Booklet Part 3

MIKE'S FLAG

Condensed from a speech by Leo K Thorsness, recipient of The Congressional Medal of Honor and printed in MiG Sweep, the official newspaper of the Red River Valley Fighter Pilots Assoc. http://www.eos.net/rrva/Frames/index.html

Whenever I get to feeling sorry for myself and sometimes when I forget what this country is all about, I go here and read this and get a little pride back. Thought I would share it with you

chk6

bob

You've probably seen the bumper sticker somewhere along the road. It depicts an American Flag, accompanied by the words "These colors don't run."

I'm always glad to see this, because it reminds me of an incident from my confinement in North Vietnam at the Hao Lo POW Camp, or the "Hanoi Hilton," as it became known. Then a Major in the U.S. Air Force, I had been captured and imprisoned from 1967 to 1973. Our treatment had been frequently brutal.

After three years, however, the beatings and torture became less frequent. During the last year, we were allowed outside most days for a couple of minutes to bathe. We showered by drawing water from a concrete tank with a homemade bucket.

One day as we al1 stood by the tank, stripped of our clothes, a young Naval pilot named Mike Christian found the remnants of a handkerchief in a gutter that ran under the prison wall. Mike managed to sneak the grimy rag into our cell and began fashioning it into a flag.

Over time we all loaned him a little soap, and he spent days cleaning the material. We helped by scrounging and stealing bits and pieces of anything he could use. At night, under his mosquito net, Mike worked on the flag. He made red and blue from ground-up roof tiles and tiny amounts of ink and painted the colors onto the cloth with watery rice glue. Using thread from his own blanket and a homemade bamboo needle, he sewed on stars.

Early in the morning a few days later, when the guards were not alert, he whispered loudly from the back of our cell, "Hey gang, look here." He proudly held up this tattered piece of cloth, waving it as if in a breeze. If you used your imagination, you could tell it was supposed to be an American flag.

When he raised that smudgy fabric, we automatically stood straight and saluted, our chests puffing out, and more than a few eyes had tears.

About once a week the guards would strip us, run us outside and go through our clothing. During one of those shakedowns, they found Mike's flag. We all knew what would happen.

That night they came for him. Night interrogations were always the worst. They opened the cell door and pulled Mike out. We could hear the beginning of the torture before they even had him in the torture cell. They beat him most of the night. About daylight they pushed what was left of him back through the cell door. He was badly broken; even his voice was gone.

Within two weeks, despite the danger, Mike scrounged another piece of cloth and began another flag. The Stars and Stripes, our national symbol, was worth the sacrifice to him. Now, whenever I see the flag, I think of Mike and the morning he first waved that tattered emblem of a nation. It was then, thousands of miles from home in a lonely prison cell, that he showed us what it is to be truly free.

"It was a real privilege to have lived with him. He was always coming up with ideas. He always had lists of ten things he wanted to do, ten things he wanted to see, ten things he wanted to have. He was a very fine young man," said Leo.

"And he was always a patriot," according to Leo. When President Carter granted amnesty to all those who avoided military service, Mike was hurt and angry.

"He took all the medals he had been awarded, drove to the White House, double parked and threw them all over the fence."

(Editor's Note: Mike returned in 1973 with honor and was later killed in an apartment fire.)

Brothers,

I am embarrassed for our fellow citizens. I found this printed in our local paper here in Alpine, Texas. Perhaps we should take on a mission to reverse this trend. I think we've all seen this at one time or another. It's time to fix the problem.

HELLO, REMEMBER ME?

Author Unknown

Some people call me Old Glory, others call me the Star Spangled Banner, but whatever they call me, I am your Flag, the Flag of the United States of America. Something has been bothering me, so I thought I might talk it over with you, because it is about you and me.

I remember some time ago people lined up on both sides of the street to watch the parade and naturally I was leading every parade, proudly waving in the breeze. When your daddy saw me coming, he immediately removed his hat and placed it against his left shoulder so that the hand was directly over his heart. Remember?

And you, I remember you. Standing there straight as a soldier. You didn't have a hat, but you were giving the right salute. Remember little sister? Not to be outdone, she was saluting the same as you with her right hand over her heart. Remember?

What happened? I'm still the same old flag. Oh, I have a few more stars since you were a boy. A lot more blood has been shed since those parades of long ago.

But now I don't feel as proud as I used to. When I come down your street, you just stand there with your hands in your pockets. I may get a small glance and then you look away. Then I see the children running around and shouting; they don't seem to know who I am. I saw one man take his hat off, then look around. He didn't see anybody else with theirs off so he quickly put his back on.

Is it a sin to be patriotic any more? Have you forgotten what I stand for and where I've been? Anzio, Guadalcanal, Korea, and Vietnam. Take a look at the Memorial Honor Rolls sometimes, of those who never came back to keep this Republic free. One Nation Under God. When you salute me, you are saluting them. Well, it won't be long until I'll be coming down your street again. So, when you see me, stand straight, place your right hand over your heart and I'll salute you, by waving back and I'll know that YOU REMEMBERED!

The editor of our newspaper is a retired Air Force Major. He prints a lot of patriotic articles; I've even written some of them. When you see someone who doesn't observe the honors to the flag, give them a reminder of what and why. Tell little kids to be quiet and honor the flag. If their parents have the nerve to object, shame them into silence. We, America's veterans, must remind them. It's our duty. We saw fit to serve once; it's time we served still.

