Hand Salute!

[Mark Crnolatas]

He had just come home, having completed a tour of duty in some location that did not exist, as far as the public was concerned. Vietnam was in the newspapers, on television, the people protesting the war in 'Nam, the political situation was thick with tension.
Having been a graduate of Lakewood High School, he knew he was about to be drafted, so he enlisted in the United States Air Force. He went though basic training at Lackland AFB, to technical school, also at Lackland AFB, then home for a 30 day leave. His orders were, at the end of that 30 day leave, to report to an allied country for further training, and then more training after that.
The training continued. The first orders were stamped with a classification, and he was ordered to a remote location. He carried out his duties to the best of his ability, not only because he was ordered to, but because it would be life-saving. Then, fellow "operators" were assigned elsewhere. He lost touch with everyone he grew to know, as brothers in arms know a "love" for each other that earthly words seem meaningless to utter.
The assignments were carried out without fanfare, quietly. Thoughts were constant, of home, family, friends, moral issues, and he prayed. On this particular occasion, movement was seen far off, where there shouldn't have been movement. Then other indications of movement occurred slightly to the left, and to the right of center, the first movement.
A finger on the trigger, eyes focused looking through the cross-hairs at a distance some 1400+ meters off. Which movement must be stopped? A quiet call to some unknown voice, verifying if the movements should be friend or foe. Answer: "No friendlies in the area". Back to the scope. Again, which target? Training kicks in, and the thought, "Help me", and then with slow deliberate squeeze of the trigger, a fairly quiet "pop" was heard. Putting the crosshairs on the left, the cross-hairs on the distant movement, and again, "pop".
Several additional movements in the area. Call for that unknown voice. Reply, "Air support not available at this time, will notify you when available". Click. A memory of the laughing in the L Room, another memory of a girl in particular, back to the cross-hairs. Perspiration dripping into his eyes, clouding his vision. Muscles tensing, especially along his neck and back. Pictures of his mother and father, grandmother and grandfather, teachers, his car, his street, football games, pizza and pepsi. A glint of reflection from the sun on something shining, moving toward him. Training. Good training. Refocusing on training. This time, 1200+ meters, moral issues creep in, but training takes over.
A prayer, only a few words, but back to the task. Then a roar comes upon the location, Three F-4 Phantoms diving from the clouds, and the area lights up with flames, tracer fire, and the ground shook with sounds of blasts from the F-4s. Pandemonium breaks loose where the movement was seen. Feeling the heat from the napalm, almost burning hot, but not hot enough to cause injury, and the roar of the F-4s flying away, one tilting his wings in recognition. Then silence. Total silence, as though time had stopped.
The movements had ceased. A scratchy voice came over with directions to exit the area.
Fast forward. Arrived at Cleveland Hopkins, in dress blues, family waiting at the gate.
Tears abounded. He appreciated his family like never before.
That night, a football game was on, so driving over to Bunts, a spot opens up. He parked his car, and proudly wearing his dress blues, spit-shined boots, beret smartly worn, he approached his former band director. He was greeted and asked "would you like to play the sStar Spangled Banner on your horn?". Yes he would. Going back to the car, a big smile on his face. Taking out his coveted horn from the trunk, he walks back to the field, climbs a white platform and thinking of all that had been, played the song with a tone that rang out across the stadium. Not one mistake. Every note precise. At the end, snapping the horn to the "ready position" as he remembered from marching band days, seemingly ages ago, loosening his right hand, snapping a razor sharp salute to the flag. Holding it for a few seconds, tears running down his cheeks. He's home.
Wait, where are the applause? He heard applause every football game before. That silence, that is not supposed to be here? Why the silence?. Then "boos" from the seats. Items thrown at him, a semi-full can of pop hits him in the side of the face. What is happening? There wasn't any training for this. No voice to call, why is this happening?
He goes to the car, drives home wondering how that surreal scene came about.
Turning on the television, something he had not seen while over "there", people were doing that to many of his fellow vets, active duty personnel, all over the country.
Vile names, and signs. He took off his uniform, which he wore with such pride, folded it as trained, and put it away. It was to stay packed away, hidden along with the memories.
Fast forward again. He sits at his computer, awake all night thinking of those times.
Thinking of where his "band of brothers" might be. Their names would never be recorded in public. His duties would never be recognized. That doesn't matter.
What seemed to matter most, was on memorial day, when he was a kid, parades were on every channel, while only 3 channels nonetheless, parades, floats, dominated television all day from the signing on, with the the american indian in the test pattern, to the Star-Spangled Banner at the signing off at the end of the broadcast day. But today, no where near that amount, yet all the lives that were lost from his father's days in the U.S. Army during World War II to this very day, over in the mid-east. Silence at the computer.
Standing up, going onto the front porch, he snaps that same trained salute, smartly, index finger touching his eyebrow, elbow positioned correctly, holding that salute for a few moments, and a prayer for those he remembered, and those he long forgot.
He hears in his distant memory the command, and he slowly brings his right hand down to his side where it was supposed to be, standing at attention.
This time only one tear, but a prayer along with that one tear.
He sits down and types a little story, and the day commences.
He opens his trunk, sees that uniform, and the exact set of BDU's he wore during that event, still folded per regs. Puts them on, but without rank or collar insignia.
He smiles, slips on his boots, spit-shined from long ago, gives them a swipe with a cloth and he decides he'll wear that for today. Even if he stays home, he "knows", Yes, he "knows".

