The Passing of John McCain III-August 25-September 2, 2018

We have just watched the passage into history of a complicated man, a man whose personality and purpose both won over and angered people. And, of course, as his eulogists demonstrated, his life has been freighted with politics right through the ceremony in the National Cathedral today.

I never met John McCain III myself, though I met his father in the Philippines in 1967, while my unit (3rd Battalion, First Marines) was refitting to fight from the sea. I believe he was Commander in Chief of the Pacific Fleet then, and our Task Group was under his chain of command.  We had a few drinks over conversation in the Subic Bay Officer’s Club as he wished us well on our coming special landing force missions. I cannot recall the date of that get together, but it had to have been very nearly the time his son was captured in late autumn.

It is not hard to think of John McCain III in the way the many pilots of my Marine cohort from our USMC Basic School Class 1-67 (July-November 1966) saw and pictured themselves. No doubt McCain, as do my aviator Marine comrades, spoke not of “getting into their aircraft” but of “strapping them on.” Fearless, confident, and in an intimate relationship!

D5WK0N John McCain with Squadron members and a North American T-2 “Buckeye”. Photo © Alamy Stock Photo

Whatever John McCain’s qualities and positions, he is one of the most, if not the most prominent, symbols of my war-fighting generation. So my USMC flag, with black mourning ribbon, is up in front of our house in tribute to that A-4 pilot and in memory of many others from our day, including our Basic School fliers.

(Please be sure to read the comment I added to this post on 2 September recounting a Basic School classmate’s encounter with Lt. McCain more than five decades ago. It is a great story.)

And with the same kind of thoughts, Tracy and I decided yesterday to run down to the District and book into a Marriot that is a 10-minute walk away from the Vietnam War Memorial Wall to observe Cindy McCain’s placement of a wreath honoring Vietnam casualties and veterans at about 8:45 a.m.  It turned out to be a quiet, yet solemn, event, with observers lining the chained-off greensward leading down to the wall and the walkway by it.

People gathered early around the Memorial Wall. It was a quiet and seemingly reflective group of all ages.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The procession had left Capitol Hill at about 8:30 a.m., arriving at the Memorial shortly before nine. Secretary of Defense Mattis and White House Chief of Staff Kelly escorted Cindy McCain to the prepositioned wreath, and she saw to its proper placement and paused to pay respects. From our range (and with my eyes) it was a bit hard to see, but the remembrance offered to fellow Vietnam Veterans was touching.

It didn’t take long for many present to add their own sentiments. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After the funeral party left, Tracy and I moved to Panels 14E and 15E to pay respects to Marines close to my experience, 2nd Lt. Earl F. Smith, from my Basic School Class— the first of our Basic School cohort to die in combat—and Cpl. Charles P.  Alexander —the first member of the platoon that I led in Vietnam,  Lima/1, 3/1, to die under my command.

We then returned to the cool comfort of our hotel to watch the memorial service at the National Cathedral.  We would hear all the powerful and moving eulogies of leaders Senator McCain came to respect and befriend. I can only hope their words will ring powerfully among our leaders today—as the ideals expressed were the high ideals that took John McCain III and so many others into service and sacrifice.

Semper fidelis,
Andy

To Close Out the Displaced Persons Law Story–April 1952

Through these combined efforts [US and German], more than 300,000 persons have found their hopes realized in the attainment of a new life in the United States. Americans have a peculiarly sympathetic feeling for persecuted people. From the very beginning of our history, those coming to the shores of our country were usually fleeing from the persecution of the  mind or body. —Samuel Reber,  Assistant High Commissioner for Occupied Germany, April 2, 1952.

The record of the United States Government and the American people in extending aid to the unfortunate of the world—the displaced by war, the refugees from political or religious persecution or simply the immigrant seeking freedom and opportunity is a proud one. —Robert J. Crockery, European coordinator of the US Displaced Persons Commission.

The words quoted above marked the departure from Bremerhaven, Germany, of the last European emigres under the provisions of the US Displaced Persons Law, as passed in 1948 and amended in 1950, while my mother and I were on the high seas between Germany and New York City.

The 42-year-old Polish Josef Zylka with his wife Ursula and daughters Ursula and Beate, on 2 April 1952, before the departure at the quay in Bremerhaven

The quota provided by the law  was met with the departure on April 2nd  from Bremerhaven of the SS General Ballou . The last to board was the  Josef Zylka family, pictured here.  He had been captured by the Germans when they attacked Poland in 1939 and held in slave labor camps thereafter. (Image ©  dpa picture alliance / Alamy Stock Photo)

The ship would receive a ceremonial welcome on arrival in New York City ten days later, and selected families were treated to a visit with President Truman in the White House a day later. The Zylkas would move on to Chicago from there.


How distant the spirit of that day seems today, in July 2018!

