Remembering on Memorial Day

On Memorial Day, Americans pause to honor especially those generations of Americans — their countrymen and women — who have answered the call to military service and died in so doing. The Fort Worth Star-Telegram invited veterans to offer their memorials to people with whom they served. Some wrote of individuals lost in combat. Others described powerful moments in their own service.

These poignant and personal tributes reflect the bonds forged in military service that time can’t erase.

Now we are home!

PETER SANFILIPPO

Try to imagine World War II around 1944. Try also to picture about 200 Marines on a converted aircraft carrier bringing valuable cargo back to the United States. Marines no longer physically able to continue their part in defending our country.

Some didn’t make it very long past the trip home that ended at the Oak Knoll Naval Hospital in California.

For seven days and nights, it was a sad, grim and silent trip. Many had lost arms or legs. Some were blinded, and some were still carrying shrapnel in their bodies.

It was not a pleasant sight. No laughter, no excitement about going home, because many were frightened that their wives, or girlfriends or family members would always look at them with pity.

On the seventh day, a loud voice announced over the speakers: “Now hear this: Gentlemen, we are entering the bay at San Francisco. Come to the port side and view your homeland.”

Those who could made their way to the railing, and those who could not make it alone were helped.

There was no cheering, no hurrahs. Just silence and a couple of hundred men with blank stares looking at the shoreline.

Suddenly there appeared two immense U.S. flags waving in the heavy winds. The silence was broken with shouts. Strangers all wearing the same uniform hugged one another and cried like babies, shouting: “Now we are home! Now we are home.”

With all due respect to the shoreline of California, it was the flags that meant home to these young men with their broken bodies and somewhat dented spirits.

On May 19, my wife Doris and I celebrated our 65th anniversary. Along with her main duty as the personal chauffeur for the commanding general of Camp Pendleton, she was often called on to take Marines to the docks in San Diego where they boarded ships.

Because the casualty rate was so extremely high, the goodbyes from loved ones seeing them off were painfully tearful. Out of justified fears, she asked to be excused from the trip that I also took to the San Diego docks.

Upon my return — looking a bit haggard and still on crutches — we decided that the bad experiences were behind us and never spent much time discussing the horrors of them.

X Peter SanFilippo lives in Granbury, Texas.

Are we worthy of our warriors?

VICKIE C. MAULDIN

My innocence of war and death was lost forever one rainy afternoon when I was only 15. I found my mom in tears — she had just learned that her brother had been seriously wounded in Vietnam.

Before that day, war was something that was on the news, not something that personally affected me or those I loved. My uncle survived, but I never forgot the fear, hopelessness, pride and reverence that remained steadfast in that treasured place in my heart.

Fast-forward 30 years. It’s another cold, rainy day; I’m standing on the flight line ramp along with 100 other military personnel. I’m waiting to welcome home 11 warriors.

The air is not joyous. These fellow warriors will not walk off the plane to greet their welcoming party; they will be carried off in flag-draped coffins.

We did do not know their names, where they were from, or whose son, father, uncle or husband they might be. We knew only that they had unselfishly given their lives for the beliefs and values of our great nation. Each of us was honored to stand for hours in pouring rain to render a salute to the life, courage and sacrifice of those we could never meet.

As the senior enlisted Air Force person in Europe from 2000 to 2003, I was honored and humbled to often accompany our wounded personnel on medical transport aircraft. Some of the wounded could walk onto the plane; most could not. These brave souls were often missing arms, legs, hands, fingers, eyes and even parts of their head or face.

What struck me most as I visited with these heroes was not what was missing on their bodies, but what was missing in their attitude.

There was no talk of anger, regret, fear or pity. No one was overly concerned with his or her personal situation; they knew instinctively that they would be OK somehow.

What concerned them the most were buddies and units left behind. They worried that they could no longer help, or that their units were now short another crucial team member. Over and over I heard the same question: “How soon can I go back?”

I often had to ask myself, “Where/how do we build these heroes?” I also asked myself many times, “Am I worthy?”

I wore a uniform proudly for 30 years. As a woman, I could never fight on the front lines. No one in my family or even a close friend ever died as a result of war. Was I really worthy to count myself as one of them?

I finally understand the answer to that question.

If we remember and honor the sacrifices of those who served, if we honor their families, and if we honor the values and country for which they died, then we are each worthy. We are worthy because we will never forget what these patriots and their families have given up for others.

For me, I intend to always stay worthy — and remember. We don’t have to know their names to honor their memory.

X Vickie C. Mauldin of Fort Worth is the executive director of First Command Educational Foundation.

One day is too small a tribute

JUNGUS JORDAN

Throughout my life and military career, I have maintained a strong reverence for those who were classified as POW or MIA — prisoner of war or missing in action. My father, Willie V. Jordan, was classified both MIA and POW, serving 42 months as a prisoner of war in Indochina in World War II. Fortunately for me (I was born in 1948) and my family, he returned in 1945 at the war’s conclusion.

Not all of his unit did.

My dad was always my hero — not only for his heroic service but also for the bravery he exhibited in living with the many ailments and “demons” of his memories of the POW slavery he endured as a member of the 36th Division’s “Lost Battalion” (Texas National Guard). These men built the railroad that crossed the famous bridge on the River Kwai.

He seldom spoke of his time as a POW. One story he did tell related how the Japanese guards would challenge the Texas “boys” to a baseball game every Sunday, and then torture them when the “boys” of the 36th would defeat their captors again.

I would often ask, “Why would you not let them win?” His reply was always: “Because it was our only way to victory.” My dad went to the greatest victory in 1992.

The Defense Prisoner of War/Missing Personnel Office lists 74,384 as service personnel not recovered after World War II (or MIA) and 1,761 unaccounted for from the Vietnam era. From 1991’s Operation Desert Storm, there were 47 captured. Of those, 21 were released, 25 were reported as KIA (killed in action), and one remains listed as MIA.

Flowers and flags on the graves of our heroes seem a small price. On Memorial Day, we should remember all who served, especially those who paid the price as KIA, POW/MIA and WIA (wounded in action).

For me, one day does not seem enough for the price that was paid. I will always memorialize my dad, and I thank God every day for those who have served and continue to serve to keep us free.

X Jungus Jordan retired from the Air Force as a lieutenant colonel. He is a member of the Fort Worth City Council.

A friend forever young

JOHN AVILA Jr.

In 1969-70, I was a 23-year-old captain serving as an adviser to the 2nd Battalion, 42nd Infantry Regiment in the Central Highlands of Vietnam.

1st Lt. Orie John Dubbeld Jr.’s 22nd Ranger Battalion had come to our rescue in a fight, far west of our base camp at Dak To. Both units were badly mauled. We were airlifted to Nha Trang, a beautiful coastal city, for replacements, refitting and training.

We were young, bright-eyed and so idealistic. Orie was from Cocoa Beach, Fla.; he was 22 years old and married and had a son. He spoke of his family often during those days and loved them very much.

Three months later, on March 3, 1971, Orie was killed in action by small-arms fire while leading a search-and-destroy mission in the rolling hills of tall elephant grass, 11 miles southwest of Dak To.

His unit was overrun, and our dead had to be left in a shallow grave during the withdrawal.

His body was never recovered.

I think of him often. I am 60 years old, and Orie is forever young.

X John Avila Jr. of Fort Worth, Texas, is president and chief executive officer of Thos. S. Byrne Ltd.