Christopher graduating from Kindergarten. Class of 2028.
May 26, 2016
My dad served in Vietnam. He didn't volunteer to go. He was drafted when he was just a kid. Can you imagine what it must have felt like to be an 18 + year old kid and hearing the rumblings from the news of a war brewing and being told that you may be forced to go?
How scared must my dad have been? After all these years, can you believe I never even asked him if he was? That's pretty damn selfish of me. When you're sent to war against our will, given a gun, and told to kill, what does that do to a man? All those kids who were sent off to war and land they more than likely never heard of to fight a person they never would have met in their lifetime must have been a nightmare. Being a father now, I would be petrified for my children to be carted off overseas into battle without them actually volunteering to go.
When I was 18, I was told I had to register for the Selective Service. I didn't quite grasp what that meant. It was a registration card that all men filled out and mailed to the federal government on their eighteenth birthday. That postcard was your ticket to be drafted. If the need to fight for our country was greater, you're your need to live a happily ever after life.
When America was involved in World War II, men and women from all over the country stepped up and volunteered to fight overseas or take up jobs in America to support the war. It was in our, and the world's, best interest to get involved. America was dragged in after the attack on Pearl Harbor.
My dad won the lottery he didn't want. His social security number was selected from a lottery system the government came up with to choose the ones going to battle. He left his 18-year-old wife and one-year-old son behind and was shipped off by the Army, where he was sent to Missouri to complete basic training before heading to war. Damn, that must have been a whirlwind for him.
Intense government indoctrination began to make my dad into a warrior who would gladly sacrifice his life for the greater good of God and the country. A warrior? My father was a skinny, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, 6-foot kid. He was entrusted to carry the basic M-162A rifle, or just called the M16, into battle. Up to that point, the only thing my dad had in his hands was a paintbrush that he used to paint houses. Before that, he used his hands to push a broom and bag groceries at a local market.
When my dad was done and ready to go to war. He may have fit the Army's mold of a warrior, but underneath, he was still a dumb kid who, at 21, had no idea how the world worked. Most people travel on their own to self-discovery and culture shock. My dad was carted off like a herd of cattle where the only self-discovery he was going to search for within himself was did he have what it takes to survive.
Imagine:
In the driving rain, a war rages on despite sheltering yourself from the wicked weather. Gunfire and explosions overtake Mother Nature's lightning and thunder. Despite being afraid, you begin moving with the pack of men because the fear of being alone outweighs the fear of death. You start searching for an enemy behind the lines of a gigantic green jungle. The tree-top brush was so thick that not even the sun's rays could penetrate the green canvas that overlaid the land, so it could not light up the open areas beneath the leaves and branches. You step inside the blankets of shrubs and brush only to encounter a person who wants to kill you. Gunfire erupts, and like a fast-pitch baseball, the bullets wiz by your ears. You hunker down because you are scared shitless. Unable to determine where your enemy is, you just shoot down range, hoping your bullets strike whatever is in front of you before they kill you with their bullets. After an intense battle, there is an aftermath of smoke and haze. The scream of the wounded is now replacing the sounds of gunfire. There is only death and destruction instead of rain and wind. Somehow you survived, but many of the people with you did not. Now, the time comes to treat the wounded and bag the dead. Clean the battlefield, regroup, and head out again. Are you the next to die?
In America, we celebrate Memorial Day. America honors our soldiers who died fighting wars. It is a day that I salute the men and women in uniform who have volunteered to enlist in the armed forces to represent their country, America. I thank you all for the sacrifice. I thank my dad, who is still alive. Today, I honor Memorial Day.
832 words
Captain Imperfecto at work.
© Copyright 2012- 2024 Captain Imperfecto, LLC. All rights reserved. This material may not be republished, rewritten or redistributed without permission. Please contact if you would like to re-publish in film, television or print.
No comments:
Post a Comment