "Did you know my son??"
He shook his head. "Do you remember the day we met?"
I nodded.
His eyes locked on mine, Lange asked, "Do you remember the name you were looking for, on the wall?"
Again nodding, eyes red and swollen, I gasped as I saw my friend, gray-haired and dressed in the same worn and faded fatigues, softly transmuted and restored to the age of 20, in a bright and new uniform.
Still speaking softly and with a gentle concern, he went on. "I am the one you were looking for. I am Ronald James Mayberry and you were at my funeral forty years ago, when you were a fourteen year-old boy."
Joyous and now finding the tears I thought I could cry no more Ronald continued, "Don't cry for me, Rod. Heaven more than made up for the shortcomings of a country that wasted my mortal life. I am here, because your son sent me. He wants me to tell you he is happy, and at peace. I was the angel sent to meet and escort your son, the new fallen hero, to his eternal glory. But Rod, I need to ask you one favor, for me."
Still struggling, I managed to answer, "I'll do anything I possibly can. What is it that you need me to do?"
As Ronald continued to smile, I realized he was talking, not out loud, but to my mind. "I came to my brother Jerry in a dream, and in that dream I said, 'Jerry, don't you get it, I'm not dead!' I need him to know, we all go on! Please, tell him about me, and tell him what I just said."
With a final hug, he turned me back to my family and I began to walk down the hill. I looked back to wave, but my Marine was gone.
Days of past, forever gone.
As I looked down the hill at my family, gathered together and waiting for me, I felt a different smile lighting my face. Life never ends. We spend it here for a while, and then we move on. The love never dies.
At the Tomb of the Unknown walks The Old Guard honoring The Sentinel Creed:
My dedication to this sacred duty is total and wholehearted.
In the responsibility bestowed on me never will I falter.
And with dignity and perseverance my standard will remain perfection.
Through the years of diligence and praise and the discomfort of the elements,
I will walk my tour in humble reverence to the best of my ability.
It is he who commands the respect I protect.
His bravery that made us so proud.
Surrounded by well meaning crowds by day alone in the thoughtful peace of night,
this soldier will in honored glory rest under my eternal vigilance