Veterans Day

Yesterday, was the 235th birthday of the Marine Corps - and Today, of course, is Veterans Day. I happen to have T-shirts that my bride found for me bearing the Bulldog mascot and the USMC logo on it. I wore yesterday and am doing so again today.

Though I was fortunate enough not to have been shipped overseas to Viet Nam during my stint in the Corps, I knew many, many Marines who did go. Some didn't come back, and some did - though they came back changed - either physically, or mentally.

My dad was also a Marine. Unlike me, he enlisted in the Corps a month after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. He was almost 31 years old at the time; married; and, a father of two sons. He didn't have to enlist, yet felt it his patriotic duty, despite leaving his wife and two boys at home in Chicago to fend for themselves. At his age, he was called "Pops" in boot camp, because most of the rest of the recruits were at least 10 years younger than him.

My dad, after boot camp, fought in the Pacific. If you watched any of the recent HBO series "The Pacific", they spoke of the 5th Marines from time to time. That is the unit my father served in. He fought on Iwo Jima, Tinian, and Saipan and probably some other islands, both those are all either my brothers or I can remember.

My dad returned home finally sometime in 1945, the year before I was born. He was the victim of "Shell-Shock" or what they call today Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). According to what my brothers have told me, he spent several months in a military hospital in San Diego before they allowed him to come home to his family. They recall that he was indeed a different man upon arrival home. Shaking almost uncontrollably and nervous as hell, he would drop to the ground upon hearing a loud noise. His sleep and that of the family was interrupted virtually nightly by his screaming and crying. It took a while - don't know how long - for doctors to get this under control. Fortunately, by the time I was born and old enough to know anything, this by-product of too many battles had ceased.

However, like so many veterans of combat, he would never discuss much about it. About all I could get out of him was where he had fought and that it was awful. Though we lived in California from 1954 until he died in 1979, he would never even take my mom to Hawaii. He steadfastly refused, saying, "I've had enough of islands to last me the rest of my life."

The last couple of days I've been reflecting on Veterans, Wars, the Marines, and related things, so this one really hit home. My Dad's birthday was just a couple weeks ago too - October 23rd. Had he lived, he would've been 100, as we was born in 1910.

My time in the Corps was - after Boot Camp - just like having a poor-paying job. I lived on base at El Toro in Santa Ana, California - a mere 30 miles or so from my parents home. Had my own car and actually only had to stay on base one out of every four nights and one out of every four weekends, so, when I had something going - a date, a party, etc. - I just got in my car and took off. It was simply a minor inconvenience. However, the Unit I was with was a Helicopter Training Group.

What this meant to me was that my fellow Marines were either rookies, like me, or returned veterans from Viet Nam. The purpose of our Unit was to train the rookies to go over to Viet Nam. So, I had interaction with both. We lived in a barracks that was divided off into cubicles with 4 beds. In my particular cubicle I had 2 returned Vets and another rookie. In the cubicle directly across from us were 3 rookies and 1 vet. I was close friends with all of these guys. We were like brothers. 2 of the Vets had PTSD, including one in my cube, and I will never forget the night I took him to a party of my friends from work in L.A. He had flashbacks and refought the war for a long time, until I and a guy I used to work with brought him down and restrained him. Obviously, it ruined the night for him and the 30 or so Civilians that were there. He was a war hero too, which makes it even worse. He had received a Bronze Star for his heroic efforts during his tour in Viet Nam.

Two of the guys - the rookies - went to Nam, and never returned. One was a helicopter gunner (I was trained for this too, as a back-up - which they did to all the Clerk-typists, since these guys were getting killed so quickly), and the other was simply a "Grunt" or infantryman. One of the Vets went back for a 2nd tour and was KIA. Another of the "rookies" came back missing a leg, and at least one has PTSD. Don't know what happened to the others.

So many of the other guys I served with were so messed up after their combat tour, it wasn't funny.

I also remember one day, I was in uniform in downtown L.A., going to my former place of employment to visit my friends, and while crossing the street, having someone spit at me and yell out "Baby Killer!!"

The sad part of it all is that while I feel so blessed that I didn't have to go fight in Viet Nam, I've always felt a little guilty too. So many of my friends went and I, somehow, avoided it. So, while I served and am "Technically" a veteran, I never had to pay the price by fighting overseas in a war. I think about this from time to time, counting my blessings while fighting my guilt.