Another Marine Immigration Story

Marine Basic School classmate John Wegl (B Company [TBS 1-67]  July–November 1966) wrote me to comment on my last post about the climate in the United States surrounding emigration of refugees from Europe after WW II.  After this introductory note, I will reproduce his comment/actually a brief summary of his story. It is a story that begs for a memoir—in many ways much more than mine might qualify—because it speaks poignantly not only to the experience of families displaced by World War II, which it most certainly does, but also to the strains on families caused by the Cold War, which extended John’s separation from his parents for more than a decade!

Intro: By my reckoning, our Basic School class had four members who were born outside of the United States, all in Europe. In addition to me, there was John (born in Romania in an ethnic German family), John O. (born in the Netherlands–and only first name given because I don’t have his permission to use it), and Matthew McKnight (born in Wales, of a US soldier and English nurse, and killed in Vietnam in October 1967 [and discussed in https://www.fanande.netwp-admin/?=571 — “And One Thing Leads to Another, and Another“).

John’s abbreviated story, offered with his permission, follows below.


Thanks for sharing [Andy].  It was a different time and a different national mindset.  My parents came over in May 1950 along with my six-month old sister—flying in through New York and then straight to St. Louis.  They were sponsored by a family relative who had been in St. Louis for quite some time and arranged for their flight, housing, and a job for my father, and that is another story onto itself.

My parents had been reunited in Germany after the war—my dad coming from a POW camp in England to Germany and my mother from a slave labor camp in the Ukraine (then part of the  Soviet Union), where she and about 70,000 other ethnic Germans from Romania were deported in January 1945.  Quite a few books/articles have been written about that tragedy.

My mother had gotten sick, and instead of being sent home, she was shipped to East Germany in 1947.  She eventually worked her way into West Germany to join my dad in ’48.  I was with my grandparents in Romania and finally got permission to join my parents in the states in 1958.  Ten years to the date I landed in New York, I landed in Da Nang.

While in college and in the Marine Corps, I wrote letters to my grandparents–mailed them to my parents, and they sent them on.  My maternal grandfather died while I was in college.  My paternal grandfather was killed by Tito’s partisans while trying to escape the Russian advance, and my grandmother and my father’s sister and her family were ordered to go back home.  That grandmother died in the early 1970s.  My maternal grandmother, who essentially raised me, got to Germany in the early 1980s as part of Germany’s “freedom purchase” of Germans in Romania.  I got to visit with her twice while I was still on active duty and then saw her one more time after I retired before she passed away.  I did get to her funeral—she outlived both my parents.

I have not written a memoir—started a few years ago but got overwhelmed with other commitments and have not picked up on it.  Maybe after my tenure on the local board ends in December I will start up again.  — John Wegl


John would go on to serve a career in the Marine Corps. Among his duties was working in USMC Recruiting Advertising Branch (1969–1972), as the Marine Corps ramped up its “We Need a Few Good Men” recruiting campaign. Featured were these two posters—which I suspect could be could part of his memoir’s title.

 

 

Reflections on My Mother’s and My Arrival in New York City, June 25, 1950

( I  edited this post (the beginning and the very end) for clarity on June 29th.)

This posting has been brewing since Monday, June 25th. I thought it would be easy and quick—a kind of stroll through the times surrounding our arrival in June 1950. Instead, with immigration having become such a complicated matter—the supposed “crises” on our border with Mexico and in Europe—that I felt the need to dig deeper and look into the genesis of the law , the Displaced Persons Law of 1948, that made possible our arrival.  Basically, I wanted to know if US values concerning immigration during the days surrounding the passage of the law in June 1948 truly looked like the values I had come to believe our arrival in 1950  symbolized.  As it is today, the answer is complicated.

I had become accustomed through my life to saying that the generosity of the American people was evident in  the passage of the Displaced Persons Law of 1948, which allowed 200,00 European refugees to emigrate from camps in Europe to the United States.  (see https://www.fanande.netwp-admin/post.php?post=69)

The fact of that law, and a further liberalization of it two years later (the number allowed to enter was doubled and restrictions in the 1948 law were reduced), has been thrown at me by those aligned with the present administration’s anti-immigrant stance who object to my expressions of empathy for Central America’s migrants with the words, “You WERE LEGAL!”

Maybe so, but I can’t help but think that people who most loudly shout those words don’t really know—and most likely wouldn’t care if they knew—how much they sound like those in 1948 and later who opposed the entrance of Europeans displaced from their homes and dispossessed of virtually everything they had owned.

Following is a New York Times report of the floor debate in the House of Representatives on June 10, 1948 on the Fellows Bill, named after Frank Fellows, the Republican from Maine—let me repeat that, “…the Fellows Bill, named after Frank Fellows, the Republican from Maine”—who had the endorsement of the Democratic White House (From the New York Times (June 10, 1948):

The debate today centered primarily on the quality and character of the DPs who would enter the country under proposed law. The 1,300,000 persons in Europe officially classified as DPs were described in speeches as everything from “the best” to “the worst,” from “the scum of all Europe” to the “cream of the crop.”

