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The Army Profoundly Regrets
I wrote Part 1 of this story in March. It was very hard to write and it bothered me so much that I put it away and never picked it up again. And that was just the set-up part for the real story. I recently went back to it and wrote Part 2. I let it sit for a while, then decided that I needed to merge the parts and re-edit them so that it was one seamless story. This is the merged and final version.
No tears for the writer, no tears for the reader. Enjoy.
The Army Profoundly Regrets
I was back from a year of flying helicopters in Vietnam. The Army gave me a make-work communications officer's job at Ft. Riley, Kansas, a base over-crowded with dejected Vietnam returnees. I hated it there, where they said “Custer told us not to change a thing until he gets back.” I was angry and disillusioned and clueless. A major called out to me in a hallway. “Captain, you’re going to be the notification officer next month.”
“Sir, does that mean what I think it means?” I asked. He was an old major, a mustang combat vet in his last duty station. He wasn’t a bad guy and we had been working in the same battalion for several months without incident. Of course, he hated me on general principles for being an aviator. I hated him for not being one.
“You’ll be on call for a month. When a new killed-in-action report comes in you’ll visit the family with the chaplain and you’ll give the official first notice.”
“No sir, I won’t do that.” Was that really my voice?
He looked surprised. Likely no young captain had ever told him that he wouldn’t obey an order. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Do you understand that this is not a discussion, it’s an order?”
“Yes sir” I replied. “I understand. I won’t do that job.”
“I can take this to the battalion CO if you want.” That was a profoundly underwhelming threat. I didn’t care, period, and I wasn’t going to do that job. He brought out the heavy artillery. “I can court-martial you for this.”
“Yes sir, I know. You’ll do what you have to do but that won’t change my decision. I will not, under any circumstances, be the notification officer.”
The real reason was that I couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting that kind of pain on the good family of a good soldier. I was raw from the war. I didn’t want to live the back end of events that I had witnessed in Vietnam. My emotions scared me and brought back ugly memories.
I had unintentionally created a real problem for the major. He could, indeed, take this to the CO. He could certainly bring court-martial charges against me, charges against which there could be no defense. If he did, though, it would also bring to light his inability to control an officer under his command. Me.
“We’ll talk about this later”, he said. In the Army that translates to “I’m going to give you some time to consider the error of your ways before I decide on your punishment.”
We did talk again a few days later but there was nothing for me to reconsider. My mind was made up; I wouldn’t carry out his order. I understood that I would be punished and I would accept whatever punishment he and the CO deemed appropriate. It would surely be a court-martial. That kind of insubordination must have serious consequences.
He surprised me by asking “Can we reach a compromise?” Compromise is not the Army way. “What kind of compromise?” I asked.
“We need a presentation officer for the rest of the month and there are no presentations scheduled. If you’ll take the job we’ll forget about your other problem.”
A presentation officer visits the family of a killed-in-action soldier. He delivers whatever medals and awards the soldier had earned and expresses, once again, the regrets and condolences of the Army. It’s not as bad as being a notification officer, not quite.
There were only a few days left in the month and the major, after all, had said there was nothing scheduled. It looked like I might skate on this yet. It didn’t take me long. “OK, sir, you’ve got a deal.”
I had forgotten that the Army is a scorpion with a vicious sting. The next day an order came down. I was to make a presentation in three days to a family in southwest Kansas. My first urge was to refuse that order too, but I had made a deal. I was honor-bound to carry out my part of it regardless of the behavior of the other side. Honor has its own sting.
The newly-grieving family deserved more than the Army offered in the way of condolences and they deserved someone better than me, someone who knew what to do. I was terrified but I didn't yet know how bad it was going to be.
The next day I picked up the meager package of medals and awards that the KIA soldier had coming and the orders and citations that go with them. I would travel to wherever the family asked me to be, in this case to their home town in southwest Kansas in time for the funeral. I would make an awards presentation for the first time. It’s easier to describe than to do.
