THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE
I have been asked if I plan on writing aother story for Veteran's Day. I thought I had written it all in my last two stories that had been published in the local newspapers. Then I thought no, it could never all be written. In an attempt to refrain from repeating myself, I will expound on the five words that comprise the title of this story. It is my hope that the reader will heed the importance of the powerful message they convey.
When President Bill Clinton was inaugurated in January of 1993, he welcomed countless numbers of people into the White House. Many of these were active duty military. His first words to each member in uniform were "Thank you for your service." He shook their hands and looked them in the eye as he uttered those words.
I watched very closely with great interest. There was no doubt in my mind that this was an act of sincerity being played over and over as I could see the welling in the eyes of the President and felt the same in my own. Those words seem to have become some kind of a cliche and are and will be repeated many times with the coming of another Veteran's Day. Thank you, President Clinton, for spreading that message.
It wasn't like that at all when I returned from Vietnam in 1971. I wasn't expecting any kind of a welcome home, especially since we had been briefed about possibly encountering war protesters which we were told of course to ignore. The first thing I looked forward to as we de-planed at the SEA/TAC Airport in "Washington was simply stepping on American soil after surviving the most challenging year of my life in the war torn country of Vietnam. Many of our troops got down on their hands and knees and kissed the ground, they were so happy to be home. After putting my foot down the next thing I looked forward to was seeing some smiling American faces and be able to talk to them and ask for assistance.
All of our initial happiness was quickly put on hold as we did encounter a group of "peace marchers." We did all we could to ingore their remarks. I even heard the words "baby killers" directed to us. I was told by a security officer they had a right to say whatever they wanted to as long as they didn't cross a certain line.
How could these people be so naive? I soon learned this was not an isolated incident. There were people all over the country actually burning the American flag. There seemed to be a huge barrier placed between our happiness and returning home. Most of us were put on stand-by lists for flights home.
Maybe the airport personnel were overworked. I don't remember any pleasant encounters with anyone. They may have seen too many flights returning and too many uniforms. It could be that our uniform was the brunt of their frustration. They probably didn't realize that Americans were dying every day in Vietnam for their freedom. Further they didn't realize that we as individuals had no choice in our involvement in Vietnam. Those decisions were made in Washington, DC. That is where these peace marchers should be and not allowed elsewhere.
As I write this story, I have concluded that the act of war is insane. There has to be another way. So many innocent people are killed. To put my stamp on that insanity statement, read on:
First a quick history that may erase much of that naivety. Most everyone that served in Vietnam, saw, felt and liced the war first hand and probably became more antiwar than the loudest of any of those peace marchers. Some saw their friends suffer and die. I saw much more than my share of death and destruction, which included the maimws and mutilated bodies of children from villages that were destroyed.
Most of the returning flights carried about two hundred troops and for every two hundred there were probably fifty draftees in that total. What is a draftee? A draftee is a person that was forced to play a lottery game. If they refused to play, they would either leave the Country or they may have been jailed. When they did sign up they were issued a card. On this card was number that was placedsomrwhere, I don't know if computers were used or not. Somehow those numbers were secured so the game would be played fairly.
If you number was chosen and you weren't attending college, it really didn't matter in some instances if you were married or not, or if you had a good paying job or not. If you were in good health you would soon become a member of the US Army. You would be sent to basic training for eight weeks and after another eight weeks of advanced training, you would be sent to a country thousands of miles from home to fight in a war in a country you may never even knew existed. Many thousands of you will be killed in this war. How insane is that?
Now for what may be the ultimate of insanity. This is something that does happen during wartime. Take one of those draftees who was sent to Vietnam. He was on a mission and somehow made a wrong turn and was separated from his unit. It wasn't even six months ago that his number came up. He had just turned twenty years old. He said good bye to his girl friend and left his well paying job that he had worked so hard to secure. In those days a college education was not always a requirement to land a decent job. Now here he is lost in war torn Vietnam thousands of miles from home. He soon comes face to face with an NVA (North Vietnamese Army) soldier who himself is barely twenty years old and was forced into this war. Neither of vthem knew why they were where they were. The only knowing they both had at that moment was they must take the others life or their own would be taken. It was kill or be killed. There has to be another way.