In spite of the harsh language and purple rhetoric, it was generally predicted late this afternoon that some measure providing for at least 200,000 refugees would soon be approved by the House, probably tomorrow.

The Senate had passed its own DP bill on June 2, going into a late night session to accomplish it. The measure Is objectionable to most of the supporters of displaced persons legislation, however, on the grounds it imposes too many restrictions and discriminates against the Jews in favor of the Baltic Protestants.

The House bill, introduced by Representative Frank Fellows, Republican of Maine, is considered more generous in its treatment of the DP problem, according to the authorities, and omits the discriminatory sections said to be in the Senate measure.

For every attack on the bill, there was an immediate and ardent defense. Representative Eugene E. Cox, Democrat of Georgia, was the first violent detractor of the bill, terming the DPs it would aid “the scum of Europe.” He expressed doubt that “20 percent of the whole number” would be satisfactory immigrants.

Another Democrat, Ed Gossett of Texas, was as strong in his denunciation of the bill as Mr. Cox. The Texan asserted that many of the DPs seeking refuge here ae “bums, criminals, subversives, revolutionists, crackpots, and human wreckage.”

———–

The measure would pass and be reconciled with an earlier Senate version, which contained more restrictions, including the obligation that 30 percent of DPs come from the Baltic States [I corrected this figure from 50 percent] —a measure seen to discriminate against Catholics, because of the largely Protestant makeup of Baltic church communities. Another required that 30 percent of visas be granted to farmers–or at least potential farmers in the United States.   These obligations would eventually be reduced and the quota increased in a revised law in 1950–passed as my mother and I whiled away the hours on the SS General Heintzleman.

Of course, little, if any, of that was known to us.  For us, arrival in 1950 would be a joy. No cameras or journalists covered our arrival–we had become a routine, but the arrival of the first of the DPs to reach New York under the law on October 31, 1948 made the front page of the Times and it was captured on film. There is much more that is complicated about the day and the attitude of Americans (and especially their politicians) to the newly arrived and arriving refugees that I will save for another time. For the moment, let me attempt to share the joy, evident in the October 31 NY Times account of the arrival of the SS General William Black the day before with 813 refugees from Europe—and films—totally unexpectedly found showing the occasion.

Much more can be said about the fears evident in the United States on that day and the day my mother and I arrived, but I can save those for another day. For now, let the sense of relief and joy evident in the below speak to the feelings of two Displaced Persons, Hedvig Marie Steinberg and Andres Steinberg (to become Vaart after my father’s arrival, a year to the day later).

New York Times, 31 October 1948

 U.S., City Welcome Ship with 813 DP’s, 1st Under New Act

Harbor Whistles Greet Army Transport Bringing Tyranny to Homes Here

Group Shows Gratitude

Clark Speaks for the President in Ceremony on Deck—Mayor and Cardinal Spellman Also Attend

By Kenneth Campbell

The first group of homeless Europeans to arrive under the Displaced Persons Law came up New York harbor yesterday past the Statue of Liberty amid the thunder of welcoming whistles. [and sprays of water from firefighting tugs]

http://www.criticalpast.com/video/65675074156_USS-General-W-M-Black_Statue-of-Liberty_skyline_Displaced-Persons

http://www.criticalpast.com/video/65675074153_Displaced-Persons_USS-General-W-M-Black-AP-135_waving-from-deck_arrival

There were 813 men, women and children in the group. They came from former police state countries once under the Nazi heel and now under Russian dominations. They were on their way to many parts of the United States and Canada where, as their spokesman said they would find “the miracle of second birth.”

As they lined the rail of the Army transport Ge. William Black, they were a little tearful, very polite and quite stunned as the greatest city of the western world arose before them.

They saw the Statue of Liberty through the leaping spray from the nozzles of two municipal fire boats. The skyline of lower Manhattan was hung with autumn mist as they passed on their way up the North River to Pier 61 at West Twenty-first Street.

Here, with the Empire State Building in full view to show them how a city can seem to stand up they were welcomed by national, state and city officials and representatives of the Roman Catholic, Protestant and Jewish faiths.

Attorney General Tom Clark, representing President Truman; Edward Corsi, chairman of the State Commission on Displaced Persons; Mayor O’Dwyer and Cardinal Spellman were there to greet them. Mr. Corse represented Governor Dewey.

Everybody was pleasant to the newcomers. Nobody pushed them around or made them line up. Instead they had a chance to see someone else pushed around for a chance. The newspaper reporters, newsreel and radio men and photographers were subjected to the confused and scrambled procedure that characterizes such events, however well planned.

