Who really knew Bill Blowers? One or two people. Who actually cared about him? No one cared very much.

Sure it can be said that I, as his squad leader, was required to have concern for his well being. I am even glad to say that my concern transcended the feeling of responsibility a leader is supposed to have for a subordinate. I grew to like Bill.

Loners don’t invite much in the way of friendship. This particular fellow didn’t respond very well to leadership either - which is what drew my attention to him when I first came to Charley Company. He had a smart mouth.

He was an enigma. A puzzle that no one cared to solve. Except me.

I was to grow used to Bill always bumming the coffee from my C-rations. It didn’t matter what time of day it was, he always drank coffee and smoked cigarettes.

"Hey. Got any smokes? Got any coffee?" I made certain that I had these items on hand.

Soon he began to take my canteen cup with him and return with coffee for me.

No one wanted to share guard duty with him, so he and I wound up pulling it together. I set up the mortar to shoot a DT (Defensive Target), and he checked the data on the sight to make sure it was correct. A round or two was shot and we’d settle down in the gunpit and shoot the breeze.

What makes a loner? Could it be that he has never been given a chance to say what is on his mind? Everyone has sensitivities and deep feelings. Was his brashness a way of covering up some long remembered hurt? His unwillingness to conform hurt him. The Army doesn’t much reward independent minded people.

The Army could have been more grateful. Before I arrived in Vietnam, Charley Company was running an operation along with an armored unit. A trip flare had accidentally gone off inside an Armored Personnel Carrier loaded with ammunition. While everyone made a hasty retreat from what was sure to be a large explosion, Bill nonchalantly went inside the APC and removed the flare.

"I save the government thousands of dollars and do you think that they would show their appreciation? An Arcom (Army Commendation Medal) would have been nice!"

Our platoon played a lot of cards. Bill was an excellent Spades player. I made certain that he was my partner - much to the chagrin of opponents. I used to laugh as Bill reached with a long arm (the guy was all elbows) to throw down a 2 or 3 of spades in order to trump a trick the opposing team badly needed. He’d say with a smile that those baby spades were his "sappers".

There was a story that I liked to hear Bill Blowers tell. It was the kind of story one doesn’t mind hearing more than once. It was likely that the casual listener would not consider the story profound or interesting - unless the listener knew Bill Blowers. He was not one to waste words.

It was about his home in upstate New York. The maple trees had long since lost their color and their leaves lay buried deep beneath the snow.

The sap was running in the dead of winter, and Bill’s job was to process it into maple sugar.

I had visions of him going about from tree to tree gathering buckets of sap that were nailed to trees. Instead, he explained of an elaborate system that piped the sap into the sugar house - which is where he worked.

"Man it is so quiet out there. Out in the middle of the woods. Nobody around. I don’t even listen to the radio. You got to keep a wood fire going in the sugar house to cook the sap. It’s an easy job. All you got to do is keep the fire going and stir. There’s plenty of time to drink coffee and smoke and listen to the fire. When I get back home that’s what I’m going to do."

It’s funny that I can’t remember what happened to Bill Blowers. He was just one of, literally, hundreds of guys that one meets in the military.

Many times I found myself deep in discussion with different guys while sitting in the dirt of a gunpit, somewhere in the combat zone.

The people and the places and the things spoken, which we took for granted back then, now become landmarks that remind us of our endurance.

Did Bill Blowers find his sugar house? I am reasonably sure that he did.

My wish is that all veterans, in search of their own place of solitude and peace, may find it soon.

Happy Veteran’s Day

A few days ago, I was asked to fill in for the bass player in a Bluegrass band that was to play a benefit in a very small East Tennessee community.

I’m certain that my wife - who plays mandolin in this band - told me the purpose of the benefit, but the excitement of getting the chance to play caused me to not pay much heed as to why we were playing.

Yesterday was a beautiful day with hardly a cloud in the sky.

We drove 30 minutes to the event and were surprised to see a fairly good sized gathering of people. There was already a guitar player performing on stage; singing to a very active, appreciative audience. Several vendors had booths set up and there was a vintage car rally in the back of this large field where the event was taking place.

Inside an old store building, which the Ruritan uses for their meetings and dinners, there was plenty of food and drinks for sale.

It turns out the people were gathered for the purpose of raising money for the community’s Little League-that had started from scratch last year. Funds raised were to go to purchasing fencing along the foul lines - in order to keep spectators safe - and for site prep for the new field.