In the Kevin Bacon movie Taking Chance Marine Lieutenant Colonel Strobl behaved honorably and honestly at this very difficult time. He had to deal with profound feelings of unworthiness and inadequacy in his role as both body escort officer and presentation officer. It’s a powerful movie and they really nailed it. Maybe that’s how I felt. It is certainly how I wanted to behave, but LTC Strobl was a better man than I.
The thing that struck me most in the movie was how structured and ritualized the entire process was in the Marines in 2004. It was just the opposite in the Army in 1972. The biggest problem was that you were supposed to say and do something but no one told you what to say or do. You had some medals, some dry military orders and a grieving family. You’re supposed to honor and comfort them, even if you’re only a dumb-kid captain like I was, with no experience in this sort of thing and no idea how to do what so obviously needs to be done.
It took most of a day to drive to the small farming town. Before I checked in to the little motel I drove out to find the family home where I was supposed to be in the morning. It was way, way out of town, a very large farm on flat wheat land that stretched forever. I went back to town, put on some civvies, ate and turned in for the night.
I set an 0400 wake-up time, not unusual for me in those days. I had worn my Army greens on the way down, with ribbon bars, wings and patches – the Big Red One on my left shoulder, the First Cav on my right. For the presentation I would wear my dress blues, complete with full medal display. Even on a modestly decorated soldier like me, that uniform looked impressive. How I loved those silver wings that symbolized the one great achievement of my life. I had paid dearly for them. Shower and shave, instant motel coffee, re-spit shine my best low quarters (shoes, to the rest of the world) to a mirror finish and I was ready, or so I thought.
I drove out to the farm again. It was just past dawn but already a crowd of family, neighbors and friends was gathering. I parked in an out-of-the-way spot. Several men detached themselves from the main group and walked over. “Are you Captain Stromme?” one asked. I had spoken to someone a few days before when I called to get directions. “Yes sir, I am,” I answered.
“We saw you drive by last night. Why didn’t you come in? We thought you would spend the night.” Spend the night? That wasn’t one of the scenarios I had imagined.
“Well, come on in. We're just starting breakfast. The newspaper editor will be a little bit late and we don't want to start before he gets here.” Breakfast? Newspaper editor? Turned out, he was a long-time family friend. People don't really come and go in small Kansas farming communities; they come and stay. The families had been close for generations. It wouldn't do for the paper not to cover this ceremony.
People came over to meet me and shake my hand. Some asked about my patches and medals and wings, congratulating me for things they imagined I had done and making small talk, getting to know me. No, this wasn't what I had anticipated at all.
The young soldier had been named Donald. I met his grieving parents right away. His mother shyly welcomed me, then went back to work in the kitchen with the other ladies. The father's welcome was much warmer. What I didn't understand at the time was that the fuss everyone was making over me wasn't about me at all. No, it was because I was a stand-in for their Donald. I was living the welcome home that he would never have. It haunts me.
I sat with the father and some others at a table apparently reserved for the men-folk; a long, worn, heavy plank-topped table that could easily have been 100 years old. The women had their own tables but I caught several of them peeking over at me. They were normal in this world. I was the misplaced oddity.
The coffee and breakfast were hot and good and I began to learn a few names. The father said “So you were in the Infantry too, like Donald?” “Sir,” I replied, “ I was in the Infantry but I flew Huey helicopters. I didn't do any ground combat duty at all.” And with apologies to my Infantry brothers, I still thank God for that. Most aviators do.
“Do you mind if we ask you some questions?” Questions? They were going to ask me questions? “Well, sir” I said between bites, “I'll do my best.”
They asked me some ordinary questions; where was I from, what did I do at Ft. Riley, what was Vietnam like? What was Vietnam like? I still don't know, even though I had been there for 366 days minus an R&R in Hawaii. I had flown its skies at very low levels, walked in a couple of its cities, spoken to a few of its people, even relaxed on a beach once. But that wasn't what they wanted to know. What they really wanted to know was “What is war like?” and they wanted to know “Why did Donald have to die?”