The welcoming ceremonies were held on the upper deck of the transport. Ugo Carusi, representing the Federal Displaced Persons Commission, presided. The newcomers were crowded on another section of the upper deck where they were photographed until their heads swam. The ceremonies were in English, which only a few of the new arrivals could understand. They waved and cheered and expressed their thanks at what seemed to them to be the proper moments.

Clark Speaks for Truman

Attorney General Clark said:

“Harry S. Truman, the President of the United States, bids you a hearty welcome to our shores—the land of your new-found home. The President greets you as the Pilgrims of 1948 entering this historic gateway of freedom as did the Pilgrims of 1620/ You too came here to escape persecution.

“This is a historic event—for this ship is the vanguard of a fleet of transports that will transform the victims of hatred, bigotry, religious intolerance and wars into happy and peaceful souls.”

After expressing the regret that all the military transports of the world could not be used on similar peaceful missions, Mr. Clark said:

“Do not think of yourselves as strangers in a strange land. You are following the path of millions who have come before you. The fact that you are being admitted to our land is evidence that our people have not forgotten that our nation was founded by immigrants, many of who fled oppression and persecution.

“This warm reception by some many Americans who have taken time out of their busy hours to meet you and to lend guidance on out ways to your new home is characteristic of our democratic way of life. They and the 144,000,000 Americans in our land wish you well. In America you will get out of life what you put into it. You take on here the responsibility of proving to the world that America’s confidence in you was not misplaced. You, too, can—and I am sure you will—contribute much to America.

”You can be strong and courageous in its behalf—and soon, I hope, each of you will be granted the most precious possession in the world—American Citizenship.

“God bless you and keep you and grant you Godspeed!”

Dewey Sends Message

A letter from Governor Dewey was read by Mr. Corsi. It said:

“I want personally to welcome the families on the General William Black. These potential citizens will find that here they have the opportunity to earn their living in peace, to worship God by the tenets of their own religion and to raise their children in the true spirit of freedom and democracy.”

Mayor O’Dwyer said:

“New York City is glad to have you here. I am glad to see you getting your first breath of good New York air. Many of you will stay here—and I will all of you good. You will like it in New York.”

And then the Mayor threw out his arms and said: “Welcome to New York!” His gesture was understood by the newcomers, who cheered him loudly.

Cardinal Spellman did not speak to the group. Before the ceremony he said to newspaper men:

“We Americans must remember that these people must be treated with consideration, sympathy and understanding. Just putting their foot on United States soil doesn’t give them orientation to all America means.”

Victor Fedial, a young White Russian, spoke on behalf of the new arrivals. He had a prepared speech but he became overcome with emotion and could only say:

“This is the miracle of our second birth We have come here to enjoy the benefits of democracy and freedom.”

No Standing in Line

Every care had been taken to make sure that the new arrivals would be greeted with Friendliness and warmth rather than with the official coldness and long periods of standing in line to which they had been subjected in the past. They did not go through Ellis Island as have millions of other immigrants. They were checked off the boat with care to prevent duplication or confusion.

ON the pier they were greeted by uniformed representatives of the official recognized travel agencies who arranged for the to go to the places where they have informed the authorities they have homes and work ready for them;

Of the 813 displaced persons arriving on the transport yesterday, 197 were children und sixteen. There were 388 Poles, 214 Balts, 53 Czechoslovaks and the remainder were classed as stateless persons.

Seven religious denominations were represented, as follows: 491 Roman and Greek Catholics, 161 Jewish, 75 Russian and Greek Orthodox, sixty-seven Protestants and eighteen unknown.

The occupation skills were as follows: Eighty-three farmers, eighty tailors and allied crafts, forty technicians, twenty-seven interpreters, fourteen domestics, thirteen accountants and bookkeepers, thirteen engineers and eight nurses. There were also carpenters, locksmiths, masons, barbers, butchers, and other assorted trade including one professional ballet dancer.

Raymond M. Hilliard, chairman of the Mayor’s Committee for Displaced Persons, was in charge of arrangements at the pier and on the boat. Considerable inconvenience was caused to newspaper reporters, photographers, radio men and newsreel cameramen by seemingly conflicting orders. The United States Coast Guard and the office of the Collector of the Port issued credentials which said the bearers could board The Transport. But when the newspaper men and the associates came to the side of the transport it was explained that the ship was under the jurisdiction of the Army and that they would not be permitted to board.

AV Afterword

And finally, I should add that on looking back through my sampling of Estonian, European, including Baltic, and other immigrants I know of the period–it is safe to say a goodly more than 20 percent managed life well in their new country.

For evidence of that, one need only look at the marvelous book on Estonians in America written by Priit Vesilind. I blogged about it last year:

A Miracle Delivered to Our Doorstep

It is a great testimonial to resilience and faithfulness to family, friends, heritage, and new home.