Close to 60 kids, from all over the county, played in the Little League this past year-easily outnumbering the residents of this little hamlet.

As we tuned our instruments, I noticed a very animated middle aged man, with a cordless microphone, encouraging folks to buy their tickets for the cake walk. It was evident that he was the organizer of the event. It was also plain to see that there were many others who had volunteered to help this gentleman  have a successful event.

It guess it was a combination of the pretty weather, the lovely countryside, the hustle and bustle of the people and the smell of hamburgers cooking that led me to comment to no one in particular, “This is America”.

The stage consisted of a farm wagon with bales of hay behind us, in order to prevent band members from falling off the wagon. As we set up, more cakes were put up for auction. It was quite windy, but we performed rather well and had a good time.

As we packed up one of the band members came over with a plastic jar that contained several bills. I had noticed people, from time to time, coming over and putting money in to the jar; but I assumed these were contributions for the Little League. No, the money was for us. It turned out to be $18. We decided to donate the money to the Little League. As the next band was setting up, our band’s donation was announced. It wasn’t necessary for this to be announced, but the applause we received was worth much more than $18.

The farmers, home makers, and factory workers who put together this event would likely not think of themselves as being special. However, their feat yesterday-the coming together for a worthy cause- makes them very special. I’m sure today, as they go about informing people of their successful fund raising, it will occur to them just how much they accomplished as people.

No doubt planning for the next event will take shape very soon!

When “funds dry up” real community leaders step to the fore. This is how America has always worked.

Since the issue of race is back in the headlines, I see the opportunity to relate a personal experience I had while nearing the end of my tour in Vietnam.

Having grown up in an all white suburb of Chicago and having been educated in an all white school district, I did not know any black people.

When I arrived in Vietnam, the four platoons of Charley Company each had Platoon Sergeants who were black men. They were Sergeant Martin, Sergeant Bentley, Sergeant Caldwell, and the leader of my platoon, Sergeant Redmon. These men were what we termed, “Lifers”. The way they saw it, civilian life had offered them very little. Our previous commanding officer was black also. His name was Captain Gordon.

The color of one’s skin means nothing when all hell breaks loose or when one is part of a four or six man nighttime ambush.

There were many discussions of race. These learning experiences may not have taken place had we not been in such close living conditions. It came as no surprise when black soldiers listed their grievances. What did surprise me was when men like Sergeant Redmon would chasten young black soldiers such as the new guy from Chicago who arrived in Charley Company.

Both Sergeant Redmon and I were nearing the end of our tours when this new guy sat down with us one evening for chow. Several of us were in the company’s rear area eating chicken off the grill and swilling down large amounts of beer. It didn’t take this new guy very long to make himself at home and begin a tirade about racism and how he did not want to be a part of Charley Company because he heard we were all racists.

My initial reaction was not to say anything, because I knew Sergeant Redmon would, as he always did, think of the right words to say. What could I have said anyway?

I wish I could recall Redmon’s words verbatim. I do remember him using a stern tone with this new guy, telling him that he was wrong. He did it in a way that was fatherly. It’s funny, looking back, that Redmon was 26 years old at the time. But we looked up to him as we would a father. Two tours in Vietnam garner respect. It came across real fast to the new guy. He became quiet.

Guys like Redmon, who we used to call The Dirty Red, always could be counted on, no matter what. Did his resolution of this situation occur because he was black? I’m sure that it did. However, I’m also sure, as the new guy looked around and saw as many white guys as black guys sitting around enjoying themselves, he decided to give Charley Company a chance. He had no choice anyway.

In a couple of days he was gone to the bush and I never saw him again but word of his heroism in the field, a week or two later, quickly found its way back to where we were in the rear.

A typhoon came in from the South China Sea and pounded the troops in the field without mercy. It was the beginning of the monsoon season. I was so damned glad not to be out in the field and was eagerly counting the few days I had left in Vietnam.

The new guy from Chicago was on a night ambush that was set apart a few hundred meters from the rest of the company. It was forbidden to blow up air mattresses (they made noise when a soldier rolled over) and it was unwise to take off one’s boots (if the ambush got blown, being bootless would hinder a run back to the main body of the company). These were ignored and proved to be disastrous.