Then his father asked me “What do you know about claymore mines?” What an odd question, I thought. I happened to know something about claymores but it isn't a subject to be discussed lightly at breakfast. They are God-awful weapons, curved plastic packages of death on little steel legs. They explode violently when triggered, spraying 700 deadly steel balls in a broad arc. They have “FRONT TOWARD ENEMY” in raised letters on the front to remind GIs which way to point them when they're setting them out. I had been trained with them but I had never deployed one for real. It's not something that aviators often do.
I told them a little bit about claymores, trying my best to stay at least a little bit positive and upbeat. I didn't see it coming. “Donald was killed by an American claymore mine.” Those words brought the breakfast conversation to a screeching halt. The room was silent, everyone looking at me and expecting... something. I was appalled, unable to say anything meaningful. What can you say? Not for the first time I lamely expressed my condolences.
His father said “His coffin got here yesterday.” I had already seen it, on its bier in the front room. “It was sealed, you know, but we got it open.” I thought, you opened your son's sealed coffin? They are sealed for very good reasons. “Yep. It took us a while but we finally got 'er open.” Oh ... my ... God. “He looked pretty good, too, what we could see of him. It was only the top part.” Donald had been cut in two by the claymore. The people who prepare KIA bodies had apparently done a good job with his remains. That's how breakfast ended.
There was a recent episode of the TV program Friday Night Lights, one of my favorite shows. A character's father had been killed by a mine in Iraq. The night before the funeral he and his friends had the home town funeral director open his sealed casket. It didn't do my real-life experience justice, not quite, but it was close. Opening sealed caskets is a very bad idea.
The father smiled. “Hey, how 'bout I show you his room?” All I could think of was please God, let this be over.
They had a huge basement. This was tornado country and most people had them. This one was finished in grand farm style. We entered Donald's basement bedroom. It was the room I would have slept in had I spent the previous night.
Donald had only been gone for six or seven months. His room was fresh, clean, the bed made for him, or maybe for me. I imagined I could still smell a boy's scent. He had earned a full ride agriculture scholarship to Kansas State University, the leading aggie school in the region. K-State is located in Manhattan, Kansas, not far from where I lived. Shortly before admission day he had decided to enlist in the Army. You know, before it was too late to see any action. It was a fatal decision. He died shortly after his arrival in Vietnam.
They showed me his yearbooks, his sports pictures, prom pictures of Donald and his girlfriend. She was soon to arrive but wasn't there yet. They brought down his Future Farmers of America awards, his 4H projects and certificates, his award buckles, his letter sweater. All for me to see, to bear witness that Donald had lived, that Donald was a person worth remembering. What I saw was a freckle-faced boy, a parent's dream, and I thought of a father's cruel last view of his son.
The minister arrived. The editor was late and we waited for him as though we were waiting for royalty. When he finally arrived he took me aside, asking excitedly “Did they tell you we opened the casket?” Yes sir, they did. “God, it was awful.” Yes, sir. That's why they seal them.
This wasn't the funeral. That would come later in the day in the family church, with sermon and music, then the burial. I would not attend. This was the farewell, though. This was coming over to visit Donald like they always had, to say good-bye in much the same way they had said good-bye to him a few months earlier when he went to war. Some friends and family spoke, then it was my turn.
The Army does little enough for its men and women but one thing it does well is train them for their jobs, for their duties as soldiers. I was, am, a product of that training. It and luck had kept me alive when nothing else could have. Unfortunately, no one had taken the time to train me to be a presentation officer. Where was the Army Training Manual for this situation and what did it say? When the father introduced me I panicked. I was at a complete loss for words. This was the major's revenge and I knew it, perfect in its purity and total in its humbling effect.
I had only a few things to work with. The few minor medals themselves, the dry orders that accompanied them and whatever I could think of to say on the spot. I had thought of some words while driving down the day before. I even rehearsed them a couple of times in my motel room. I don't know if they were appropriate or not because I couldn't remember any of them.