Dan

THE FLAG SPEAKS

If the American Flag could speak I wonder what it would say

Would it be proud of the people in the USA

From border to border and sea to sea

The flag gives hope to a people destined to be free

Now the trumpet summons us once again to heed the call

It's either in God we trust or divided we fall

Can we say in parting with the day that's slipping past

That we did God's will and by His Word stand fast

If the American Flag could speak, what would it tell us today

Be still and listen my friends to what the flag is about to say

I'm proud of our country's people and all they've done in the past

Building a government inspired by God and determined to make it last

I'm proud of the institutions they've built to show how much they care

Hospitals, schools and churches span the globe nearly everywhere

I'm proud to fly at this present with all the problems that abound

Even though some may tear me and burn me and turn me upside down

I'll be proud to fly over America 100 years from today

When people see me then, I pray they'll still be able to say

See those stars and stripes, that old red, white and blue

The people before our time gave that flag just for me and you.

WHY I BELIEVE IN AMERICA.... AMERICA SPEAKS

I believe in America because I am America. I am black, white, yellow, and red. I am a grocery clerk, an accountant, a housewife, and a soldier. I am German, Swedish, Norwegian, Polish and Indian. I am Jewish, Catholic, Protestant, and Muslim. I'm liberal, conservative Republican, Democrat, and Independent.

Above all, I'm optimistic. I have fought wars of words and might, in order to keep my people free, and I have withstood internal strife fierce enough to crush lesser nations.

I am a country which holds respect for the ideals of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." My citizens have the right and the responsibility to let me know when they're either dissatisfied or supportive.

My people can, without fear of retribution or harassment, disagree or chastise their Government through a free election system or by single protest. I am a nation of independent thought. Even through my verbal and military confrontations, my people have stood together as the United States of America. They have demonstrated the Nation's character with honor, dignity, pride, and regard for the basic rights of all persons, regardless of their race, color or national origin.

I am a country to be proud of and I BELIEVE IN AMERICA.

RAGGED OLD FLAG MEMORIAL DAY 1998

Drove through town this am and saw all the flags out on main st. It reminded me to get out one of my favorite tapes that I play on this day and Veterans Day. Got it some years back. It was done by Johnny Cash. Simply called "Patriot". It's full of patriotic songs, even one of Vietnam. My favorite he does is Ragged Old Flag. Don't know who originally wrote it, but it pretty well sums up how I feel. With all the discussion about the Flag lately, I thought I would share this with you. I hope it comes out the way I typed it!

RAGGED OLD FLAG

I walked through a county court house square,

and on a park bench, an old man was sittin’ there

I said your old court house is kinda run down,

he said, “Naw, it’ll do for our little town.”

And I said, your old flag pole is leaned a little bit,

and that’s a ragged old flag you got hangin’ on it.

He said, sit down, and I sat down

“Is this the first time you been to our little town?”

I said I think it is.

And he said, “I don’t like to brag,

but we’re kinda proud of that Ragged Old Flag”.

You see, we got a big hole in that flag there,

when Washington took it across the Delaware.

And she got powder burned when Francis Scott Key,

sat watchin’ it writing, “Oh Say Can You See”.

And she got a bad rip in New Orleans,

with Packingham and Jackson,

Tugging at her seams.

And she almost fell, at the Alamo, beside the Texas Flag, but she waved on though.

she got cut with a sword at Chancellorsville,

and she got cut again at Shiloh Hill.

There was Robert E. Lee, Beauregard and Bragg,

and the South wind blew hard on that ragged old Flag.

On Flanders Field in World War I,

she got a big hole from a Bertha Gun.

And she turned blood red in World War II,

she hung limp and low, a time or two.

She was in Korea, and Vietnam,

She went where she was sent,

by her Uncle Sam.

She waved from our ships on the briney foam,

And now they’ve about quit wavin’ her back here at home.

In her own good land she’s been abused,

She’s been burned, dishonored, denied and refused

And the government for which she stands,

is scandalized throughout the land.

And she’s gettin’ thread bare, and she’s wearin’ thin,

but she’s in good shape for the shape she’s in.

Cause she’s been through the fire before,

and I believe she can take a whole lot more.

So we raise her up every morning,

and take her down every night,

We don’t let her touch the ground,

and we fold her up right.

On second thought, I DO like to brag,

cause we’re mighty proud of That Ragged Old Flag.

Happy Memorial Day to one and all,

Randy

BURN THE FLAG

To Those Who Want To Burn the Flag, just ask permission........

Does the first Amendment give us the right to desecrate the American flag?

Or is the flag a sacred symbol of our nation, deserving protection.

Tough call? "The Solution"

For those who want to light Old Glory on fire, stomp all over it, or spit on it to make some sort of "statement," I say let them do it. But under one condition: they MUST get permission from three sponsors.

First, you need permission of a war veteran. Perhaps a Marine who fought at Iwo Jima? The American flag was raised over Mount Surabachi upon the bodies of thousands of dead buddies. Each night spent on Iwo meant half of everyone you knew would be dead tomorrow, a coin flip away from a bloody end upon a patch of sand your mother couldn't find on a map. Or maybe ask a Vietnam vet who spent years tortured in a small, filthy cell unfit for a dog. Or a Korean War soldier who helped rescue half a nation from Communism, or a Desert Storm veteran who repulsed a bloody dictator from raping and pillaging an innocent country. That flag represented your mother and father, your sister and brother, your friends, neighbors, and everyone at home. I wonder what they would say if someone asked them permission to burn the American flag?

Next, you need a signature from an immigrant. Their brothers and sisters may still languish in their native land, often under tyranny, poverty and misery. Or maybe they died on the way here, never to touch our shores. Some have seen friends and family tortured and murdered by their own government for daring to do things we take for granted every day. For those who risked everything simply for the chance to become an American what kind of feelings do they have for the flag when they pledge allegiance the first time? Go to a naturalization ceremony and see for yourself, the tears of pride, the thanks, the love and respect of this nation, as they finally embrace the American flag as their own. Ask one of them if it would be OK to tear up the flag.

Last, you should get the signature of a mother. Not just any mother. You need a mother of someone who gave their life for America. It doesn't even have to be from a war. It could be a cop. Or a fireman. Maybe a Secret Service or NSA agent. Then again, it could be a common foot soldier as well. When that son or daughter is laid to rest, their family is given one gift by the American people; an American flag. Go on. I dare you. Ask that mother to spit on her flag.