I never could sleep on ambush and I wore my boots for days on end, so I can’t relate to either of the above.

Like a dam holding back millions of gallons of water, a paddy dike broke and the men in the ambush were swept away. M16s, a machine gun, boots, packs, ammunition, canteens and anything else they carried that night was washed away. The new guy from Chicago was the only soldier in a position to rescue his buddies who were calling for help in the darkness. He got all of them in a group on to high ground and they waited out the night.

The next day they realized they were separated from Charley Company - with an M16 as their only weapon. Their only recourse was to walk back to LZ Stinson-which they could see in the distance-with some of them barefooted. They had no radio as they were not taken on ambushes.

Since I was not with these men, I must admit that any recounting is sketchy at best. Their entire march back to safety took them through Viet Cong areas of operation. Fortunately for them the only Vietnamese they encountered were rice farmers who eyed them suspiciously.

The new guy from Chicago was awarded The Soldier’s Medal, an award that is extremely difficult to earn. It is given only to those who show heroism in a non-combat situation. I can only say in spirit, “Well done”.

Sergeant Redmon died in 1985 or 1986. What a great leader he was and what a fun guy to serve with. It gives me great satisfaction to remember him calling me his “Homey” because we were both from the Chicago area.

All these years later, I hope the new guy from Chicago looks, from time to time, at his Soldier’s Medal and feels pride. And I hope that he is able to look within himself and see that his valor was not a result of any racial consideration, but, instead, it resulted from his seeing the need of his fellow soldiers.

My dad was far from perfect. In that particular sense I am my father’s son.

He didn’t raise us to be perfect-only that we give our best.

I was 10 years old when I brought home a mourning dove I had found in the orchard across the street. The rescued bird had a broken wing, so I felt the need to save this vulnerable creature from certain death from cats and dogs or other predators.

A small cage was built with wire left over from the rabbit cages my dad had when he raised rabbits. I’d spend hours watching the dove. As I recall we always had some sort of animal feed around the house, so I probably gave him cracked corn, maybe even some soy beans from the nearby farms to eat. I called him “Dovey”. Soon the bird’s status changed from patient status to pet status. I decided I would keep Dovey as a pet.

A couple of weeks went by and it was obvious that the bird had recuperated enough to be turned loose. My dad came out to the garage one day and said, “Justin, you have to let him loose.” I insisted that I wanted to keep him for a pet.

My dad said, “I’ll make you a deal. You turn the bird loose and I’ll buy us some homing pigeons.”

My dad told of the time when he was a child and had raised pigeons in the city of Chicago.

The next day I turned the bird loose. I can still remember how good I felt that the mitzvah I did was successful as the bird easily flew away. I imagined when he landed in a nearby tree that he looked at me with gratitude and thanks.

Years later I read Breakfast At Tiffany’s and Holly Golightly’s words, “You musn’t give your heart to a wild thing. The more you do, the stronger they get, until they’re strong enough to run into the woods or fly into a tree. And then to a higher tree and then to the sky.”

My dad was right.

Not long afterward, the Sears and Roebuck truck pulled into the driveway and set out a small crate. I peered inside to find a pair of racing pigeons. A Busch Bavarian beer can was wired to an inside corner of the crate with some water in it. When my dad got home from work we placed them in the loft he had built in our garage. There was a small opening in an outside wall that led to an outdoor fly pen. My dad was an experienced carpenter and, having raised pigeons himself, knew the exact specifications of what was needed.

Ken Smith and his son, Ken Jr. came over and decided they would raise birds of their own. Ken Sr and my dad were friends who served together on the Northbrook, (IL) Volunteer Fire Department. The rivalry was on.

As with any other hobby, one soon learns of other people who have the same interest. We visited nearby lofts and were given birds that were culled by their handlers. The birds were otherwise headed for the soup pot.

The Smiths and the Case’s soon became members of the North Shore Racing Pigeon Club. There were several books on racing birds, but the best information came from some of the old German pigeon fanciers, who reluctantly gave this little kid (me) pointers. The best advice I received was to make sure the birds had fly time of 30 minutes a day during racing season. “It’s a cruel thing to race a bird several hundred miles if it’s in poor shape.”

My dad and I spent many days after work driving to Elgin or Carpentersville (where my Uncle Nick and Aunt Marge lived) in order to release the birds. Many times they would beat us home.