I began, speaking directly to Donald's father but loud enough for the room: “The Army profoundly regrets the loss of your son.” Where did that come from? What did it mean and why did I say it? I spoke of the American commitment in Vietnam, the one in whose name their son and friend had died, a commitment I knew little about. I read the medal commendations, then shared what I knew about each of them. I was wearing nearly all of Donald's medals and more myself and I spoke of the comradeship in arms signified by those medals, pointing out his medals and my own in turn.
Finally I ran out of things to say. Almost. My ad hoc performance needed an ending but what can you say in those circumstances, to those people gathered there? I handed Donald's father the small group of medals with their accompanying orders. The words I chose were “Sir, on behalf of your son's comrades in the United States Army, I salute you.” Then I raised my hand and saluted, a smart Infantry officer salute or so I imagined, one that would impress the women and children. Since I had made all this up, the father had no idea what, if anything, he was supposed to do. A silent awkward moment passed, then he slowly raised his hand, callused and scarred from a lifetime of farming, and returned my salute as though we had practiced yesterday.
The minister spoke again, then we prayed for Donald, for all soldiers, for America, for ourselves. I made my excuses and left, not looking forward to the long drive home. The day had drained me, saddened me, used me up. I wanted a drink, but that was no surprise. Alcoholics usually do. I wanted to make love to my wife. Not out of lust or love; I owned some of both, certainly, but neither was in play now. No, I wanted her because I wanted to feel that I was human and alive, cleansed and renewed by the act and not in pieces in a stainless steel box forever in the ground. I didn't know how else to find that comfort. Mostly, I wanted to be held and loved, to be told that everything was going to be all right, that I would be OK. The Army doesn't tell you how to ask for that, either.
That 1972 day is long gone. Back then I thought I could see my entire life stretching out predictably before me. A career of some sort (the FBI, I thought), a home with 2.5 children, grand-kids eventually, strength and joy mixed with occasional sadness, and at the end the personal satisfaction of a life well lived. Nothing lay ahead for Donald. Everything lay ahead for me.
But life isn't like that. There's a lot more pain than you expect, and a lot more sadness. When we experience joy we think it will last, that it is the way of things, that the party will go on. Then the party ends, as parties must. Happiness is an emotion and like all emotions, it will change. Sadness lasts far too long, perversely poisoning our futures and darkening our dreams. Why should that be? Why should sadness push aside all the other emotions, the ones that we so dearly want to hold on to?
The people gathered that day still remember Donald; at least in my imagination they do. I remember him too, but in a different way. I remember Donald as my Ghost of Christmas Future and I wonder if I deserved to know him, to learn his lessons.
The ghost shows Dickens' Ebenezer Scrooge his grave and gravestone. Scrooge begs of the ghost “Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!”
Scrooge finally gets it. Do I? Do you? He continues “I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope!... I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future. The spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone.”
We, you and I, may still sponge away the writing on our stones. We cannot change our Christmases past, much as we might want to. I cannot make adequate amends for the wreckage and pain I have caused, for my mistakes, for the sorrow and destruction and deaths of which I have been a part. But we can change our futures. We can have another chance. We can be redeemed.
I don't quote the Bible much because I don't know enough of it, but I'm a believer. I won't nag you with scripture; some would be offended, others would ignore my story. Instead, if you want to witness redemption first hand, go to any meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. Redemption happens there, to people remarkably similar to me. Redemption happens at orphanages too. It happens in prisons and hospitals and hospices and in places where hope has been lost.
Donald won't be back but he's still with me.
“I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope!”
No tears for the writer, no tears for the reader. Enjoy.
by
Charles M. Stromme
I was back from a year of flying helicopters in Vietnam. The Army gave me a make-work communications officer's job at Ft. Riley, Kansas, a base over-crowded with dejected Vietnam returnees. I hated it there, where they said “Custer told us not to change a thing until he gets back.” I was angry and disillusioned and clueless. A major called out to me in a hallway. “Captain, you’re going to be the notification officer next month.”