I retired from the Army in 1982 after twenty one years of service, two of which were in Vietnem. Since then I kept my Army career to myself and rarely talked about it because of the unpleasant memories of Vietnam.
A couple of years ago my story was published in the Newsa Herald and the Ile Camera. Shortly after I was introduced to the chief of vthe city of Taylor Fire Department. His name is Vince Fedel. Vince has since become a close friend of mine. At our introduction it sounded to me like he was thanking me for my service. I asked him to repeat what he had said. He then extended his arm, grasped y hand, looked me squarely in the eye and said with a firm grip "Thank you for your service." I could feel his sincerity as I noticed the welling in his eyes. Once again, I thank you President Clinton.
This Veteran's Day many of you will have the opportunity to be close enough to someone in uniform. v It doesn't matter if you personally know the individual or not, the uniform they are wearing represents your freedom. I repeat, the uniform they are wearing represents your freedom. WEhen this happens do yourself a huge favor. You will never realize the feeling until you have done it. Extend your arm, grasp his/her hand, look him/her in the eye and blurt out these words: "Thank you for your service."
Again I ask that you give that moment of silence for those that did not return. Those that could never become veterans or fathers or grandfathers as so many of us have. Though we could never grasp their hand or look them in the eye, we can keep them in our prayers and our remembrance and forever "Thank them for their Service."
Friday, October 12, 2012
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
The Month of May
The month of May offers much more than the ending of Spring and the early beginning of Summer. There are two special days during this month that without a doubt make it the most cherished month of the year. This story will combine the second Sunday and the last Monday of this memorable month in my attempt to not only honor all Mothers on their special day but to also keep the remembrance alive of all those that gave their lives in any war so we may be able to live ours in ways of our own choosing. My “remembrance” focus will be on the Vietnam War since that is where I spent the better part of two years of my life. I have written a few stories of my experiences in Vietnam. I will be piecing together parts from them in an attempt to keep something so important to the forefront. That something would be “remembrance.”
As I begin writing this I am on my way from Michigan to The Villages, Florida where I will meet up with my brothers, Jim and Wayne. On the 21st of April we will be celebrating my Mother's 96th birthday. We plan to do so by taking her to dinner and then watch a baseball game with her.
How can I be so lucky to be able to join in on what has become an annual event? I ask that since I am into my fifth year with this so called incurable disease called Parkinson's. Regardless of the depth of despair this God given disease may someday lead to, everything that has happened so far since it incurred has been positive. It took 37 years since leaving Vietnam for me to begin writing. It was after the diagnosis of Parkinson's, some personal counseling from my brother, Wayne and the trade off of what was known as my best friend, my daily six pack for sobriety on my knees at the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC. that led me to believe I wasn’t going to die with my music still in me.
In 1970 and 1971 I was stationed in Pleiku which was located in what was known as the Central Highlands of South Vietnam, along the Cambodian border where some of the heaviest fighting of the war took place. I was assigned to an evacuation hospital and my primary duties were related to the admission and disposition of patients. I saw much more than my share of death and destruction.
How could I possibly forget the 22 year old burn patient that died in my hands while crying out for his Mother with his dying breath, or the 19 year old that I watched die in the emergency room because he couldn't be taken to surgery soon enough.
Further profound memories were of mass casualties when one helicopter after another would
bring in sheer numbers of young men with mutilated bodies and the heart wrenching screams of the
wounded as they begged for morphine to ease their pain. Yes, they all had Mothers, every one of them. Some had girl friends and some had wives, but they all had mothers. There were a total of 58,267 Americans that died in Vietnam. I personally wear a bracelet with that number inscribed for an everlasting memory.
Many people have said and continue to say that the Vietnam War was not a popular war and that we shouldn't have been involved in it in the first place since it was a war that we couldn't win. My response to that would be of course it wasn't a popular war. The definition of the word popular is liked by most people. Tell me what war was ever liked by most people. As far as the should haves and could haves, just drop them completely and look at the reality. We were there.
