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January 2004
Thirty Five years ago I boarded a Chinook helicopter at Vandegrift LZ near the DMZ, about 15 miles from Khe Sanh, to begin a long journey home from Vietnam. I am still on that journey.
My son is in Iraq fighting another war and the similarities are almost too much to bear. He has heard the big booms and felt the shock wave that hits you in the stomach more than the ears – just like I did. He has had to pack up the personal belonging of his comrades after they lost their lives in a war that didn’t have to happen – just like I did. He has left a new bride back home – just like I did. I never envisioned that this is what from generation to generation really meant. This war is too much like Vietnam. I have had memories and feelings flood back in waves. The hardest ones are the ones I felt after writing condolence letters to the families of the Marines we lost, but never getting to say goodbye. We didn’t have memorial services then; our friends were just gone. No one played taps in Nam; we just brought in fresh Marines from The States, and filled the missing slots, and kept the war machine going and going and going.
Last year, after thirty-four years, I became a bugler again, and a proud Marine again. Last year, I played taps at many occasions – funerals, memorial services and special events. I wear my new Marine Corps Dress Blues and I am squared away - shoes spit shined, hair freshly cut, ribbons and medals straight, brass shined. When I play with the Marine honor guard, I am just another Marine – maybe a little grayer, but still a Marine standing at attention and rendering the salute to the Flag and honoring our fallen.
I have played taps for Soldiers, Marines and Sailors from WWII, Korea, Vietnam, and sadly from Iraq. I still missed playing or hearing taps for those guys we lost in Vietnam, but playing taps now seems to be a way to honor those we lost then by honoring those we are losing now. I have played taps several times at the Vietnam memorial in Kansas City. One day, I will play taps at The Wall in D.C. In the meantime, I will continue to play taps for our fallen heroes from every generation.
One day, I will complete that journey home that I started 35 years ago.
January 2006
A couple of weeks ago, my son, the one who spent a year in Iraq, had to put on his Army class A uniform and tell a family that their son was killed in Iraq.
Why didn’t we learn anything in Vietnam?
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