Wonder what the founding fathers thought of the American flag as they drafted the Declaration of Independence? They knew this act would drag young America into war with England, the greatest power on earth. They also knew failure meant more than just a disappointment. It meant a noose snugly stretched around their necks. But they needed a symbol, something to inspire the new nation. Something to represent the seriousness, the purpose and conviction that we held our new idea of individual freedom. Something worth living for. Something worth dying for. I wonder how they'd feel if someone asked them permission to toss their flag in a mud puddle? Away from family, away from the precious shores of home, in the face of overwhelming odds and often in the face of death, the American flag inspires those who believe in the American dream, the American promise, the American vision.. Americans who don't appreciate the flag don't appreciate this nation. And those who appreciate this nation appreciate the American flag. Those who fought, fought for that flag. Those who died, died for that flag. And those who love America, love that flag. And defend it.

So if you want to desecrate the American flag, before you spit on it or before you burn it ... I have a simple request. Just ask permission. Not from the Constitution. Not from some obscure law. Not from the politicians or the pundits. Instead, ask those who defended our nation so that we may be free today. Ask those who struggled to reach our shores so that they may join us in the American dream. And ask those who clutch a flag in place of their sacrificed sons and daughters, given to this nation so that others may be free. For we cannot ask permission from those who died wishing they could, just once ... or once again ... see, touch or kiss the flag that stands for our nation, the United States of America.

Author Unknown

A response on BURN THE FLAG from Richard A. Pawloski to Gerry Frazier of the TLCB

The flag is really something that affects each of us differently, but I do know that those of us who as children were taught reverence for it understand more about what it means. When you touched it, folded it carefully, raised and lowered it with a salute each day, saw the growth in stars at school as the country expanded in our history classes, we began to appreciate what it took to just do that in an environment of freedom. Later on when we had to watch others put to rest draped in it the appreciation came full circle.

The flag is perhaps the one universal legacy that all Americans can say lives on when they are gone, no matter how simple or trivial their lives. For some to spit on it or burn it needlessly is an affront to all American history, not just to those of us living. Those who burn or abuse the flag probably then have made no investment in keeping it from harm, and therefore to me, stand with our society and country's enemies. It is an act made by choice. They are free to make it, but they also need to be accountable for doing so. There are many other ways to make a statement. It was an excellent write up, but all the script in the world could not do justice for what it was like on the beach at Tarawa, Iwo Jima, Normandy, or wherever. In Ardennes trenches, frozen Chosin or a simple L-shaped ambush in the Kobie Tan Tan Valley. It was hell, it was horror, it was shock, it was too much for one mind to swallow, and your comrades, family and flag were the only decent things that your wounded mind could rest on, regardless of what happened to your body. Their value only grew with years and in the end, they become the same thing, and then you realized they were as good as your God. So how could anyone tolerate their abuse.

Ski

From Roger Herrick, brother of Captain James W. Herrick, Jr., 602^nd SOS, A-1 Pilot, MIA Oct 69 Laos.

For some, Flag Day is just a date on a calendar-June 14. For others, it's a genuine holiday and a chance to get off work. But for Mary E. Stiles of North East, PA., Flag Day is a day to remember the Stars and Stripes with reverence and respect.

Years ago - during World War II or right after the war - she wrote a poem about Old Glory and why it has special meaning for her. "I just have a strong feeling of patriotism," she said.

No wonder. Her husband, Paul, and two sons, Barry of Erie, and Bill of North East, have donned uniforms to defend that flag. Paul served in the U.S. Army in North Africa and Italy during World War II. He left for the war on April 29, 1943, just 11 days after the high school sweethearts were married. Barry, the oldest son, served in the U. S. Navy during the Vietnam War, and her younger son, Bill, recently retired after serving in the Navy for 20 years.

MY FLAG

Have you ever seen a more beautiful sight

Than this Flag of the land of the free,

Have you ever seen a brighter light than these stars

As the shine o'er the sea

Oh, I don't know why but I feel so proud

When the Flag passing by, brings a hush to the crowd

I just get a lump in my throat

And I don't know why I get such a thrill

When she's raised in early morn

I only know I'm glad I live

In this land where she was born

She's seen so many trials, so much trouble and strife

Millions of men have fought for her

And many have given a life

Yet all that she asks for their glorious task

Is allegiance, sincere, resolute

Oh, Flag of our land may you always fly

As we offer you our salute.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dear Sir:

I am an honorably discharged, highly decorated, multi - tour Vietnam Veteran. I have served my country honorably and with pride. I recently tried to obtain vanity plates for my vehicle that would commemorate my service to my country. Instead of approval, I received a letter that said "...any such plate commemorating Vietnam Service is both offensive and politically incorrect." I was appalled. Since when is duty and honor to one's country politically incorrect? I placed phone calls to Sen. Robert Smith ( New Hampshire ), Senate Armed Services Committee and Sen. Bankhead ( Florida ) and they couldn't believe the insensitivity and callousness of the letter. Both Senators took the time from their busy schedules to personally call the Florida DMV and protest this action. When Mr. Tom Joyce, assistant director DMV, heard this, he too was appalled and said the plates would be approved.

Why should I have to go to these extremes, to call our Senators, to obtain something as simple as a license plate to commemorate my military service? Why after all these years do people in government continue to act in a prejudicial manner towards Vietnam Veterans? There are over 52,000 reasons - whose names are written on the Wall in D.C. - to thank Vietnam Veterans for their service to their country. People seem to forget that " THE PRICE OF FREEDOM IS NOT FREE - IT IS WRITTEN ON THE WALL ".

I hope that after these calls by the Senators to the Florida DMV, that other Veterans, of any conflict, will not be subject to the humiliation of being told that their honor, duty and courage is now " politically incorrect ". It is a day of shame for our country when the principles that founded our great nation are now held in ridicule and contempt.