As I closed on my Veteran's Day story last November I revealed these statistics. Of the 58,267 Americans that were killed in Vietnam 39,996 of them or about 70 per cent of them were 22 years old or younger. What I failed to mention since I do not have the actual totals were the number of draftees included in that total. You can be sure their numbers were in the thousands. These were the ones that were taken from their homes, their jobs, their girlfriends and sometimes their wives and yes of course their mothers. Most of them were 21 to 22 years old. They were sent to fight in a war in a country thousands of miles from home. A country they may never even knew existed and many thousands of them were killed. Yes, they all had Mothers. Could you imagine approaching any one of those mothers and telling her that we shouldn't have been in Vietnam and that her loved one died for no reason. Of course not. If mistakes were made of our involvement in Vietnam, those mistakes were made in Washington.
I also asked in that Veteran's Day story that we all give a moment of silence in remembrance of those 58,267 that gave their lives so we could live ours. We must never let those memories die. This time I am pleading that you give that moment on both Mother's Day and on Memorial Day. This time close your eyes in privacy if you wish, put all of your thoughts on those 58,267. You will soon begin to feel a welling in your eyes. When this begins blurt out these words out loud: “Thank you my friend, we miss you.” If you hear sort of a creak in your own voice, I've reached you.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
A Play on Words
At our last creative writers club meeting I was given an assignment of writing a story about "A Play on Words." This could be on any subject as long as I was playing with words. Did you know that there are over 100,000 words in the dictionary? Bear with me, I think you are going to enjoy reading this.
I'm going to begin by making a comparison of any one of those 100,000 words to that of a simple leaf upon a tree. The branches on a tree create thousands of leaves. When the cold weather arrives the leaves begin falling. The wind may whisk them straight ahewad, to the left or to the right. Many of them will touch and make a connection. Some will touch leaves of another tree and make a connection. The leaf that touches no other will die alone. Think about that, it rarely happens.
So where is the equation? First we must define a word. What is a word? A word is a word and nothing else, at least until it is paired with another word. If a word is written and is not paired with another it will be useless, have little meaning and eventually will be trashed and just as that leaf upon that tree it will die alone.
Probably as many as 75 per cent of the same words have been used in all of the stories I have written. I might add that I doubt if I even use 1,000 of the 100,000 words that are available. I could probably say the same for others that write, including famous authors. Writers do not invent words as they write. Tame words are simply moved around to create a totally different meaning. They are at times changed for the same purpose. That is the miracle of words. The shifting of words abruptly change story lines.
There are several words in the dictionary that are spelled exactly the same but have totally different meanings. There is even a descriptive word for those words. They are called homographs. Here are a few of them: There - Change - Play - Run - Foot - Right - Step - Class - Bill. No wonder it is so difficult for foreigners to learn the English language.
Let's return to the pairing of words. When a single word is paired with another and another it begins to gain strength. Soon the words become sentences. The strength and power they could yield would dep;end on what words were used and how they were put together. They could simply be two, three, four or five letter words rendomly chosen. I will use nine words here for an example: With - You - In - Die - Your - Do - Still - Not - Music.Those words were shuffled around a bit and eventually came together in this fashion. Do not die with your music still in you. I do not know from where those words were originally put together that way, but I do know that it was my brother, Wayne that uttered them to me.They were not only powerful words, they were life altering. Eight of those words are known as homonyms while one of them remains nameless. Those eight words are spelled differently and have totally different meanings than their counterparts, yet they are pronounced exactly the same. Here they are: Dew - Knot - Dye - Withe - Yore' - Mucic - Still - Inn - Ewe.
Notice that the word still is the only one that is not a homonym. Could that mean that I may still have a few songs yet to sing?
I'm going to begin by making a comparison of any one of those 100,000 words to that of a simple leaf upon a tree. The branches on a tree create thousands of leaves. When the cold weather arrives the leaves begin falling. The wind may whisk them straight ahewad, to the left or to the right. Many of them will touch and make a connection. Some will touch leaves of another tree and make a connection. The leaf that touches no other will die alone. Think about that, it rarely happens.
So where is the equation? First we must define a word. What is a word? A word is a word and nothing else, at least until it is paired with another word. If a word is written and is not paired with another it will be useless, have little meaning and eventually will be trashed and just as that leaf upon that tree it will die alone.
Probably as many as 75 per cent of the same words have been used in all of the stories I have written. I might add that I doubt if I even use 1,000 of the 100,000 words that are available. I could probably say the same for others that write, including famous authors. Writers do not invent words as they write. Tame words are simply moved around to create a totally different meaning. They are at times changed for the same purpose. That is the miracle of words. The shifting of words abruptly change story lines.