“Sir, does that mean what I think it means?” I asked. He was an old major, a mustang combat vet in his last duty station. He wasn’t a bad guy and we had been working in the same battalion for several months without incident. Of course, he hated me on general principles for being an aviator. I hated him for not being one.
“You’ll be on call for a month. When a new killed-in-action report comes in you’ll visit the family with the chaplain and you’ll give the official first notice.”
“No sir, I won’t do that.” Was that really my voice?
He looked surprised. Likely no young captain had ever told him that he wouldn’t obey an order. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Do you understand that this is not a discussion, it’s an order?”
“Yes sir” I replied. “I understand. I won’t do that job.”
“I can take this to the battalion CO if you want.” That was a profoundly underwhelming threat. I didn’t care, period, and I wasn’t going to do that job. He brought out the heavy artillery. “I can court-martial you for this.”
“Yes sir, I know. You’ll do what you have to do but that won’t change my decision. I will not, under any circumstances, be the notification officer.”
The real reason was that I couldn’t bear the thought of inflicting that kind of pain on the good family of a good soldier. I was raw from the war. I didn’t want to live the back end of events that I had witnessed in Vietnam. My emotions scared me and brought back ugly memories.
I had unintentionally created a real problem for the major. He could, indeed, take this to the CO. He could certainly bring court-martial charges against me, charges against which there could be no defense. If he did, though, it would also bring to light his inability to control an officer under his command. Me.
“We’ll talk about this later”, he said. In the Army that translates to “I’m going to give you some time to consider the error of your ways before I decide on your punishment.”
We did talk again a few days later but there was nothing for me to reconsider. My mind was made up; I wouldn’t carry out his order. I understood that I would be punished and I would accept whatever punishment he and the CO deemed appropriate. It would surely be a court-martial. That kind of insubordination must have serious consequences.
He surprised me by asking “Can we reach a compromise?” Compromise is not the Army way. “What kind of compromise?” I asked.
“We need a presentation officer for the rest of the month and there are no presentations scheduled. If you’ll take the job we’ll forget about your other problem.”
A presentation officer visits the family of a killed-in-action soldier. He delivers whatever medals and awards the soldier had earned and expresses, once again, the regrets and condolences of the Army. It’s not as bad as being a notification officer, not quite.
There were only a few days left in the month and the major, after all, had said there was nothing scheduled. It looked like I might skate on this yet. It didn’t take me long. “OK, sir, you’ve got a deal.”
I had forgotten that the Army is a scorpion with a vicious sting. The next day an order came down. I was to make a presentation in three days to a family in southwest Kansas. My first urge was to refuse that order too, but I had made a deal. I was honor-bound to carry out my part of it regardless of the behavior of the other side. Honor has its own sting.
The newly-grieving family deserved more than the Army offered in the way of condolences and they deserved someone better than me, someone who knew what to do. I was terrified but I didn't yet know how bad it was going to be.
The next day I picked up the meager package of medals and awards that the KIA soldier had coming and the orders and citations that go with them. I would travel to wherever the family asked me to be, in this case to their home town in southwest Kansas in time for the funeral. I would make an awards presentation for the first time. It’s easier to describe than to do.
In the Kevin Bacon movie Taking Chance Marine Lieutenant Colonel Strobl behaved honorably and honestly at this very difficult time. He had to deal with profound feelings of unworthiness and inadequacy in his role as both body escort officer and presentation officer. It’s a powerful movie and they really nailed it. Maybe that’s how I felt. It is certainly how I wanted to behave, but LTC Strobl was a better man than I.
The thing that struck me most in the movie was how structured and ritualized the entire process was in the Marines in 2004. It was just the opposite in the Army in 1972. The biggest problem was that you were supposed to say and do something but no one told you what to say or do. You had some medals, some dry military orders and a grieving family. You’re supposed to honor and comfort them, even if you’re only a dumb-kid captain like I was, with no experience in this sort of thing and no idea how to do what so obviously needs to be done.