Sincerely,

James Valley,

5th Special Forces Group - Airborne

United States Army

SEATTLE SPECIAL OLYMPICS

A few years ago, at the Seattle Special Olympics, nine contestants, all physically or mentally disabled, assembled at the starting line for the 100-yard dash. At the gun, they all started out, not exactly in a dash, but with a relish to run the race to the finish and win. All, that is, except one little boy who stumbled on the asphalt, tumbled over a couple of times, and began to cry. The other eight heard the boy cry. They slowed down and looked back. Then they all turned around and went back. Every one of them.

One girl with Down's Syndrome bent down and kissed him and said: "This will make it better."

Then all nine linked arms and walked together to the finish line.

Everyone in the stadium stood, and the cheering went on for several minutes. People who were there are still telling the story. Why? Because deep down we know this one thing. What matters in this life is more than winning for ourselves.

WHAT MATTERS IN THIS LIFE IS HELPING OTHERS, EVEN IF IT MEANS SLOWING DOWN AND CHANGING OUR COURSE.

FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WALL

If you've ever seen the painting "Reflections" of the Vietnam Wall in Washington, you've seen the man standing there with his hand on the wall, mourning his dead father or brother who was killed. What he doesn't see is the reflection from the other side showing that relative with HIS hand on the wall, touching the hand of his survivor. That painting inspired this story.

"There are so many things that are written about the Wall but never anything of being on the other side. I was inspired by the picture Reflections that I use as wallpaper on my PC and a recent story, Autumn Wall."

At first there was no place for us to go until someone put up that Black Granite Wall. Now, everyday and night, my Brothers and my Sisters wait to see the many people from places afar file in front of this Wall. Many stopping briefly and many for hours and some that come on a regular basis. It was hard at first, not that it's gotten any easier, but it seems that many of the attitudes towards that war that we were involved in have changed. I can only say that the ones on the other side have learned something and more Walls as this one needn't be built.

Several members of my unit and many that I did not recognize have called me to the Wall by touching my name that is engraved upon it. The tears aren't necessary but are hard even for me to hold back. Don't feel guilty for not being with me, my Brothers. This was my destiny as it is yours, to be on that side of the Wall.

I have learned to put the bad memories aside and remember only the pleasant times that we had together. Tell our other Brothers out here to come and visit me, not to say Good Bye but to say Hello and be together again, even for a short time and to ease that pain of loss that we all share.

Today, an irresistible and loving call comes from the Wall. As I approach I can see an elderly lady and as I get closer I recognize her.....It's Momma! As much as I have looked forward to this day, I have also regretted it because I didn't know what reaction I would have.

Next to her, I suddenly see my wife and immediately think how hard it must of been for her to come to this place and my mind floods with the pleasant memories of 30 years past. There's a young man in a military uniform standing with his arm around her......My God!......It's...it has to be my son. Look at him trying to be the man without a tear in his eye. I yearn to tell him how proud I am, seeing him standing tall, straight and proud in his uniform.

Momma comes closer and touches the Wall and I feel the soft and gentle touch I had not felt in so many years. Dad has crossed to this side of the Wall and through our touch, I try to convey to her that Dad is doing fine and is no longer suffering or feeling pain. I see my wife's courage building as she sees Momma touch the Wall and she approaches and lays her hand on my waiting hand.

All the emotions, feelings and memories of three decades past flash between our touch and I tell her that it's all right. Carry on with your life and don't worry about me......I can see as I look into her eyes that she hears and understands me and a big burden has been lifted from her.

I watch as they lay flowers and other memories of my past. My lucky charm that was taken from me and sent to her by my CO, a tattered and worn teddy bear hat I can barely remember having as I grew up as a child and several medals that had earned and were presented to my wife. One of them is the Combat Infantry Badge that I am very proud of and I notice that my son is also wearing this medal. I had earned mine in the jungles of Vietnam and he had probably earned his in the deserts of Iraq.

I can tell that they are preparing to leave and I try to take a mental picture of them together, because I don't know when I will see them again. I wouldn't blame them if they were not to return and can only thank them that I was not forgotten. My wife and Momma near the Wall for one final touch and so many years of indecision, fear and sorrow are let go. As they turn to leave I feel my tears, that had not flowed for so many years, form as if dew drops on the other side of the Wall.

They slowly move away with only a glance over their shoulder. My son suddenly stops and slowly returns. He stands straight and proud in front of me and snaps a salute. Something makes him move to the Wall and he puts his hand upon the Wall and touches my tears that had formed on the face of the Wall and I can tell that he senses my presence there and the pride and the love that I have for him. He falls to his knees and the tears flow from his eyes and I try my best to reassure him that it's all right and the tears do not make him any less of a man.

As he moves back wiping the tears from his eyes, he silently mouths, God Bless you, Dad... God Bless, YOU, Son... We WILL meet someday but in the meanwhile, go on your way... There is no hurry...There is no hurry at all.

As I see them walk off in the distance, I yell out to THEM and EVERYONE there today, as loud as I can ......THANKS FOR REMEMBERING and as others on this side of the Wall join in, I notice that the US Flag that so proudly flies in front of us everyday, is flapping and standing proudly straight out in the wind today............

Sally and I went to the Wall 24 hours ago while the sun was setting. The experience was sublime. It was the time we all went there last August during the 99 reunion, a time suggested during our reunion planning by Gerry Frazier. It added greatly to the experience last August and to our experience last night.

There were individuals, couples and families in abundance, enjoying the end of the most perfect day the capital had seen in April. The sun blazed fiercely as it went over the horizon. It lit the top of the panels of the Wall so that you could easily read the names up there that can be hard to decipher at other times. There was a large, quiet, respectful crowd moving both ways down into the depression where the two highest parts of the Wall meet.