There are several words in the dictionary that are spelled exactly the same but have totally different meanings. There is even a descriptive word for those words. They are called homographs. Here are a few of them: There - Change - Play - Run - Foot - Right - Step - Class - Bill. No wonder it is so difficult for foreigners to learn the English language.
Let's return to the pairing of words. When a single word is paired with another and another it begins to gain strength. Soon the words become sentences. The strength and power they could yield would dep;end on what words were used and how they were put together. They could simply be two, three, four or five letter words rendomly chosen. I will use nine words here for an example: With - You - In - Die - Your - Do - Still - Not - Music.Those words were shuffled around a bit and eventually came together in this fashion. Do not die with your music still in you. I do not know from where those words were originally put together that way, but I do know that it was my brother, Wayne that uttered them to me.They were not only powerful words, they were life altering. Eight of those words are known as homonyms while one of them remains nameless. Those eight words are spelled differently and have totally different meanings than their counterparts, yet they are pronounced exactly the same. Here they are: Dew - Knot - Dye - Withe - Yore' - Mucic - Still - Inn - Ewe.
Notice that the word still is the only one that is not a homonym. Could that mean that I may still have a few songs yet to sing?
Saturday, November 5, 2011
What are you doing on Veteran's day
A Short Story by David L. Dyer
November 6, 2011
My wife, Janet gave me a present for my birthday recently. Yes it is something to wear. A half smile accompanied the tears that rolled down my face as I stared at the numbers that were engraved on the beautiful bracelet she placed on my wrist. Those numbers read 58267. This number represents the total number of names inscribed on the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC. I understand that it took until the year of 2010 for the final names to be posted so we must accept that total as accurate. I often wonder why it took so long to do so little for those who gave so much. The year 2010 would have been some 35 years after the last American was killed in Vietnam. I do have an idea of something that could still be done and will get to that later.
As another Veteran's Day approaches, what are your plans for that day? Will you go to a party or hosp one? How about a parade? On Veteran's day you don't have to go very far to see one or to even join one. Maybe you'll just enjoy the day off work that so many of you will be getting. Whatever it may be how about adding something to it that really make you feel good. Before your day begins give yourself one minute of silence in honor of those 58,267 young men and women that gave their lives. You will be surprised at the extra energy you will have created for yourself. Now I'll tell you a little about myself and how it is I feel that I have a right to be asking these questions and to be writing about this very serious subject.
In August of 2007 I was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease at the age of 68. When my brother Wayne heard that news he was devastated. He also seemed to sense that there was something I've been holding back that was much deeper than Parkinson's. He then sent me a tape he had made with his publisher, Louise Hay. On this tape were nine simple words that were formed into a sentence. Without a doubt it was those words that would entirely change my life. That sentence reads as follows: "Do not die with your music still in you."
I had always avoided talking about Vietnam simply because there was nothing pleasant about it to talk about. That reasoning may have been my way of avoiding any conversations that had to do with my experiences since I just couldn't bring myself to talk about them without welling up. I would just revert to my comfort zone which was my daily six pack.
After hearing those words from Wayne and realizing that I now had this incurable disease and I was almost 69 years old I began thinking about my Mother who would soon be turning 92. She was living in an assisted living home in Florida and with me being in Michigan the chances of us ever seeing each other again were becoming very remote. I listened to that tape once again and when those nine words again came to fore I immediately began taking action.
That very evening I told Janet and my son David-Scott my Vietnam story and of the memories and nightmares that have haunted me for the past 37 years. I then wrote the story and as Wayne suggested I began talking about it whenever I could. I began feeling much better. I wrote this in part a year ago in a story "A Pittance of Time," and will tell it in part again here.
While in the Army as a career soldier I was stationed in Vietnam in 1970 and 1971. I was assigned to the 71st Evacuation Hospital in Pleiku, RVN. This was located along the Cambodian Border. As a medical record specialist I was in charge of the admission and disposition of patients and believe me I saw much more than my share of blood and guts. Most of the patients were brought in to us directly from the battlefields or jungles by either ambulance or chopper. At times they were received in body bags. Our job was to admit the patients and initiate their medical record by placing a wrist band on them. We would then interview them and obtain as much personal information as possible. There were times that I was the first person they remembered talking to after being wounded. On more than one occasion I was asked to "Please don't tell my wife." One of the most difficult tasks that had to be done was searching through the clothing of the DOA's (dead on arrival) to secure any valuables they may have had on their person. This included looking through their wallets and viewing photos of their family members.