Sundays were race days and after a mostly sleepless night I would awake at dawn to sit out in the back yard. Things were quiet and still. If the wind was blowing in the right direction I could hear the farmer at the St. Anne’s Seminary farm, two miles away, calling his cows. Soon I would hear my dad’s footsteps in the kitchen as he made coffee.

The excitement was unbearable as we would await the birds return. The first phone call of the day usually came from Ken Smith, informing us as to the release time of the birds. Any phone calls after that usually meant that someones birds had come home, most times before ours returned.

The first races of the season were 100 miles, starting in Blanchardville, Wisconsin. The last race of the season was 500 miles from Norfolk, Nebraska.

I look back at those times and see them as days of uncomplicated youth. My dad was always there, unlike me, when I had children of my own. Life has regrets that time can not easily reconcile.

He and I would talk of many things. Looking back, that was the best part of the whole pigeon venture. I learned of the history of our family and all sorts of things that were useful for a preteen young boy.

Mark Valeri told me a couple of years ago, how he loved and appreciated my dad spending time with him there in our back yard talking, joking and sometimes giving sage advice. A kid always wants his parents to be approved of by his contemporaries. That had not changed 45 years later after hearing Mark’s words.

When I was drafted into the army, my dad lost all interest in the pigeons. It was dreadful finding homes for my beloved birds. Some did wind up in Uncle Joe’s soup pot.

Perhaps my biggest regret is that my children never had the glimpse of their grandpa when he was young and energetic and in good humor. The good news is that if they look into the mirror or examine their own souls, they will recognize some of the same qualities that Henry Case possessed all those years ago. And they should be proud of that.

Happy Father’s Day.

It is certain that the nomination of Judge Sonia Sotomayor to the United States Supreme Court has shed light on the importance of Hispanic voters in future elections.

Identity politics is becoming more and more prominent these days with politicians, especially certain Republicans whose blinders prevent them from finding an answer that has always existed.

Early in their careers, moderates found it necessary to affiliate themselves with the Republican Party in order to win elections in conservative districts or states. They now are rethinking their positions on social issues while trying to distance themselves from abortion.

This morning I found myself thinking along the lines of identity, so I did a quick ‘Net search on Google by entering the key words, “Hispanic voters abortion”. It came as no surprise that the results showed a majority of Hispanics were against abortion.

Recently I heard Alan Keyes speak on Sean Hannity’s radio program. He remarked that Democrats are unafraid to champion abortion rights and homosexual rights and do so without regard to how these issues will be percieved by the more conservative members of their party. Think of all the excuses that otherwise decent people will make for the Democrat politicans who fall in to the category that Keyes is naming. We go to church with many of them, for crying out loud!

Hindsight is vital in politics. Mistakes were made by the McCain Campaign. Perhaps the greatest mistake was the refusal to make abortion more of an issue. At the risk of offending moderates, John McCain squandered the opportunity to illuminate the hypocrisy shown by candidate Barack Obama at Rick Warren’s Saddleback Forum. “Above my pay grade” is so familiar in pro life circles that it requires zero elaboration. The quoted phrase, which amounted to a wink and a nod, was proof of the disdain Obama has for the Amercian electorate and shows Rush Limbaugh to be correct when he states that those who voted for Obama “like to be lied to”.

Sarah Palin, the candidate whom squishy Republicans blame for McCain’s loss was anything but a “drain on the ticket”. She represented the greatest fear those in politics have for an opposing candidate. Palin was one who not only spoke the truth, but lived by that truth in her personal life. This fear permeated throughout the ranks of Democrat voters who voted “party” instead of being inspired by Governor Palin.

Personal responsibility is a good issue and a vital one if our society and our country is to survive. All demographics are capable of understanding this issue and putting it in to practice.

Hispanic voters are no different than any other demographic. What is needed is Republican candidates who are unafraid to speak the truth. The polls say that Hispanic voters, by a large percentage, oppose abortion. What else is there to say?

There is a higher calling than the political one on earth. This higher calling is one that we pursue in order to bring us closer to the God who created us and all those unborn children who have been destroyed for the sake of convenience. Hispanics, as well as voters of every other race, understand this.

Memorial Day.

“Happy” Memorial Day? Never.