It took most of a day to drive to the small farming town. Before I checked in to the little motel I drove out to find the family home where I was supposed to be in the morning. It was way, way out of town, a very large farm on flat wheat land that stretched forever. I went back to town, put on some civvies, ate and turned in for the night.
I set an 0400 wake-up time, not unusual for me in those days. I had worn my Army greens on the way down, with ribbon bars, wings and patches – the Big Red One on my left shoulder, the First Cav on my right. For the presentation I would wear my dress blues, complete with full medal display. Even on a modestly decorated soldier like me, that uniform looked impressive. How I loved those silver wings that symbolized the one great achievement of my life. I had paid dearly for them. Shower and shave, instant motel coffee, re-spit shine my best low quarters (shoes, to the rest of the world) to a mirror finish and I was ready, or so I thought.
I drove out to the farm again. It was just past dawn but already a crowd of family, neighbors and friends was gathering. I parked in an out-of-the-way spot. Several men detached themselves from the main group and walked over. “Are you Captain Stromme?” one asked. I had spoken to someone a few days before when I called to get directions. “Yes sir, I am,” I answered.
“We saw you drive by last night. Why didn’t you come in? We thought you would spend the night.” Spend the night? That wasn’t one of the scenarios I had imagined.
“Well, come on in. We're just starting breakfast. The newspaper editor will be a little bit late and we don't want to start before he gets here.” Breakfast? Newspaper editor? Turned out, he was a long-time family friend. People don't really come and go in small Kansas farming communities; they come and stay. The families had been close for generations. It wouldn't do for the paper not to cover this ceremony.
People came over to meet me and shake my hand. Some asked about my patches and medals and wings, congratulating me for things they imagined I had done and making small talk, getting to know me. No, this wasn't what I had anticipated at all.
The young soldier had been named Donald. I met his grieving parents right away. His mother shyly welcomed me, then went back to work in the kitchen with the other ladies. The father's welcome was much warmer. What I didn't understand at the time was that the fuss everyone was making over me wasn't about me at all. No, it was because I was a stand-in for their Donald. I was living the welcome home that he would never have. It haunts me.
I sat with the father and some others at a table apparently reserved for the men-folk; a long, worn, heavy plank-topped table that could easily have been 100 years old. The women had their own tables but I caught several of them peeking over at me. They were normal in this world. I was the misplaced oddity.
The coffee and breakfast were hot and good and I began to learn a few names. The father said “So you were in the Infantry too, like Donald?” “Sir,” I replied, “ I was in the Infantry but I flew Huey helicopters. I didn't do any ground combat duty at all.” And with apologies to my Infantry brothers, I still thank God for that. Most aviators do.
“Do you mind if we ask you some questions?” Questions? They were going to ask me questions? “Well, sir” I said between bites, “I'll do my best.”
They asked me some ordinary questions; where was I from, what did I do at Ft. Riley, what was Vietnam like? What was Vietnam like? I still don't know, even though I had been there for 366 days minus an R&R in Hawaii. I had flown its skies at very low levels, walked in a couple of its cities, spoken to a few of its people, even relaxed on a beach once. But that wasn't what they wanted to know. What they really wanted to know was “What is war like?” and they wanted to know “Why did Donald have to die?”
Then his father asked me “What do you know about claymore mines?” What an odd question, I thought. I happened to know something about claymores but it isn't a subject to be discussed lightly at breakfast. They are God-awful weapons, curved plastic packages of death on little steel legs. They explode violently when triggered, spraying 700 deadly steel balls in a broad arc. They have “FRONT TOWARD ENEMY” in raised letters on the front to remind GIs which way to point them when they're setting them out. I had been trained with them but I had never deployed one for real. It's not something that aviators often do.
I told them a little bit about claymores, trying my best to stay at least a little bit positive and upbeat. I didn't see it coming. “Donald was killed by an American claymore mine.” Those words brought the breakfast conversation to a screeching halt. The room was silent, everyone looking at me and expecting... something. I was appalled, unable to say anything meaningful. What can you say? Not for the first time I lamely expressed my condolences.