As to the US public mood in 1948: divided, though apparently less so than it is today.  But in 1948 and then in 1950, the good won the day. For that I am eternally grateful–and maybe a bit hopeful that the United States will side with its good angels again today and the days ahead.


More another day about the climate in June 1950—hopefully with fewer mistakes.

 

av (June 29, 2018)

 

 

Memorial Day 2018—Some Scenes, Some Thoughts

A Marine comrade, reflecting in an email early this morning on his many years of regular visits to the Vietnam Memorial Wall on Memorial Days,  stirred me to take the 30 minute drive and visit Arlington National Cemetery this morning.  It would be crowded in certain places, but solitude, my preference, is not hard to find. (click on images to enlarge.)

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But before I moved to quiet places, I aimed to visit at least two of my Marine Basic School (1966) classmates. Classmates reading this, of course know them. One is Tom King, also a University of Rochester classmate of mine and two other Basic School mates.  He was killed in July 1967–in a battle in the DMZ, which became the subject of a remembrance in the New York Times “Vietnam 1967 Newsletter.” (some notes on the series here.)

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The other, Jerry Zimmer was a Marine Aviator who was killed in the notoriously dangerous Que Son Valley southwest of Danang.  On a mission to support a reconnaissance patrol in trouble, the F-4 he was flying was shot down. He and his RIO crashed into a mountainside in rugged terrain. Their bodies have yet to be recovered, and so a memorial stone stands in Arlington for Jerry, call-sign Jackpot.  Jerry’s wife, Elaine, continues the search to this day and has some hopeful indicators.

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At least three other members of our Basic School Class lie in rest in Arlington.

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I suppose countless web sites show images of Arlington more moving than the below. I simply offer them in companionship to any Marine brothers and friends who might have taken the walk with me–and in memory of other comrades of all services who lost their lives in Vietnam and all other conflicts and are buried in countless other places–at home and abroad.

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Given the continuing commemoration of veterans of the Vietnam War, it was no surprise those vets were much in evidence, but more than ever I overheard conversations about the wars fought since then, in Iraq and Afghanistan. Would that were not needful.

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And now, mostly just scenes.

 

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The Pentagon, in the center of the image. A slight mist was present throughout my morning.

 

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Solitude–and sadness of another kind–is easy to find in Section 27, which, between 1864 and 1868 was used to bury former slaves who had moved to Washington, DC. Some were refugees and some had served the Union Army in some capacity.

 

 

 

The number buried there is just over 3,600. As the closeup below shows, the identities of many were not known or known simply, as Mrs. Brown, on the right.

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The story is told in freedmenscemetery.org

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The below speak for themselves, I think.

Semper Fidelis

 

 

 

One Thing Leads to Another and Another and Another …

In late December 2017, in my day job as the managing Editor of Studies in Intelligence, I sat in on an interview with a reporter from the New Yorker magazine. The result appeared in the January 8th issue’s “Talk of the Town.”  It led to some ribbing–the reporter, Nicholas Schmidle, described me as “jauntily” dressed. I can’t say that the word “jaunty” has ever applied to me but then …

The important part of the story was triggered by my mentions of a an article I had just about finished editing for the December 2017 issue.  “A CORDS Advisor Remembers: The 1968 Tet Offensive in Vietnam and the Seizure of Hue” was a remembrance by a retired CIA officer of his being trapped in the city of Hue when it was overrun by communist forces in first days of the Tet Offensive of late-January into February 1968.  At the time, the author, Raymond Lau, was a Marine captain serving with two other Marines on detail to one of the CIA-led efforts to weaken communist control of rural areas in the northern region of South Vietnam.  In the eight days of his entrapment, Lau wrote of the deaths of the other two Marines, both killed by communist gunfire.

The New Yorker article was nice enough. What followed was better. It happens that people in Alabama also read the New Yorker. One reader, a senior attorney in the office of the Alabama attorney general noticed Lau’s story, pulled it up from cia.gov and saw that one the Marines killed in Hue during that episode was Marine Captain Robert Hubbard, a graduate of Auburn University who was commissioned in the Marine Corps in 1963  through Auburn’s Navy ROTC program.  The attorney, John Davis, called my office and explained that the Auburn NROTC was about to honor Captain Hubbard with a portrait painted by his wife, and he wanted to invite Ray Lau to attend. I gave Mr. Davis the contact information, and Ray accepted and agreed to speak of the late captain at the ceremony.  On February 6th, almost 50 years to the day of Hubbard’s death, I joined Ray. He spoke, and I presented a letter of gratitude for Hubbard’s service from CIA leadership—the first formal revelation of his actual mission at the time of his death. The event was described in the Opelika-Auburn News.

