I can’t believe it’s been fifty years since our high school graduation, fifty years since I said, “Good-bye,” to Tom, Mike, and Larry, as they headed off to boot camp, fifty years since I got the news of their deaths in that small country called Vietnam.  I was so naive to think they wouldn’t be scarred by that terrible war or that they would breathe their last, painful breaths in one of America’s most divisive wars ever fought.  As the years have passed, I know that God welcomed them home better than our country did.

Tom came home so scarred from the things he was ordered to do that he never recovered.  He was the gunnery sergeant for the commanding officer of all the forces in Vietnam, and it was Tom’s responsibility to protect the general’s helicopter.  We corresponded throughout his tour; his letters became harsher as he struggled with the demands being made of him.  I understood that body counts were a part of the army’s duties, but Tom, literally, felt the blood on his hands when he was asked to “mow them down” in the rice paddies.  How does one kill babies, women, and the elderly when you’ve been raised as a Christian?

As his way of dealing with the pain he inflicted, Tom became addicted to drugs when he returned to base and that addiction became stronger when he returned home.  He felt the full force of being called “baby killer.”  When my father called and said he had taken his own life, I cried for weeks.  He was such a kind, caring Christian man before he went into the military; he returned a discouraged and ultimately destroyed “shell” of a man.  He did his duty, but at what price?

Mike was a funny, go-lucky guy who would carry my books to my next class and who loved to play practical jokes.  He made me smile all the time, even to the point of causing our band director to yell at me for not being on the beat in our drum section.  Mike was one of the guys in the drum line who couldn’t quite take directions from a female, senior drum major.  He hid my drum before one of our football games when I was supposed to call the cadences for the band.  After being yelled at by the band director, Mike apologized and bought me a soda at the half-time.  He called and asked me to meet him at the bus station when he left for boot camp.  He pushed his drum key into my hand, and said,  “I’m sorry for all the problems I caused you.  I’m coming back.  Wait for me!”  He died in some snake-infested jungle, protecting his platoon leader.

Larry was the shy, cute boy who sat in front of me in almost every class.  He always asked how I was doing and gently touched the tips of my fingers when we handed in our papers.  He asked about what I was doing for the weekend and was always finding ways to be in my group for class projects.  He was so sweet when he told me,”I loved your solo in the Christmas concert.  You really have a beautiful voice.”  The day he left for boot camp, he surprised me by calling to ask if I would see him off at the bus station.  He kissed me, and said, “You’re the reason I’ll be coming home.”  He pressed a cross into my hand and turned to get on the bus.  His last words were, “Remember me.”  He was killed by a sniper bullet as his group tried to take a position on a hill, somewhere north of Saigon.

I think of them whenever I see our flag flown at half-mast or whenever the flag goes by in a parade.  I shudder when I see another flag-draped coffin return from Afghanistan or Iraq, and I worry about my grandson who just received the Bronze star with Valor on his second tour in Afghanistan.  I ask myself if we are bound to be Cain and Abel forever because they couldn’t get along or because our behaviors towards one another haven’t really changed in centuries.  We still can’t get along in our families, our country, and across the world.  Is war the only way to solve our problems?  When did love disappear from our core values as human beings?

Torn letters, a drum key, and a cross are all I have left of my dear friends: Tom, Mike, and Larry.  Maybe I have more than those things; their love still warms my heart, still tells me, “I’m coming home,” and, smiling, still points me in the right direction towards my eternal home.  I will remember my friends because they gave their all for me and every American citizen at a time when America was fighting for its very soul.  I pray that God will help us, today, to know that caring, purposeful love is the way to solve problems in our everyday lives and around the world, not war.  I pray God will protect all who serve in our armed services and service positions.  May they receive the gratitude of a thankful nation and the fond remembrances of this senior citizen.

Anna Hartt