His father said “His coffin got here yesterday.” I had already seen it, on its bier in the front room. “It was sealed, you know, but we got it open.” I thought, you opened your son's sealed coffin? They are sealed for very good reasons. “Yep. It took us a while but we finally got 'er open.” Oh ... my ... God. “He looked pretty good, too, what we could see of him. It was only the top part.” Donald had been cut in two by the claymore. The people who prepare KIA bodies had apparently done a good job with his remains. That's how breakfast ended.
There was a recent episode of the TV program Friday Night Lights, one of my favorite shows. A character's father had been killed by a mine in Iraq. The night before the funeral he and his friends had the home town funeral director open his sealed casket. It didn't do my real-life experience justice, not quite, but it was close. Opening sealed caskets is a very bad idea.
The father smiled. “Hey, how 'bout I show you his room?” All I could think of was please God, let this be over.
They had a huge basement. This was tornado country and most people had them. This one was finished in grand farm style. We entered Donald's basement bedroom. It was the room I would have slept in had I spent the previous night.
Donald had only been gone for six or seven months. His room was fresh, clean, the bed made for him, or maybe for me. I imagined I could still smell a boy's scent. He had earned a full ride agriculture scholarship to Kansas State University, the leading aggie school in the region. K-State is located in Manhattan, Kansas, not far from where I lived. Shortly before admission day he had decided to enlist in the Army. You know, before it was too late to see any action. It was a fatal decision. He died shortly after his arrival in Vietnam.
They showed me his yearbooks, his sports pictures, prom pictures of Donald and his girlfriend. She was soon to arrive but wasn't there yet. They brought down his Future Farmers of America awards, his 4H projects and certificates, his award buckles, his letter sweater. All for me to see, to bear witness that Donald had lived, that Donald was a person worth remembering. What I saw was a freckle-faced boy, a parent's dream, and I thought of a father's cruel last view of his son.
The minister arrived. The editor was late and we waited for him as though we were waiting for royalty. When he finally arrived he took me aside, asking excitedly “Did they tell you we opened the casket?” Yes sir, they did. “God, it was awful.” Yes, sir. That's why they seal them.
This wasn't the funeral. That would come later in the day in the family church, with sermon and music, then the burial. I would not attend. This was the farewell, though. This was coming over to visit Donald like they always had, to say good-bye in much the same way they had said good-bye to him a few months earlier when he went to war. Some friends and family spoke, then it was my turn.
The Army does little enough for its men and women but one thing it does well is train them for their jobs, for their duties as soldiers. I was, am, a product of that training. It and luck had kept me alive when nothing else could have. Unfortunately, no one had taken the time to train me to be a presentation officer. Where was the Army Training Manual for this situation and what did it say? When the father introduced me I panicked. I was at a complete loss for words. This was the major's revenge and I knew it, perfect in its purity and total in its humbling effect.
I had only a few things to work with. The few minor medals themselves, the dry orders that accompanied them and whatever I could think of to say on the spot. I had thought of some words while driving down the day before. I even rehearsed them a couple of times in my motel room. I don't know if they were appropriate or not because I couldn't remember any of them.
I began, speaking directly to Donald's father but loud enough for the room: “The Army profoundly regrets the loss of your son.” Where did that come from? What did it mean and why did I say it? I spoke of the American commitment in Vietnam, the one in whose name their son and friend had died, a commitment I knew little about. I read the medal commendations, then shared what I knew about each of them. I was wearing nearly all of Donald's medals and more myself and I spoke of the comradeship in arms signified by those medals, pointing out his medals and my own in turn.
Finally I ran out of things to say. Almost. My ad hoc performance needed an ending but what can you say in those circumstances, to those people gathered there? I handed Donald's father the small group of medals with their accompanying orders. The words I chose were “Sir, on behalf of your son's comrades in the United States Army, I salute you.” Then I raised my hand and saluted, a smart Infantry officer salute or so I imagined, one that would impress the women and children. Since I had made all this up, the father had no idea what, if anything, he was supposed to do. A silent awkward moment passed, then he slowly raised his hand, callused and scarred from a lifetime of farming, and returned my salute as though we had practiced yesterday.