A long-stemmed rose leaned against each panel. Small notes were stuffed into the tiny space between some panels, carrying messages of love and remembrance to the fallen. A picture of a smiling sergeant leaned against the foot of the panel bearing his name. Small children kneeled down rubbing names. Elderly couples stood touching a name together, weeping silently. On the grass behind the walkway was a row of 14 wreaths, placed against the Wall earlier in the day at small ceremonies.

Nobody pushed. Nobody shoved. Nobody talked loudly. When darkness came, the small lights set into the ground in front of the Wall created a dignified, hushed atmosphere as if you were in a Gothic cathedral. Aging veterans moved forward to help families trying to find a name, found it for them, held the paper for them as they did their rubbing, shook hands with them afterwards. It was hard to get close to the books that list the names at each end of the wall because young people crowded round, some holding small photos of a relative on the Wall, taking turns to find the page in the book listing the panel.

Groups strolled along softly lit tree-lined paths set back from the Wall to see two remarkable sculptures. One shows a woman leaning against sandbags as she presses a dressing into the chest of an unconscious soldier. A second woman kneels behind them with her hand on a helmet. A third stares at the sky, looking for the medevac helicopter. Further along the path, groups of children and teenagers moved around the three soldiers emerging from the jungle, watchful and weary. No one was on the grassy knoll overlooking the Wall where we held our remembrance service by candlelight last August. No one was on the grass near the front of the Wall, where Rodney Bell, John Sweet, Jimmie Butler and nine other brothers read on a hot August Saturday afternoon the names of 1,428 who never returned from missions in the TLC area of operations. The Wall's grassy knoll appeared in a History Channel CIA Secret Missions documentary a few nights ago. It showed the precipitous cliff face of Lima Site 85, Air America Porters landing on the tiny runway and a 1997 reunion of Vang Pao's Hmong warriors in their old uniforms, standing exactly where we stood for our service last August.

It was a night on which the air was filled with respect, love, gratitude and remembrance for the 58,000 who never came back from Southeast Asia.

You never made it home, so I brought a piece of home to you. Here is the picture you drew on your bedroom door before you went to Vietnam. I know you had put your name on the dog tags and mom made you erase it so I filled it back in for you. You seemed so old to me when you went to Vietnam but now I know you were still a young man. I remember the things we did together, the horseback rides and the hand stands up the stairs. I always wanted to thank you for watching over me. I've grown a lot in the past 26 years. I was just 10 years old when you left and it was hard for me to understand everything, but now that I've been in the Marines myself, I understand why you decided to go but that doesn't make loosing you any easier. I have a beautiful wife and four terrific kids. I think you would be proud of you little brother. All of the kids know about you and the sacrifices you made for them and they are getting involved themselves to make sure that you and all your veteran brothers are not forgotten.

I know you must be the happiest you have been in the past 26 years now and even though its so very painful for me, I guess its your turn to have mom for awhile. I know you two are together now because I didn't feel you like I did before she passed away. She's the best mom anyone could ever have and she missed you dearly. She made sure I knew all I could about you and why you wanted to go to Vietnam for the children. She was so proud of you.

I've got your service certificates and the flag that was draped over your coffin and I promise I'll take care of them. I met a group of Vietnam Vets who have helped me a lot. They understand my pain, but I could never understand theirs. They try to make me feel like one of the brothers and even though I am a vet myself, I don't feel worthy because I wasn't there.

I'll be back to the "Wall" soon and the next time I'll bring the kids with me. I just had to come for the first time without them. They're so young and its still hard for them to understand the pain. Mike, you'll never be forgotten.

I visited with three old friends recently at a park near my town. It seemed like only yesterday that we were all together, but actually it had been 28 years. There was a crowd at the park that day, and it took us a while to connect, but with the aid of a computer we made it. I found Lance at panel 54W, line 037, Lynn over at panel 51W, line 032, and Vince down at panel 27W, line 103.

In 1968 we were gung-ho young fighter pilots in Vietnam, the cream of the crop of the U.S. Air Force pilot training system, and now their names are on that 250-foot-long, half-size model of Washington's Vietnam War Memorial that moves around the country. I had intentionally avoided visiting the wall when it came to town in years past because I did not trust myself to keep my composure. But after nearly three decades it was time to try for some closure on this issue. I told my wife that I preferred to go alone, if that was all right. Truth be known, I nearly backed out at that.

Dancing the Wild Blue

Standing in front of that somber wall, I tried to keep it light, reminiscing about how things were back then. We used to joke about our passionate love affair with an inanimate flying object - we flew F-100s - and we marveled at the thought that we actually got paid to do it. We were not draftees but college graduates in Vietnam by choice, opting for the cramped confines of a jet fighter cockpit over the comfort of corporate America. In all my life, I've not been so passionate about any other work. If that sounds like an exaggeration, then you've never danced the wild blue with a supersonic angel.

I vividly remember the Sunday afternoon, in the summer of '68, when we flew out of Travis Air Force Base, California, on a troop transport headed for Vietnam. Lynn, Lance and I crowded around the same porthole and watched the Golden Gate Bridge disappear below broken clouds. We had gone through fighter pilot school together and had done some serious bonding. In an exceedingly rare moment of youthful fighter pilot humility, I wondered if I would live to see that bridge again.

For reasons I still don't understand, I was the only one of the three of us who did.

Once in Vietnam, we passed the long, lonely off-duty hours at Dusty's Pub, a lounge that we lieutenants built on the beach of the South China Sea at Tuy Hoa Airbase. The roof at Dusty's doubled as a sun deck and the walls were nonexistent. The complaint heard most often around the bar, in the standard gallows humor of a combat squadron, was, "It's a lousy war, but it's the only one we have." (I've cleaned up the language a bit.) We sang mostly raunchy songs that never seemed to end - someone was always writing new verses - and, as an antidote to loneliness, fear in the night and the sadness over dead friends, we often drank too much.

