Beyond the Front Line

(This is also posted on my personal blog http://n0my.blogspot.com)

by G.M. Underling
a tribute to a friend

Events transpire in every mature adult's life that we reflect on as being defining. The day you asked the woman you love to grow old with you. The day John Kennedy was murdered. The assaults on September 11, 2001. These events can change the path of your life forever, and some even change the future attitudes of a people.

Last night, November 4, 2008 was a night that many Americans will remember. Barack Hussein Obama became the first person of color to earn the office of President of the United States of America. Millions gathered in Chicago to witness one of the most monumental, moving and motivating addresses in American history.

As much of an impression as that made, it doesn't sit on top my list of defining moments. Before I left the office this evening, I was told a story. The words you read are on this paper because an energy from inside is compelling me to respond in some way.


September of 1969 was a year of high importance for me. Seventh grade was, like many other new teenagers, my first major bounce on the springboard to independence. Not quite ready to dive into the world, I felt prepared to move in that direction. No longer would I sit in the same classroom all day. Several teachers, elective subjects, extra-curriculars, girls, maybe even an after school job were in my future.

Other things were happening in the world at that time, however. Though I lived in a small town in rural Minnesota, which like the rest of the country was surrounded by news reports, headlines and personal tragedy, I was engrossed in my own life, virtually unaware and unaffected by these goings on.

Much has been written about the Second Indochina War in Vietnam. Battle stories have never impacted me in a personal way. I was lucky. I didn't have a father that served in the military. No father at home at all, actually. No brothers, cousins or uncles were drafted, either.

Tonight I heard the story of a man, we'll call him Frank. A seemingly common man, but one who in many ways has lived through things many men or women could not or would not endure – and I was truly awestruck.

Frank told of the events leading up to his arrival in Asaka, Japan in 1969. Because he may write his memoirs someday, and to respect and preserve his anonymity, I'm going to omit many of the details. The details I've chosen to leave out are inconsequential to the point of this writing, however. Suffice it to say this man found himself serving in an army hospital.

More frequently than anyone would be comfortable with, UH-1 “Hueys” and other aircraft would deliver injured soldiers from the battle front. Some walked in under their own volition, some were carried in on stretchers, some in wheelchairs, and some in body bags. Those that arrived, often left with their life forever changed by the injuries or trauma that brought them there.

A picture of a small building, brought detectable tearing to Frank's eyes, as did the image of a dining hall, and the memories the telling of his experiences conjured up.

He described a room he ventured into shortly after his arrival, and was confused by a huge mound of uniforms stacked up. I could sense the emotion as he told of the epiphany when he internalized that those were the uniforms of those that had been brought in for care. Although he didn't say, I got the feeling that many of those uniforms were never either worn, or suitable to be worn again.

Frank talked about going to the dining hall for his meals, and seeing and sometimes sharing meals with soldiers having everything from bandaged arms to missing limbs, eating their meals somewhere ... anywhere away from the depressing quarters they were forced to spend most of the rest of their time in.

I saw some pictures showing men who were missing a section of their head. There was a snapshot from behind of one who had a deep cavity in the flesh about a foot wide in spots. One man lay on a table with his leg gone and the doctors had not stepped through the triage process to that level of injury yet. And Frank told of escorting a new quadriplegic home to the states, after which he would be privileged to spend a few precious days with his family for the holiday.

My own eyes began to glaze over with a thin layer of moisture, though, when I heard him speak the following words. “So I never saw active duty...” and I missed most of the rest of what he said after that, because I was overcome with disbelief.

Words seem to be hiding from me now. How can anyone, especially this improbable rock I'm listening to, live through those times and circumstances, and say they never saw active duty? Maybe he meant active combat, I don't know. But I would venture to say he went through, and helped countless others through situations, scenes and circumstances that many of those on the battle lines would have been unable to withstand.

At times during Frank's telling of his story, he would apologize for choking up a little, or for being so overcome by memories that he was unable to finish a sentence without a moment to compose himself. It was disheartening to think that a soldier felt coerced to hide the lasting emotional impact that his service to his country holds.

Therefore, on this day, a little less than a week before Veteran's day 2008, I stand at attention the best I know how, and with the thumb side of a clenched right fist, I pound my chest over my heart as a Civilian Salute to Frank and others like him who served in vital but often unsung ways to protect our freedom, and to care for those who were injured on the battle front, in a place many may call beyond the front line. Further, I encourage you to do the same in your own way.

I'll close with small words speaking absolute truth. Your service is appreciated beyond measure, and will be remembered forever.Thank you, my friend, thank you.