… but I won’t have a lot to say, even though I should.
I’ve always been terrible about these annual observances. I feel like I shouldn’t say anything unless I have something really new, really interesting, to say.
And I don’t have anything really impressive to say about Veterans Day, formerly Armistice Day, the 11th day of the 11th month, etc.
It’s not that I don’t think it’s important. Bud would accuse me (and frequently does) of making a sort of fetish of veteran worship. I am profoundly bowled over by the sacrifices of anyone who has served in combat for this country. Or served at all, even in rear areas. Interrupting one’s life to don the uniform and go where you are sent, perhaps for years on end, is a profound thing to do. Something we could use a lot more of. This is something that I think about, and read about, a LOT, and sometimes write about.
Unfortunately, except for the very few, too few, who have served in Iraq and Afghanistan — or Kuwait or Somalia or Bosnia or wherever — Veterans Day is about honoring previous generations. I mean, it’s great that we honor them, but it’s a shame that we associate “veteran” with old age as much as we do. The draft ended when I turned 19, the year I would have been called if I had been, and far too few people my age and younger have the experience of uniformed service. And that’s a loss — to our politics, to our civic life, to anything that depends upon a large portion of our society having the experience of having contributed to something larger than themselves. So our society, and our politics, have gotten meaner, pettier, more inward.
But this isn’t the day for that kind of talk. Earlier today, my son-in-law called to ask whether I was at the parade. I wasn’t. I was at work, where I’m trying to get my head above water on some ADCO projects now that the election is over. Which is why I haven’t posted much the last few days. And why I haven’t said anything, until now, about Veterans Day. Or the Marine Corps birthday yesterday.
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I was drafted in 1972, in the very last call-up. Got my medical, got my psychological, passed all the little draft board tests. Sworn in. Then they left us alone (there were about 50 of us) and came back about half an hour later. “Who wants to go back to college?” the sergeant asked. All of us raised our hands. “OK,” he said. “You are now classified 1A-H. You are in the Army but you are on hold. Your ass is ours for the next two years. Go back to school but keep us apprised of your whereabouts. If we need you, we will get you.”
Never heard from the draft board again. By 1973 it was obvious the Army was overloaded.
So, I guess I served in the US Army for half an hour.
When I worked on the 21st floor of the Affinity Building, I got some cool straight-on shots of a helicopter gunship flying towards and a fighter jet streaking just above the building.
My dad and father-in-law both served in WWII.
But, if it had not been for an “Unknown Medic” on a battlefield in France, my wife would not have existed.
Her father was blown out of a foxhole and part of a leg went the other way. Two medics were tending to the wounded and one started to tend to this soldier. The other medic said “Why bother. He’s a goner”. The first said “We have room on the truck.” He spent months in England with a full body cast before being sent to Texas for rehab and an artificial leg.
He left two sons and a wife behind in Georgia. A few years after WWII, he fathered a daughter.
So, the actions of one in the present can influence the future. “Back to the Future”.
So thank you “Unknown Medic” and veterans.
My draft lottery number was in the bottom third when it ended.
There were 6 men in my little home town in N Ohio that survived the Batan Death March. I consider it an honor to have known these Soldiers. THANKS to Ken Thompson and others who endured unspeakable indignities to preserve freedom.