Vince joined us at Dusty's Pub halfway through my tour of duty, and since he was a like-minded country kid from Montana, we hit it off. He had a wide grin, slightly stooped shoulders and his own way of walking - he just threw his feet out and stepped on them. But what he lacked in military bearing he made up for with the heart of a tiger. He often flew as my wingman, and we volunteered for the night missions on the Ho Chi Minh Trail. One starless night, the longest, saddest night of my life, we got into a nasty gun duel with some antiaircraft artillery batteries. I watched Vince die in a mushroom- shaped fireball that for a moment turned night into day.

Lance- a New York boy who took unmerciful grief from us because he talked like a New Yawker - crashed into the side of a mountain in the central Vietnamese highlands while attacking a target.

Lynn, a happy-go-lucky jock from Pennsylvania's Slippery Rock College with a hound named John the Basset, returned to his base on a stormy night in July after weather aborted his mission. Two miles of wet runway weren't enough to stop an F-100 landing at 160 knots with all its bombs still on board He ran off the end, flipped over, and slid through the minefield at the perimeter fence, setting off a gruesome sound and light show.

Lacy, one of our associates from Dusty's Pub, became an astronaut, and a few summers ago I watched from my backyard, near Tampa, as he blasted off. His voice over the radio from space was at least an octave lower than it was the day I heard him radio for help while swinging from his parachute hung in a tree in Laos.

Another Dusty's patron, Rick, is now a two-star general, and I reminded them what we used to say about the military promotion system - it's like a septic tank, only the really big chunks float to the top.

I didn't tell them about how ostracized Vietnam vets still are, that during that same week, one of the nation's leading newspapers had run an article that implied we Vietnam vets were, to quote one syndicated columnist, "either suckers or psychos, victims or monsters." I didn't tell them that the secretary of defense they fought for back then has now declared that he was not a believer in the cause for which he assigned them all to their destiny. I didn't tell them that a draft-age kid from Arkansas who hid out in England to dodge his duty while they were fighting and dying is now the commander-in-chief. And I didn't tell them we lost that lousy war. I gave them the same story I've used since the Nixon administration: We were winning when I left.

I relived that final day as I stared at the black onyx wall. The dawn came up like thunder after 268 combat missions in 360 days in the valley of the shadow. The ground trembled as 33 F-100s roared off the runway, across the beach and out over the South China Sea, climbing into the rising sun. On the eastern horizon, a line of towering deep-purple clouds stood shoulder-to-shoulder before a brilliant orange sky that slowly turned powder blue from the top down. From somewhere on that stage, above the whine of spinning turbine blades, I could hear a choir singing Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus" in fortissimo: "The Lord God omnipotent reigneth," and He was bringing me home, while Lance and Lynn and Vince will remain as part of the dust of Southeast Asia until the end of time. I was not the only one talking to the wall through tears. A leather-vested, bare-chested biker two panels to my left was in even worse shape. I backed about 25 yards away from the wall and sat down on the grass under a clear blue sky and midday sun that perfectly matched the tropical weather of the war zone. The wall, with all 58,200 names, consumed my field of vision. I tried to wrap my mind around the megatonnage of violence, carnage and ruined lives that it represented. Then I thought of how Vietnam was only one small war in the history of the human race. I was overwhelmed with a sense of mankind's wickedness.

God, Duty, Honor, Country My heart felt like wax in the blazing sun and I was on the verge of becoming a spectacle in the park. I arose and walked back up to the wall to say good-bye and ran my fingers over the engraved names-Lance and Lynn and Vince-as if I could communicate with them in some kind of spiritual Braille.

I wanted them to know that God, Duty, Honor and Country will always remain the noblest calling. Revisionist history from elite draft dodgers trying to justify their own actions will never change that.

I have been a productive member of society since the day I left Vietnam. I am proud of what I did there, and I am especially proud of my friends - heroes who voluntarily, enthusiastically gave their all. They demonstrated no greater love to a nation whose highbrow opinion makers are still trying to disavow them. May their names, indelibly engraved on that memorial wall, likewise be found in the Book of Life.

Last Memorial Day weekend my grown son and I made a pilgrimage to the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington DC--my first--to pay our respects to a few old friends of mine. I had been moved by the half-scale-model traveling version when it came to our town two years earlier, but it was inadequate preparation for this.

We dodged the rolling thunder of Viet Vet bikers on Constitution Avenue to pass in respectful procession by that mystically overwhelming wall. The sky was a dirty galvanized tub inverted over an otherwise enthralling city. It matched the mood of the hushed cortege while anointing bowed heads with drizzle. Cool drops diluted hot salty ones on ruddy cheeks of middle-aged vets, mine included, for whom that war was the watershed event of our lives-some would say our post-modern culture.

Stephen and I shuffled along in single-file before the sad face of that black granite slab, silently staring at all those names as I compared panel and line numbers with my rain-soaked crib sheet. At panel 27W, I knelt, counted down to line 103 and found my best friend, Robert Vince Willett, fighter pilot, shot down April, 1969, while flying as my wingman in the most horrific midnight gunfight of our lives. Now he's part of the dust of a jungle mountain overlooking an unpaved highway called the

I ran my fingers over those electrifying engraved letters as videotape of a massive, mushroom-shaped fireball on the darkest night played in my head. Old regrets for snap decisions made in the heat of battle, ones I'd give the world to take back, tormented my soul. My son's hand rested on my shoulder, communicating as only flesh of flesh can. I fought to be a manly, composed father he could be proud of.

