A few weekends ago, I was walking with my kids through Veterans Memorial Park along the east bank of the Arkansas River in downtown Wichita. An old man in a wheelchair was looking at the names on the U.S. Marines Memorial Wall.
“So you’re a veteran?” I said.
“Yeah, are you,” he replied.
“No,” I said. “My dad was in the service.”
Then, noting his cap, with the words, “Korean War Veteran” on front, I told him my wife’s grandfather also fought in Korea.
“That makes me feel old,” he said.
I could have talked with the old man for hours, finding out about his life, his service, but I didn’t want to take up his time. So I left, saying, “Pleasure to meet you, Sir.”
Next, we looked at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.
A lean, fit-looking man riding a bicycle stopped at the wall, said he was 62-years-old. He pointed out a name on the wall and said, “He was my best friend.” They had been pals since the seventh-grade, rode bikes together, played sports together.
The man on the bicycle said he dropped out of school at 17 and enlisted in the marine corp. He was in the jungles of Vietnam, involved in combat before his friend went there. After a month in Vietnam, he suffered some injury to his left foot and was sent back home. Around a year later, his friend was killed at age 19.
“It’s sad he didn’t get to live out of his life,” I said.
“Yeah,” the man said, his only response. The man had a calm, reserved disposition. He had an intelligent, successful air about him, leading me to surmise that he had gone back and finished his education after being in the service.
“Have a good day,” he told us and rode off.
There are veteran memorials in cities and small towns all over America. I wonder how many non-service people take time to look at them.
I also wonder about all the World War II veterans I interviewed for various stories, while working as a newspaper reporter in the ‘90s. It was awesome. I talked to men who had been involved in bombing raids over the oil fields of Ploesti, Romania, crippling the Nazi war machine.
On two occasions I sat down with old men who had made up Underwater Demolition Teams (frogmen) – the precursor to the Navy Seals. Their job was to locate and blow up enemy obstacles, such as mines and cables, clearing access for the U.S. Navy to get through the waters and land on beaches in the Pacific.
These old guys, Depression-era kids from farms and cities across the country, were articulate and so knowledgeable about the geography and culture of the areas where they had been. Talking to them was like being in a college classroom.
How many of them are still alive?
I met an elderly man in church yesterday. He was thin, wearing a hearing aid, standing with his daughter and making a point to mention that she had her doctorate and retained her maiden name after marrying. She works in a VA hospital in upper Michigan. The old man said he was fortunate, not to have been in combat, while in the Pacific.
It was an honor, getting to talk to him.