During my visit to the Auburn NROTC unit, I noticed that there was no recognition of the life and service of another Auburn University NROTC-commissioned officer of my own Marine cohort,  Lt. Matthew O. McKnight, who was killed in action on October 18, 1967 in northern South Vietnam.  I made the observation in a conversation with the Marine Officer Instructor, Major Daniel Murphy, and Mr. Davis. Generously, Mr. Davis and his wife took it upon themselves to provide a portrait of Matt, which was unveiled at a ceremony honoring local Vietnam War veterans that took place in Auburn High School on March 29. The event, which for eight of us from B Company who joined in, is told in a posting on the B Company (Basic School Class 1-67) web site and the Opelika-Auburn News.

And the third “another”?  That is the genesis of another project of reflection brought on by the presence at the  unveiling of Matt’s sister, Isobel. She brought with her some of Matt’s many letters home. Isobel later sent me the entire collection, which I have since read. They are at once heart warming and saddening and, of course, full of portent that would not have been evident when they were written in 1967—even though Matt hardly said anything about the war he was engaged in.  And that war looked a lot like mine, as we were both assigned to the First Marine Regiment.

My project?  Travel back in time, rummage through memory, through Matt’s photographs, through Command Chronologies of the Second Battalion, First Marines (Matt’s battalion), and the New York TimesMachine and try to learn and provide for Isobel (and myself) the context of his letters.

The results of those rummagings I will share when I can.

May 19.

Fiftieth Fatigue? A Summation

On February 12th the New York Times cancelled its  “Vietnam ’67” newsletter for the week .  Naturally, as Marine veteran of the war during that year and into 1968, I have followed the series, edited by Clay Risen, pretty closely since it began last year.  Its most recent entries have focused on Tet and the battle of Hue–an event at the center of an emotional, for me, commemoration that I attended last week of a Marine killed in Hue. Therefore, I think I was ready for this break–and the opportunity to use it to create a kind of summation.

The series has included materials by a wide range of contributors. Many are vets, some are family members, and many are Vietnamese. The series has included work by academics and other careful observers of the war. (The archive of previous newsletters can be found at this URL:  https://www.nytimes.com/column/vietnam-67?emc=edit_vm_20180212&nl=&nlid=53613712&te=1).  I have read far fewer of the contributions than perhaps I should have, and in scanning the archive today I found myself pausing time and again as a story caught my attention. A few, very few, examples:

“Blood Road,” by Rebecca Rusch, about Rebecca’s bicycling the Ho Chi Minh Trail in Laos to find her father’s burial site. He was weapons systems officer on an F-4 shot down early in March 1972.  She made the trip in 2015. My Marine cohort from Basic School in 1966 has a similar experience as the widow of one of our lost flyers reflected on the search for the remains of her husband in the Marine Corps Gazette. I mention Rusch’s article because it speaks to the lives of those who lived to bear the suffering and other burdens of losing loved ones in war. We are fond of saying our lost should never be forgotten. Neither should we forget  the families of those who died.

 

 

 

“The First Time I Met Americans,” by

“At Quang Nam, a Raid and a Reckoning,” by

The stories I most appreciate do little to take on the “big” questions.  I listen/read to the arguments, sometimes with interest, but mostly politely. The questions will never be answered.  Instead, my favored stories address individual experiences and feelings and thus approach describing, pixel by pixel, the full complexity of that experience–pixels I can’t even organize entirely for myself–the above being a feeble attempt to do so.

Stories that trouble me the most are those that demonstrate an improbable prescience about the future from those with lenses of limited focal length.  As fellow veterans of the period covered in this series like to say endlessly, “When I left, we were winning the war.” Yet that was never–or rarely–said with any confidence that we were truly marching to victory in 1967.  Nor were we speaking cynically about the future. For many, though I can only speak for myself, the outcome we eventually saw in 1975 was hardly preordained, and at least this Marine could speak, and I think honestly, that as difficult as the fight had become there seemed to be grounds to continue it and to keep the faith that something good could still come of it.  But, by the time I got home and heard the points of view of classmates I had left behind in college, I learned that the position had become pretty indefensible in their minds. In this respect, truly saddening has been reading the poisonous comments of some readers,  as though they are not only reading about 1967 and on but they are living in the period.

Looking ahead to Vietnam ’68 (will the series thus be renamed?), I see another two years of reflections on the war with personal meaning.  Non-infantry members of my 1966 cohort of officers would follow after more extended training throughout 1968 and into 1969.  Lives continued to be lost and those who lost them and those who were left behind must continue to be remembered.

A Story: As the Baseball Turns, From 1966 to 2017

The Background (From Wikipedia):

The 1966 World Series matched the American League (AL) champion Baltimore Orioles against the defending World Series champion and National League (NL) champion Los Angeles Dodgers, with the Orioles sweeping the Series in four games to capture their first championship in franchise history. It was also the last World Series played before Major League Baseball (MLB) introduced the Commissioner’s Trophy the following year.