I arose, speechless, and we walked toward a sheltering tree and a riveting broadside view of that awesome wall. After several attempts, words were forthcoming and I told my son how proud I was of my friends who gave their all for their country. I confessed how difficult it was for a vet to honor the guy in the big house down the street who had worked so hard to be a non-vet. Early on he dishonored his duty to his country and now he faces several accusations of dishonor in the highest office in our land. I wondered aloud what those 58,200 dead soldiers would think if they were to rise again and see the new America, its Commander-in-Chief serving at the people's pleasure with 14 of his associates convicted of crimes and 90 others having pled the fifth or fled the country.

I told my son that as long as depraved humanity has breath, old men will send young men off to war. It's an awful thing, but bondage is worse. Vietnam was not a popular war, but neither was the Civil War, and the mothers of mighty Rome were no less distraught when big Julius marched their sons off to Gaul. Yet if all young men were allowed to pick their wars there would be no freedom. I explained that a small minority of men in my generation had done that very thing, violating or evading the laws of the land, and today the nation reaps the reward. Some of them are now in positions of authority, rewriting history to justify their acts while ignoring the genocide and bondage following our desertion of a nation of peasant farmers.

With no understanding of war or 4000 years of human history, they actually believe that unilateral disarmament is not suicidal while 19 unfriendly nations are rabidly building nuclear arsenals. America now faces a threat we can't run away from, more dangerous than during the Cold War days, yet we remain utterly defenseless against Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles. While 500 Russian nuclear warheads are unaccounted for, our government permits the private sale of missile guidance technology to an enemy with 13 nuclear ICBM's aimed at our country. The cost of permission was 30 pieces of silver in a campaign coffer.

Then I admitted to my son that his dad had one great dread, a scenario well within the envelope of possibility: that the dearth of moral authority and the alarming lack of concern for national defense would result in the destruction of the Vietnam War Memorial and everything those soldiers died for. That stately granite wall would be radioactive lava just a few blocks from ground zero and some old soldier somewhere will repeat St. Jerome's shocked cry for Rome 1600 years ago: "My voice falters, sobs stifle the words I dictate; for she is captive, that city that enthralled the world."

HILL 1969

On Memorial Day this year I got up and caught the 8:22 a.m. train to Washington, D.C., headed for the Vietnam Veterans' Memorial Wall to join the protest against Bill Clinton's presence there.

In my right hand I carried a small, white plastic bag. Inside the bag was my "boonie" hat -- the shapeless, unofficial camouflage hat I wore in the jungles of Vietnam twenty-five years ago. The night before, I had found the hat in an old suitcase in the basement and decorated it with my medals (nothing extraordinary; almost everyone who served there got the same ones I did) and my unit patches and old insignia. Without the boonie hat, there was no way you could have guessed I was a Vietnam veteran. I've been told I look a lot like other paunchy, middle-aged corporate lawyers and I was dressed accordingly, in a conservative blue blazer, white shirt, and club tie.

And that's exactly what I wanted on the train to Washington: anonymity. I returned from Vietnam in mid-1969 and entered Harvard Law School. The atmosphere in Cambridge in the fall of 1969 was not a friendly one for returning veterans; in a very short time I acquired a lifetime supply of angry words, spittle, and hostile glances. Although I was proud to have served, I quickly learned the basic survival skill for Vietnam veterans: keep quiet about it, leave it off your resume, turn the other cheek.

I kept the boonie hat concealed in the plastic bag all the way to Washington, and as I walked through Union Station, and on the Washington Metro as I rode to the Subway station nearest the Wall. It was only when I came up the escalator out of the subway that for the first time I saw enough other veterans wearing similar hats, or T-shirts, or old bits and scraps of uniforms, to feel comfortable. I paused at the top of the escalator to put on my boonie hat and joined the growing stream of veterans headed for the Wall.

It was my third trip there -- and it had taken me years to get up the strength to go there for the first time. I knew exactly what Army nurse Lt. Col. Janis Nark was talking about later that day when she mentioned "tree vets," those who came to the Wall and were so overwhelmed by its towering black presence when they got up

Close that they had to back off into the treeline for a while, to get some distance from the names, the cold black granite that looms over you, and wait for hours,

Sometimes years, before they could find it within themselves to get up close. I'd been through that on my first two visits, both times coming by myself, at dawn, when no one else was there.

This time, I was in for an unpleasant surprise: the Clinton White House had ordered the Wall circled with an ugly wooden snow fence that kept us -- the veterans!-- 500 yards away. You could go inside through the airport-style security detectors – but not if you were carrying a protest sign. Our hastily organized rally was kept back behind the fence -- "halfway into the next bloody time zone," as Terry, another veteran, put it.

Terry's gray hair was neatly trimmed. He was wearing khaki shorts and a faded black and white T-shirt. If you knew the crossed-arrow-and-dagger insignia and the Motto ("De Oppresso Liber"), you'd know him for the Special Forces Captain he had been in Vietnam in 1966-67, but otherwise he looked exactly like the investment banker he had been since his discharge in 1968. He'd come all the way from London. We shook hands, and Terry introduced me to his high school friend Jack, a medic in Qui Nhon in 1967-68 and a career FDA bureaucrat in Washington since then. We wandered around on the sunny hillside above the Wall where the Clinton forces had confined us, seeking out people from our old units. We weren't bothered by the press – corporate lawyers, London investment bankers, and Washington civil servants don't fit their notions of what Vietnam veterans ought to look like. Instead, newsmen were busy seeking out the motorcycle-club members and two field-jacketed brothers from Iowa who looked startlingly like ZZ Top with gargantuan hangovers. Fred and his brother had heard Clinton was coming to our Wall and had driven straight through for two days just for the opportunity to stand up and turn their backs when he spoke. They were delighted to see the other 1,998 (my own completely unofficial estimate) Vietnam veterans gathered on the hillside when they arrived.

"But don't you think your protest is contrary to the spirit of the Wall?" one of the TV reporters was asking Fred. "After all, this Wall is for healing the wounds of Vietnam." I heard several reporters trying to bury us in the mush of that word.