As my year in Vietnam was coming to an end I was talked into extending for six months. This of course was my own decision. I was pretty well convinced that the war was winding down and that was obvious by the reduction in the number of casualties we received. We were in the process of turning the hospital over to the ARVN's and the thought of a 30 day non chargeable leave won my over. When I returned to Vietnam most of our personnel had been reassigned or sent home. We had been reduced to a 30 bed inpatient Medical Detachment.
It was just a couple of days later that we were hit with a mass casualty that I never thought we would live through. I wrote about that in my Vietnam story and will not repeat it here. What I had not written about was what happened the day prior to that mass casualty. Our Dust-off unit which was our helicopter support was called to retrieve what turned out to be the most sickening sight I have ever encountered. When the subject of horrors of war come up there couldn't possibly be anything more shocking than what we saw as we put on gas masks to relieve the stench while we began removing body parts of three Americans that had been executed, dismembered and stuffed into one body bag and left for the animals. We could not identify them. We recorded them as unknown. That night came the mass casualty. There was no time for mourning in Vietnam. My time to cry came many years after leaving Vietnam
It was three years ago that my son David-Scott and I visited the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC. That was absolutely the most moving experience of my life. I would suggest that anyone who was drafted during the Vietnam era to visit that memorial and while there recite this modified version of this adage in prayer: "There but for the grace of God, went I."
While I was there I stared at the wall. All I could see were names and numbers. I closed my eyes and then I began seeing faces. Yes they al had faces thirty seven years ago. I began seeing young men on gurneys lined up in the emergency room. I began seeing young men in body bags. I began seeing young men on Psychiatric wards. I saw one with a self inflicted gunshot wound completely through his head. I finally saw the 22 year old burn patient who died in my hands while crying out for his mother with his final breath. Yes, they all had faces all 58,267 of them. I know, I not only saw them, I touched them. I touched countless numbers of them.
It was then and there at "the wall" that I vowed to and did give up alcohol, which was a lifelong crutch for me. I did so not only for myself but in honor of those 58,267 names inscribed on that wall. The lack of alcohol in my system changed my sleeping habits. I could not sleep at night. I then began writing at the age of 69. I began writing short stories about friends and relatives. I was amazed at the quality of my writing and at times I would ask myself "who wrote this?" Wayne has always said that I have always had this ability within me, but it must have been covered by my lifelong alcohol consumption.
Yes the nightmares have somewhat ceased since I began writing and talking about my Vietnam experiences. I do continue to have moments at times. A good example of those "moments" would be as I quote once again from "A Pittance of Time." "My wife and I recently attended a Michigan State football game. Just prior to the kick-off the MSU Marching Band played one of the most beautiful versions of our National Anthem I have ever heard. Prior to the last stanza they paused for a few seconds. My eyes were fixed on those Stars and Stripes. It didn't take long for my thoughts to put me back in Vietnam. That "moment" found me cringing as approached this baby faced 22 year old whom I swear didn't appear to be a day past seventeen. Now what could possibly be pleasant about placing death tags on his right toe and left thumb?
As I've said all those names on that memorial did have faces some forty plus years ago. I said at the beginning of this story that something could be done to brighten those walls. Do you think that 58,267 photos could be added. It might take another 35 years or so but I'm sure those walls could be expanded.
If I haven't reached you yet, I will guarantee you that the rest of this story will at a minimum create a welling in your eyes. If it fails to do so then we just haven't connected.. Please read through it slowly and grasp each word.
THE REST OF THIS STORY
It is now late at night and Veteran's Day is coming to a close. I hope you enjoyed your party, parade or whatever it was you did today. Do you remember how it began? Do you remember giving that moment of silence this morning? I'm going to ask you to do that once again, but first I'd like to mention a couple of things. When that number of 58,267 is broken down some rather startling statistics are revealed. 39,996 of them were 22 years old or younger. 12 of them were only 17 years old. 5 of them were only 16 years old and one of them was only 15. 997 of them were killed on their first day in Vietnam. 1,448 of them were killed on their last day in Vietnam. There were 244 award presentations of the Medal of Honor. 153 of those names are on that wall.