This World Series marked the end of the Dodgers dynasty of frequent postseason appearances stretching back to 1947. Conversely, it marked the beginning of the Orioles dynasty of frequent postseason appearances that continued until 1983.

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The Orioles closed out their four-game sweep on Sunday, October 9th. In Quantico, we followed the game, which began at 1400 and ended, probably, around 1630. Three of us, all members of the lowly (alphabetically speaking) fourth platoon of B Company, TBS 1-67, got it into our heads to pile into my ’62 Chevy and head north to Baltimore to take in the celebration that was surely going to take place. (And yes, we packed some beer to chug en route–true confessions.)

On arrival, we found precious little in what we thought would be the celebratory parts of Baltimore. Resigned to not much, we spotted a hotel with a bar/restaurant in downtown Baltimore, entered, found a table, ordered up more beer and studied a carbon copy of a telegraphed filing of a story to a St. Louis paper about the game and the series that had been left on the table.

Suddenly a group of cheering young people (okay, almost our age college kids, guys and girls) stormed into the bar. We watched, bemused. Then, one of the women looked our way, stopped the others, and shouted to us, “Hey, you look like Dodgers!!” One of us, maybe me, maybe Sully, said, “Yeah, we are just relaxing before our flight back to LA.”

Quickly, they joined us. One of the women said she was a reporter for her college newspaper (possibly Towson, possibly UMaryland, most unlikely Johns Hopkins), and was hoping to do a story on the Series. I handed her the carbon copy of the newspaper report and said it was from a friend of mine who had filed it and left the copy with me. Here, as I said I hoped it would be useful to her, I was also hoping for a round of free beers.

Excitedly she took it and started to grill us about who we were. I said I was Joe Moeller, the third pitcher in the Dodgers rotation behind Sandy Koufax and Don Drysdale, who pitched only a couple of innings in relief in the first game. The Dodgers had elected to stay with their top two, future Hall of Fame, pitchers in games three and four. I figured Moeller’s was a safe personna to adopt–who after all had really seen him? Sully decides on Jim Lefebvre, a top notch second baseman. Sully, from Los Angeles, knew what he was talking about, but it was a risky choice. The third member of our group (not at all into baseball) declared, to my horror, that he was a member of the Dodgers “taxi squad.” This went entirely unremarked upon to my amazement.

And so we chatted about the game and this and that, and, to the best of my memory, we got no beers out of the deal–just as well, in retrospect.

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Fast forward to January 2016. I am schmoozing after an annual award ceremony for the journal I edit and manage (Studies in Intelligence) and chatting with an award winner. Somehow we get into baseball–I don’t know how–and she reveals that the best man in her wedding was Joe Moeller. “No kidding!!” I respond and tell the above story.

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Fast forward again, to December 2017. The award winner calls and says she wants to meet with

An autographed baseball from Joe Moeller, December 20

me at work. “Sure.” We agree on a time. As promised, she materializes and hands me a little gift bag inside of which is the baseball you see in the image to the right. What a world we live in!

 

Memorial Day 2017: Remembering A Solemn Duty

Thinking in retrospect the other day about my remarks to family members at Wednesday’s B Company Memorial Dedication, the below photograph came to mind.  Showing Marines in a makeshift chapel service in late February 1969 at a northern firebase—C-ration and ammunition boxes serving as pews and pulpit and a CH-53 making a delivery in the background—the photograph is a powerful statement in its own right.

But something more specific caught my eye as I stared at the image in the Navy Times I had been leafing through  late one afternoon that February. I was relaxing with the latest issue in my apartment after a day of language school classes at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, CA.

I realized that the figure nearest the camera, in the first occupied “pew,” was Lt. Lee Roy Herron, a Marine I had met at DLI.  Unlike me, Lee Roy had left Basic School for six months of Vietnamese language training at Monterey before going to join the war. I’d had my 13 months in Vietnam and was enjoying the challenge of learning a new language (Chinese Mandarin) and loving the Monterey/Carmel/Big Sur territory of California.

Lee Roy (a graduate of Texas Tech in Lubbock) and his wife Danielle and I had become friends. They were a deeply religious, relatively newly wed couple. He was a determined Marine, anxious to get to Vietnam, but also eager to learn whatever this veteran of the theater might have been able to teach him.

As I marveled at the image, the telephone rang.  The voice at the other end identified himself as a Marine captain calling from Texas. He said he was calling to tell me that 1st Lt. Lee Roy Herron had been killed and that Danielle had asked to have me bring him home to Lubbock from Travis Air Force Base (north of San Francisco).  Awed by the timing of the call (I still am), I, of course, could only say “Yes.”  But I managed to keep my composure long enough to suggest to the captain that he attempt to acquire the image for the family. This he did, and it would be present at Lee Roy’s funeral. It would again be present at a dedication of a memorial at Texas Tech for Lee Roy about 15 years later.  (The photo was apparently taken by PFC C. E. Sickler, Jr., USMC, on January 26, 1969. It appeared in the Navy Times on March 5th. It now also is present at an exhibit at the National Museum of the Marine Corps dedicated to chaplains who had served Marines over the years)

Anyone who has seen the 2009 made-for-tv movie Taking Chance will understand my role in “taking” Lee Roy home. Every stage of the flight, plane change between San Francisco and Lubbock, ground transportation to a funeral home and handover of Lee Roy’s body to a funeral director was orchestrated to convey respect and honor.