Terry stepped forward to Fred's aid. "That's a myth," he said. "Why don't you go down and film the inscription on the Wall and show it on television tonight?

That's why we're here, and why Clinton shouldn't be. This Wall was built to honor everyone who served in Vietnam, which most emphatically does not include Mr. Clinton."

IN HONOR OF THE MEN AND WOMEN OF THE ARMED FORCES OF THE UNITED STATES WHO SERVED IN THE VIETNAM WAR. . . . OUR NATION HONORS THE COURAGE, SACRIFICE AND DEVOTION TO DUTY AND COUNTRY OF ITS VIETNAM VETERANS.

Another favorite media word was "courage," as in "Don't you think it took courage for Bill Clinton to come here today?"

"If standing around in a suit and tie and getting booed for a couple of minutes, and then going home to the White House is 'courage,'" said Jack, "then what's the word for going to Vietnam and getting shot at for 365 days?"

We were amateurs at protest, and it showed. The White House had seized all the tactical advantages before we even arrived. Up on Firebase Clinton we had been pushed out of sight of most of the TV cameras. We had no press spokesman, no press releases to hand out, no binoculars or walkie-talkies, no organization --nothing except our bodies, some of them brutally wounded in Vietnam; our memories; and our determination that this was our day, our Wall, and that Bill Clinton's presence there was a national disgrace.

I talked to dozens of veterans, and found no disagreement about Clinton. None of us had voted for him, but he had been elected president by the American people,

And with that went the title of commander-in-chief. We had no objection to his going to West Point to speak at the cadets' commencement. And we had no objection to his going to Arlington National Cemetery earlier that day to honor the dead of other wars. None of us would have come to Washington to protest either of those things.

But not here. This was the monument to our generation's great fault line, the fault line that has grown wider over twenty-five years -- between those who went and those who didn't; between those who served and those who chickened out.

And there was a second consensus among the veterans up on the hillside at LZ Slick Willie: none of us would have come to Washington had Clinton received a Medical deferment for a bad knee or back, or joined the National Guard like Dan Quayle, or found some other legally proper, if morally dubious, way to stay at Oxford.

What set us off was his in-your-face "I loathe the military" letter in 1969 -- back then, we were the military -- and our unshakable perception that he lied to the Arkansas ROTC program in 1969, and lied again to the American people in the 1992 campaign about what he had said and done to dishonorably evade his duty to his country while we were fighting in Vietnam. There wasn't anyone on the hillside who believed that it was possible to "forget" you got an induction notice in that troubled year.

So today was payback, for a lot of things. Our most popular signs were "Vietnam Veterans Loathe Clinton" and "Coward" and "Draft Dodger" and "You Dishonor the Dead by Appearing Here." About 12:45 we fell into a loose formation. We stood on our hillside, kept away from our Wall by the ugly snow fence, until 1:00 when the band played "Hail to the Chief" and we had our first chance to boo.

We came to attention, did a reasonably smart about-face (it was surprising how well we remembered that maneuver), and turned our backs on him. "Where was Bill?" we chanted, and "Off our Wall," and "Come up here!" -- an invitation he did not accept. We did another about-face to salute the flag as the military band played "The Star-Spangled Banner."

We listened respectfully and attentively to all the official speakers, booing only when they stated that they welcomed Clinton to our Wall. General Colin Powell -- a man whom we respect enormously -- introduced Clinton. He spoke to us about welcoming the president in the stern tones of a high school principal trying to calm an unruly, out-of-control assembly, and suddenly the feeling ran over us -- Yes! Perfect! High school!

The Clinton White House had made a serious mistake in keeping us so far back in the trees -- we were too far away to feel the overwhelming, somber grief that the Wall calls up from your heart when you're close by. We'd been pushed back so far that it was high school again, a year or two before we were drafted, and we were free to be the unruly boys from shop class, the hoods, the louts, the greasers, the troublemakers, booing that smarmy kid up on the platform who always stayed out of trouble with the teachers and ran for class president and won, but we knew you couldn't count on him in a pinch. And there was General Powell, who could do nothing except frown and lecture to us, like a principal scowling at earlier years' graduates who had come back and were shouting insults and smoking on the front lawn, against all the rules, in the middle of a solemn ceremony -- but who grudgingly realized that there wasn't anything he could do to stop us; we had graduated and were beyond his power. We were raunchy, insolent American high school kids again, reveling in our few moments of recaptured innocence.

We booed our lungs out as Clinton himself rose to speak, our anger at him mixed with the sheer lighthearted joy of rebellion, and of hearing our strong voices blend together. We came to attention again and turned our backs on him in unison, even more smartly than in our first about-face. We sang "God Bless America" at the tops of our lungs and drowned out his words. We booed him until our throats were hoarse, half angry and half proud of our solidarity and the sheer volume of the noise we made.

For me, and for everyone else I spoke to that day, it was our first demonstration. We were twenty-five years behind the times, and for the first time a lot of us began to understand the sheer emotional joy of solidarity and brotherhood in just standing together on a hillside and shouting. It helped us understand why demonstrations had been so popular in the sixties, no matter how solemn your cause -- they're fun, a terrific emotional release. Sometimes you have to sit down and solemnly debate and think through your position on things and perhaps write an essay; sometimes you just have to stand up on a hillside with your brothers and shout like a soccer hooligan.

When Clinton left, we fell out and walked slowly away. I threw my white plastic bag in the first trash can I saw, and I wore my boonie hat as I walked from the Wall and past the State Department and through the streets of Washington to the Metro station, and I wore it on the Metro all the way to Union Station, and I wore it as I walked through the station in Washington and all the way home on the train. I got some curious stares, but that was fine. For the first time in my life, it felt good to be publicly recognized as a Vietnam veteran.

David Clayton Carrad was a corporate lawyer in Delaware when article was written. He served with the U.S. Army in Vietnam in 1968-69. This article appeared in the August 1993 issue of The American Spectator.