The minister spoke again, then we prayed for Donald, for all soldiers, for America, for ourselves. I made my excuses and left, not looking forward to the long drive home. The day had drained me, saddened me, used me up. I wanted a drink, but that was no surprise. Alcoholics usually do. I wanted to make love to my wife. Not out of lust or love; I owned some of both, certainly, but neither was in play now. No, I wanted her because I wanted to feel that I was human and alive, cleansed and renewed by the act and not in pieces in a stainless steel box forever in the ground. I didn't know how else to find that comfort. Mostly, I wanted to be held and loved, to be told that everything was going to be all right, that I would be OK. The Army doesn't tell you how to ask for that, either.
That 1972 day is long gone. Back then I thought I could see my entire life stretching out predictably before me. A career of some sort (the FBI, I thought), a home with 2.5 children, grand-kids eventually, strength and joy mixed with occasional sadness, and at the end the personal satisfaction of a life well lived. Nothing lay ahead for Donald. Everything lay ahead for me.
But life isn't like that. There's a lot more pain than you expect, and a lot more sadness. When we experience joy we think it will last, that it is the way of things, that the party will go on. Then the party ends, as parties must. Happiness is an emotion and like all emotions, it will change. Sadness lasts far too long, perversely poisoning our futures and darkening our dreams. Why should that be? Why should sadness push aside all the other emotions, the ones that we so dearly want to hold on to?
The people gathered that day still remember Donald; at least in my imagination they do. I remember him too, but in a different way. I remember Donald as my Ghost of Christmas Future and I wonder if I deserved to know him, to learn his lessons.
The ghost shows Dickens' Ebenezer Scrooge his grave and gravestone. Scrooge begs of the ghost “Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!”
Scrooge finally gets it. Do I? Do you? He continues “I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope!... I will honor Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year. I will live in the Past, the Present and the Future. The spirits of all Three shall strive within me. I will not shut out the lessons that they teach. Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone.”
We, you and I, may still sponge away the writing on our stones. We cannot change our Christmases past, much as we might want to. I cannot make adequate amends for the wreckage and pain I have caused, for my mistakes, for the sorrow and destruction and deaths of which I have been a part. But we can change our futures. We can have another chance. We can be redeemed.
I don't quote the Bible much because I don't know enough of it, but I'm a believer. I won't nag you with scripture; some would be offended, others would ignore my story. Instead, if you want to witness redemption first hand, go to any meeting of Alcoholics Anonymous. Redemption happens there, to people remarkably similar to me. Redemption happens at orphanages too. It happens in prisons and hospitals and hospices and in places where hope has been lost.
Donald won't be back but he's still with me.
“I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope!”
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Replies to This Discussion
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Permalink Reply by Diana Morkassel on
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Wow, thanks for telling your story. I believe God gives us the words we need if we just ask him. You spoke from your heart and did what was right.
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Permalink Reply by Chuck Stromme on
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Thank you, Diana. This was a hard story to write and a hard story to live.
We're breathlessly awaiting your first submission here. Are you a published author?
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I did write this morning, a story entitled, Why Did You Run? I can't find it now. I thought you have to approve it, and then I could find it. I even went back and proof read, correcting some punctuation errors and then saved it. Is there a place for drafts, by any chance? No, I've never had anything published except when I was writing newspaper articles as a Master Gardener, for our local paper.
Chuck Stromme said:Thank you, Diana. This was a hard story to write and a hard story to live.
We're breathlessly awaiting your first submission here. Are you a published author?
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I’ve never thought about drafts but why not? Just post it to any section you want and tell us up front that it’s a draft.
I, too, have written several newspaper articles, about tax and the Alaskan fishing industry while I was living and working in Alaska. If I look hard enough I could probably find one around here somewhere.
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