Anniversaries
Many were not cause for celebration, but now, life is good
2017 is a special year. I have marked or will mark the anniversaries of several major life events measured in spans of years ending in zero — 70, 50, 20 and 10.
Seventy years ago, on Aug. 12, 1947, my father died. He was 31. I turned 3 eight days later. He left behind mother and three children — the youngest had just turned 1. My father’s death was attributed to “injection site cancer” from treatments he received for pneumonia while in the Army during World War II. His leg was amputated at Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, but it was too late, and he was given one year to live. According to my late mother, he died a year to the day after that prognosis. I have a news clipping with a photo showing my father, another amputee and Rep. Clare Boothe Luce when theywere lobbying Congress to pass the Rogers Bill, which would provide modified cars for veteran amputees.Old photographs show a handsome man, but I have no personal memory of him.
Fifty years ago — 1967 — was a trifecta. I was drafted, my wife divorced me, and I was shipped to Vietnam. I was sworn into the Army on June 12, did basic training at Fort Bragg, combat engineer school at Ft. Leonard Wood and was sent home on leave with orders for Vietnam. When I arrived home in Richmond, I went to see my wife in the university theater where she was building scenery with many other students. When I walked in in my uniform, all conversation stopped and the theater became uncommonly quiet. We sat in the middle of the auditorium where she told me she wanted a divorce while her classmates snuck glances. I was the only one in the theater who was surprised.It was humiliating.
I arrived in Vietnam on Nov. 10, 1967, and was assigned to the 3rd Brigade task force of 4th Infantry Division. I quickly became the demolition specialist for my squad, which earned me $55 per month extra hazardousduty pay, and six months after arriving in-country was promoted to sergeant and squad leader. I spent the last two and half months of my tour in Pleiku teaching replacement troops about VC boobytraps and LRRPs about demolition, but I spent most of the other nine months in the boonies, where I cleared landmines and blew up buildings, bunkers and a lot of trees — on occasion to clear a landing zone for a medevac to evacuate-wounded from the jungle.
I always wanted to blow up a bridge. I never had the chance, but I still have the know-how. Being a combat engineer is a lousy job — you often are very exposed. We were in the first wave of every helicopter combat assault we made in the central highlands so we could enlarge a landing zone while the infantry set up a perimeter. When we swept roads for landmines, which was often, we were always on point, for the obvious reason.
I have two physical scars from Vietnam. The first is a long faint hairline scar on my forearm, which I received from a sharp piece of bamboo I had cut with a machete while clearing a landing zone during combat. The second is a long vertical scar on my abdomen. Actually, I received the abdominal 20 years ago on Sept. 10, 1997, whena surgeon removed my prostate and saved my life.
Prostate cancer is one of 10 conditions the Veterans Administration attributes to exposure to the herbicide Agent Orange, and all Vietnam vets are assumed to have been exposed. Prostate cancer in Vietnam vets also tends to be aggressive. On my 53rd birthday, Aug. 20, 1997, a biopsy of my prostate revealed cancer in all needles. The cancer was stage 3B. All Vietnam vets should be tested for prostate cancer; it is a very unpleasant death. My urologist smiles and tells me I’ll still die, but it will be from something else.
In December 1997, a few months after my cancer surgery, I lost my job with Westinghouse. I had a daughter at Penn State and a son in high school who had been accepted at an art school in Columbus, Ohio. Finding a job at 53 isn’t easy, and I was frightened. Fortunately, I had made a friend at U.S. Steel whom I had met with to discuss the Westinghouse Annual Report, which I produced. After our first meeting, we had lunch every few months to chat, and he knew my predicament. He called one day when I was out to offer me a job and spoke with my wife, who said, “He’ll take it,” and I did. Four months after Westinghouse let me go, I had a good job in public affairs at U.S. Steel. Not everyone is so lucky.
Ten years ago, on Dec. 9, 2007, our only grandchild, Madison, was born. All the grandparents were home watching the Steelers game when the news arrived from MercyHospital; our kids had kept the labor and delivery a secret until after Madi was born.
The Steelers lost that day, but for us it was a big win. I’ve loved watching Madi grow into a confident, intelligent, sophisticated (almost) 10-year old with a great sense of humor. She is part of trio of fantastic women, along with my wife, Judy, and my daughter, Rebecca, who have made this past decade oneof the best of my life.