[Gary Rice]

Mark,

I had to enter my password twice here this morning, because my hand was trembling.

Your essay is one of the most touching stories that Dad and I've ever read.

Jimmy, this one needs to go into the paper.

If any story about Lakewood EVER needs to go in the paper, this one does.

Mark, please submit this as a "for print" publication. If you're not sure how, we can walk you through it.

From my dad: Welcome home.

I had one of the best rock bands around in 1970, and people who lived in Lakewood back then knew it...and then...

...our lead singer, (I'll leave his name out of this for now. His story needs to be his own, after all) left for Vietnam.

Things were never the same again.

I did not serve. Speech, leg, and hearing problems would have probably kept me out of the service. I'll never know for sure, because I went to college. The thing is, someone, maybe you, had to go in my place, and I have never for one solitary moment forgotten that. Sometimes, it tears at me. When Dad and I wrote the Veterans March, it was in part, my way of paying tribute to that person who served for me.

A kid I grew up with on my street died in Vietnam. Another Lakewood kid is still missing in action over there, and that lead singer? Well, he's fine...now. He's back here singing for nursing homes and other events, but....well, I'll just let his story be his...He's told it privately to me..and....you know.

Welcome home.

Thank you for your service, your friendship, and for all that you have done for your country, for Lakewood, and for Dad and me this morning.

You were one of the finest trumpet players we've ever known around here.

...and you still are, as far as Dad and me are concerned.

[Tim Liston]

Not that anybody who served in Vietnam was remotely “lucky,” but my cousin Ted was not so lucky. He fought for less than a month, after which his body was severely carved up and brought back home.

Although Ted was a few years older than me, we did get around together some as we grew up. Our homes were side-by-side out on the other side of Vermilion, right on the lake. What I remember most was swimming in that lake. And going to his grandma’s property to collect snakes in a bucket that we would take home and show off.

This time of year is sad for me; it makes me remember Ted and how we lost him in a war so costly and unnecessary. And then I remember that there were over 50,000 like him, and countless families reminded of their loss even to this day.

And of course I will never forget the 21 gun salute, and taps. He was 20 years old when he was killed, the same age as my oldest daughter is now....

http://www.virtualwall.org/dw/WardTD01a.htm

BTW Mark an incredible essay. I’m sorry there was no happy ending for anybody. War is kind of like that….

[Mark Crnolatas]

Dear Bob and Gary Rice,

Gary, that piece is just that, a piece, but of history. Please don't ever feel like someone else took your place. In times of wars, which seems to be non-stop from biblical times to present, those stories are generated. Different stories but from the same sources.
David, the biblical David, had armies. Those fallen soldiers are part of that thing called "war" too.

YOU, Gary, are a true hero, if there is such a thing. I believe there is, and you are one of them. You are a light in the shadows of darkness all the time, not just for a year or a month or a day or for a few years, but all the time. You have overcome challenges and "walk the walk" not just "talk the talk". By you being yourself, by what you do and say, you are a true warrior.
You represent overcoming. You represent courage. You represent accomplishment. You were not handed your degree, you were not forced to teach those who you taught. You did that on your own. People benefit from just being around you. I have not heard of any particular uniform that can do all that.

Today is a new day. It happens to be Memorial Day. Some will spend today feeling sad, lonely, and spending it introspection, maybe prayer I would hope, and others are out crowding the stores, coupons in hand for the Memorial Day Sale-a-thons and such, which is fine too, but some do not realize that the sale section of the paper is not the reason this day was ear-marked for being "Memorial Day".

I would suggest to anyone reading this, that it might be a day better served, to take a
part of Gary Rice with you, whatever and wherever you go.

And his dad, Bob Rice? To know Bob Rice, to talk to him, what he has overcome and keeps on shooting from the hip, his words of encouragement, his love for others, his giving of himself constantly is truly inspiring. Bob Rice has changed so many lives, he is truly on par with the likes of Billy Graham, Martin Luther King, and the only difference is, he has not received the national attention they had and have. He should have that. Our society needs to know "Mr. Bob Rice". He's raised more young people through his ministry of music, than thousands of others, but further, teaching us how to live life.

Back at Harding Jr. High, in the band room, "Mr. Rice" would talk to anyone about anything after school and help them onto the right path. He was our resident "pastor" and while he is not a member of the clergy or a psychologist, his personality, his being, consists of parts of both, and did back even then. So many of us were an accident waiting to happen and Mr. Rice patiently would advise in the most fatherly way, to think and to do the right things.

Bob Rice has a lot to do yet. Now more than ever Mr. Rice needs to be Mr. Rice and between he and Gary, we all need to give thanks to both of them. They are truly active duty personnel.

Yes, let's remember the soldiers of the military, but also pay tribute and thank the soldiers of life. I snap a salute to you Dad, and to you Gary. You both deserve a medal of freedom.

Mark Crnolatas Sr.

[Gary Rice]

Mark:

Dad and I thank you for your kind remarks.

Teachers and so many others who quietly try to make our world a better place are not usually the ones for whom bronze monuments are constructed in the public parks.

The only monument that those people ever have, are the people whom they have tried to help.

...and that....is more than enough.

Back to the banjo.