Memorial Day, for me, is merely a culmination of the previous year’s thoughts and reflections that never seem to dim with the passing of years. One would think they gradually disappear as one ages, but they don’t. The images are just as real now as they were almost 40 years ago.  They are the perpetual sacrifice.

The sacrifice made by the living is one that does not end. It does not end with one’s departure from the battlefield. The sacrifice is contained within one’s memory.

It is important to note that the written word by one who lives is a poor attempt, at best, at comparing what survivors endure to the ultimate sacrifice others have made. There can be no comparison. There arises, then, a question of purpose for this writing.

Perhaps my purpose for writing is unique because of when I served and where I served. The generation of soldiers I served with was not encouraged to share experiences gained in an unpopular war. Therefore my purpose is for the reader to share the unpleasant burden of a survivor of an unpopular war. By sharing the burden one might gain appreciation for who and what is “memorialized” on Memorial Day.

Thieu and Loi were former Viet Cong fighters who rallied to the side of the Americans. At the time it was not for us to question the circumstances which caused them to change sides. All that was important was that they were serving as Kit Carson Scouts and were serving effectively. They were so trusted by our Commanding Officer that, whenever they advised not to set up a Night Defensive Position on a hill or near a place they felt was unsuitable, their advice was heeded.

Trust in Vietnam was earned.

Thieu was very quiet compared to Loi. Over the years I came to believe that Thieu’s inability to speak English may have contributed to the perception that he was bashful. Still he possessed a pleasing personality while being professional as a South Vietnamese soldier working with Americans.

Any doubts of Thieu’s loyalty or bravery vanished one day near the Tra Bong River.

Disbelief possessed me when a squad of North Vietnamese soldiers walked towards our perimeter without seeing us. After the initial fire from our side, several of us pursued the retreating NVA soldiers. Thieu led the way shaking his fist and screaming words in Vietnamese that I did not understand.

I ran to a spot in the high grass where I had seen an NVA soldier fall. He was still alive and I called for one of our medics to give him aid. I stopped to adjust one of my Ho Chi Minh sandals. In that short period of time, Thieu was shot and killed.

There are only images that remain.

The small battle was soon over and we placed Thieu’s body in a poncho and carried him to a medevac chopper. Loi came over to help place his friend’s body on the chopper. The sad image of Loi is one that I will never forget.

If Thieu was introverted during his life with the Americans, Loi was just the opposite. During happier times we aggravated each other with light hearted things. Loi was fairly well skilled in English. He’d laugh with delight when I’d respond to one of his jokes by shaking my fist at him. Naturally, he first learned the dirty words that were prevalent in the GI lexicon. He’d call me something unfit to print and I’d feign anger by shaking my fist. There were times when I’d initiate the same “confrontation” by calling him by the same names. These came to an end after Thieu’s death.

The story goes that Loi surrendered to the Americans in a way that demonstrated his prowess and knowledge as a Viet Cong soldier. One day he walked up the hill to LZ Stinson with a full field pack, carrying his AK 47. He climbed, unnoticed, through the wire near the chopper pad and proceeded to the 1/52 Tactical Operation Center (TOC), where he handed over his weapon to a host of startled officers and enlisted men. Many times I have reflected on just how he knew where the TOC was located, as there were no civilians working on Stinson.

Loi was known as a “Hoi Chanh” or more commonly a “Chieu Hoi”. In layman’s terms these described a VC or NVA soldier who rallied to our side in exchange for safe passage for him and his family, possible training as a Kit Carson Scout, and benefits such as a guarantee of building supplies for a house, etc.

It is safe to say that any hesitancy in Loi’s surrendering was dispelled by his knowledge that the Americans and  South Vietnamese Army (ARVN) would prevail against the Communists. Had he known, at the time of his surrender, that the United States would renege on its solemn word and abandon the South Vietnamese cause, it’s doubtful he would have rallied to us. Loi’s punishment, if a victory by the Communists occurred, would be certain death.

One does not have to be knowledgeable of history to know the Communists prevailed in Vietnam.

I don’t know  what happened to Loi. One can hope he was able to escape during the Communist’s initial onslaught.  One side of me says that only a very small percentage of Vietnamese were able to flee as the country was being overrun. Another side tells me that there was no place in the re-education camps for those who rallied to our side. Men like Loi were viewed by the Communists as deserters.

I flash back to a long ago day and the image of Loi helping to place the body of his friend on an American helicopter.

As we live we will never forget.