I entered the Marine Corps in 1966. You can count me among those who volunteered, as did four of my college football and wrestling team buddies. Of the four; one, like me, came home with multiple Purple Hearts, but under his own power. One came back sans both legs. The third came home in a box. The fourth came home early. In December of 1967, he was shot through-and-through the jaw by an Ak-47 bullet that shatteres it on both sides. He survived but it took over 5 years of reconstructive surgery before he could work it properly. When we would go out drinking (and we did often back then), he would have to drink his beers through a straw. Somehow, that doesn't sound like the aftermath of a regular old job, does it?
As an aside, Larry went into working the high iron after he was discharged. He was tragically killed in 1992 when the ironwork on the new Chicago Post office collapsed, dropping him 5 floors, then buying him under a couple tons of steel girders that went down with him.
When I came home from Nam in Jun 1968, I was met at O'Hare Airport by my mother, father, girlfriend (now my wife), uncle (a WW-II 101st vet), and several aunts. I was in uniform and I was damn proud of it, too. A group of protestors standing in the concourse, began screaming obscenities at me untile the bravest of the bunch ran up to me and threw a bag of dog shit at me as we werer all walking from the gate to the main terminal. In the end it did not go well for the thrower as my instincts took over; afterward, I felt sorry that my mother and aunts had to witness me bloodying the hair-head.
It's not a particularly unusual story and many Vietman vets could tell a similar one. Neither I nor any other vet is looking for anyone to kneel before us and kiss my feet for serving in the military or going to Nam (nor do I expect them to do so for my Ops URGENT FURY, DESERT STORM, VIGILANT WARRIOR, Somalia or Iraq combat service. However, I think you do owe the respect of doing something (whether drafted or enlisting) that many others dodged, shirked, or just plain ran away from. In the end, however, I suppose those who didn't serve have no frame of reference so it is impossible for me to convey those feelings to you.
In the 8 years (71-79) that I spent "serving and protecting" the daily freedom (actually daily safety would be a better term, don't you think) of largely ungrateful and uncaring citizens of the Windy City, I spent my share of time on the firing range as well. What do I win?
-- -- -- -- -- "We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm." George Orwell
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