And, of course, there was the family. Seeing Danielle and Lee Roy’s family was as heart wrenching as can be imagined.  And yet, in the end, I think I received more comfort from them than I was able to offer.* I would see them at the dedication of Lee Roy’s Texas Tech memorial because they had thought to invite me (though they only remembered me as the “nice, young Marine who had brought  Lee Roy home.”)  Happily for me, Lee Roy’s best friend, another Marine officer from Tech, David Nelson, had known how to track me down.  And at that ceremony I had the opportunity to tell the story of the image.  And more importantly, to again understand, appreciate, and remember the families of those we have “taken” home.  All the more so on Memorial Day.***

So, today, with respect to B Company, I offer my greatest admiration for the way in which Bob Lange labored to bring families into the creation of the B Company 50-year Cruise Book—a forthcoming profile of B Company and its members—and to give families opportunity to participate in the dedication of the memorial to their B Company loved ones. Those able to come were genuinely touched.***

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* At least two B Company members served as Casualty Reporting Officers in their careers, Dick Hulslander (Birmingham, AL) and Rob Hill (Pittsburgh, PA).  Each had to oversee the funerals and interments of more than 60 Marines who lost their lives during the war.  They have each addressed more than their fair share of grief and faced the full range of emotion, from grace to anger to bitterness.  In addition to me, at least two members of B Company have taken Marines home to their families.

** David Nelson would go on to write about his friendship with Lee Roy (“In my experience, never has a photograph captured the spirituality of men at war as well as this one. That Lee should last be photographed in that way speaks more about him than I could possibly offer.”  In 2015, he wrote about the photo for the Saturday Evening Post. In it, he quoted me as saying, ““In my experience, never has a photograph captured the spirituality of men at war as well as this one. That Lee should last be photographed in that way speaks more about him than I could possibly offer.” I believe it still.

*** Family members of all of B Company’s deceased that Bob was able to reach will receive gift copies of the Cruise Book when it is printed in June.

Memorial Day 2017–Paying Homage to Marine Classmates of 50 Years Ago

My Memorial Day fifty years ago was spent in South Vietnam, in the company of my Marine rifle platoon—First Platoon, Lima Company, Third Battalion, First Marines. I had graduated from the Marine Corps’ Basic School for officers seven months before.  The 185 members of our class—B Company, TBS 1-67—had gone their many ways just before Thanksgiving.  One third of us went into the infantry and onward to units in the First or Third Marine Divisions. We almost completely lost touch with one another after our assignments to Vietnam, especially so for those who, like me, left the Corps after four years of service.

Incredibly, through the efforts of a couple of mates who, in the early 1990s, began to wonder what happened to us all, we began to meet and communicate regularly. We have met in reunion every five years since 1996, and just last October we had our most recent, marking 50 years since our experience together in The Basic School. (The story is pretty well told in a multitude of notes and bulletins in the B Company website one of those mates established years ago: TBS167.com.)

At our reunions, we had always paid homage to those we had lost during the conflict: seventeen were killed in action—including one who died of wounds years later—and four died in the line of duty.  However, beyond donating commemorative bricks that line the walks of museum paths, we had never established a formal memorial in remembrance of them. Through the leadership of one of our classmates (Col. Hays Parks-Ret.), we at last did so on Wednesday, the 24th. Through the efforts of another class leader (Col. Bob Lange-Ret.), we had invited as many family members of our lost mates as we could find. A good number came, as seen above. (More about this in another post.)

It was all done the Marine Corps way, with a chaplain (Fr. John Cregan, Lt.Col. USMC, Ret.) on hand, a color guard, and a bugler to play taps. The plaque along with its dedication wreath is situated on one of several memorial walls the USMC Heritage Foundation has built along a beautiful memorial trail that winds through the grounds of the National Museum of the Marine Corps . A 30 minute video of the event (including my own brief contribution directed to family members) can be reached on the B Company website.  Attached is the program with a close up o f the plaque DedicationProgram-web.

While thinking this day of those whose names appear on this plaque and on the  Vietnam War Memorial and memorials around the country, I think too about the names that don’t appear. These include the names of beloved family members and friends, that I imagine to be invisibly filling the spaces surrounding the engraved names.  Also absent, but in need of remembrance, are the many, many more names of those who suffered wounds, visible and invisible, many felt to this day.

Semper Fi