I doubt the school kids thought about Veterans Day yesterday, except that it was a day for video games in the middle of the week.
I do think about it. The United States is in a sort of war with Iran right now. Men and women are working 24 hours a day on the aircraft carriers to keep the fighter jets flying to shoot down the enemy’s missiles and drones aimed at the ships in the Strait of Hormuz.
In my other country, Israel, war is a constant. The Iran-backed Hamas, Hezbollah and the Houthis are sworn to destroy Israel and kill Jews. Almost every Israeli serves the country. Service in one form, usually military, is mandatory.
My war was Vietnam. More than 58,000 of my contemporaries died, including a high school friend I played basketball with. He volunteered after graduating and was one of the first pilots shot down over Laos. When I was in Washington, I found his name on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall.
I was in college during the early part of Vietnam, guarding my precious deferment from combat. Deep in my gut I figured I would be drafted, sent to Nam, and killed. I could not have a strong relationship with a woman because of my preoccupation with the war.
I went to law school and then grad school in Journalism, mainly to keep deferring my deferment, but finally my Dad used some political pull to get me into the Illinois National Guard.
That meant Basic Training with the guys destined for combat, and then specialty training. There was still a real chance that I could be called up for combat, but the likelihood was not that great for somebody going back to a Chicago unit, because America was in turmoil with demonstrations and assassinations.
Basic Training was an eye opener for me. My training unit of 300 guys was a mixture of America. White middle class college guys like me, hoodlums, Latinos, African-Americans, lots of Southerners.
It was an America that I had not seen a lot of. Many of the men were young and pretty naive about what they would face. I thought I was worldly, but I knew nothing, except that my friend had died over Laos several years earlier and now things were really hairy because of the Tet Offensive launched by the Viet Cong. Soldiers were coming back in coffins by the hundreds every week. It seemed like we were losing and the politicians and the generals were confused.
Physically, Basic Training was not that difficult. I was in good condition, but lots of guys got sick. The kid in the bunk above me got really ill and went to the infirmary. A few days later, I heard he had died.
That shook me up, because I had an awful sore throat. Fortunately, it was the end of the fourth week and we could leave the base for weekend leave. I was at Fort Jackson in Columbia, South Carolina, which was also where the University of South Carolina was located. I immediately went to the University’s hospital emergency room where they directed me to a friendly young doctor. He looked at my throat, gave me some antibiotics, and told me I had a nasty looking throat, but it was not going to kill me.
I left tremendously relieved, watched some basketball on TV in the college Union, and by the end of the weekend, I was ready for more training.
Other than learning how to shoot an old M-1 rifle from World War II and crawling under barbed wire with bullets flying overhead, I don’t think the training would have helped a kid heading to the jungle to fight seasoned guerrilla soldiers who knew what they were fighting for.
What I remember most about the eight weeks of Basic was how my buddies were plotting to avoid being sent to the War. A few were discussing fleeing to Canada, others were faking injury to delay graduating Basic Training. I felt bad for them, but my goal was to make it through Basic and survive my specialty training, which was “Communications,” which I thought would be using my writing skills. It wasn’t. I had to learn how to climb telephone poles and connect wires at the top.
I made it through. My six years of Reserve duty in the Guard was shortened by a year because my unit was called up after the assassination of Martin Luther King, even though I was still down in Columbia.
I have often wondered how the guys in my bunk fared. If any made it to Canada. How many died in the jungle or were left with injuries or PTSD?
I salute the American warriors of all our wars past and present, as well as the soldiers of Ukraine who show astonishing bravery. And I’m in awe of the courage and intelligence of Israel’s men and women.
It’s Veterans Day! May we live through our own wars, and those of our country.
Question: Which war has been most personal to you?