Yes, it is late at night and Veteran's Day is coming to a close. It is now time to give that last moment of silence. This time please close your eyes and put all of your thoughts on those 58,267 young men and women that gave their lives so we could be here enjoying all of what we did today. When the 60 seconds are over you might just want to blurt out these words. "Thank you my friend, we miss you."
November 6, 2011
My wife, Janet gave me a present for my birthday recently. Yes it is something to wear. A half smile accompanied the tears that rolled down my face as I stared at the numbers that were engraved on the beautiful bracelet she placed on my wrist. Those numbers read 58267. This number represents the total number of names inscribed on the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC. I understand that it took until the year of 2010 for the final names to be posted so we must accept that total as accurate. I often wonder why it took so long to do so little for those who gave so much. The year 2010 would have been some 35 years after the last American was killed in Vietnam. I do have an idea of something that could still be done and will get to that later.
As another Veteran's Day approaches, what are your plans for that day? Will you go to a party or hosp one? How about a parade? On Veteran's day you don't have to go very far to see one or to even join one. Maybe you'll just enjoy the day off work that so many of you will be getting. Whatever it may be how about adding something to it that really make you feel good. Before your day begins give yourself one minute of silence in honor of those 58,267 young men and women that gave their lives. You will be surprised at the extra energy you will have created for yourself. Now I'll tell you a little about myself and how it is I feel that I have a right to be asking these questions and to be writing about this very serious subject.
In August of 2007 I was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease at the age of 68. When my brother Wayne heard that news he was devastated. He also seemed to sense that there was something I've been holding back that was much deeper than Parkinson's. He then sent me a tape he had made with his publisher, Louise Hay. On this tape were nine simple words that were formed into a sentence. Without a doubt it was those words that would entirely change my life. That sentence reads as follows: "Do not die with your music still in you."
I had always avoided talking about Vietnam simply because there was nothing pleasant about it to talk about. That reasoning may have been my way of avoiding any conversations that had to do with my experiences since I just couldn't bring myself to talk about them without welling up. I would just revert to my comfort zone which was my daily six pack.
After hearing those words from Wayne and realizing that I now had this incurable disease and I was almost 69 years old I began thinking about my Mother who would soon be turning 92. She was living in an assisted living home in Florida and with me being in Michigan the chances of us ever seeing each other again were becoming very remote. I listened to that tape once again and when those nine words again came to fore I immediately began taking action.
That very evening I told Janet and my son David-Scott my Vietnam story and of the memories and nightmares that have haunted me for the past 37 years. I then wrote the story and as Wayne suggested I began talking about it whenever I could. I began feeling much better. I wrote this in part a year ago in a story "A Pittance of Time," and will tell it in part again here.
While in the Army as a career soldier I was stationed in Vietnam in 1970 and 1971. I was assigned to the 71st Evacuation Hospital in Pleiku, RVN. This was located along the Cambodian Border. As a medical record specialist I was in charge of the admission and disposition of patients and believe me I saw much more than my share of blood and guts. Most of the patients were brought in to us directly from the battlefields or jungles by either ambulance or chopper. At times they were received in body bags. Our job was to admit the patients and initiate their medical record by placing a wrist band on them. We would then interview them and obtain as much personal information as possible. There were times that I was the first person they remembered talking to after being wounded. On more than one occasion I was asked to "Please don't tell my wife." One of the most difficult tasks that had to be done was searching through the clothing of the DOA's (dead on arrival) to secure any valuables they may have had on their person. This included looking through their wallets and viewing photos of their family members.
As my year in Vietnam was coming to an end I was talked into extending for six months. This of course was my own decision. I was pretty well convinced that the war was winding down and that was obvious by the reduction in the number of casualties we received. We were in the process of turning the hospital over to the ARVN's and the thought of a 30 day non chargeable leave won my over. When I returned to Vietnam most of our personnel had been reassigned or sent home. We had been reduced to a 30 bed inpatient Medical Detachment.
It was just a couple of days later that we were hit with a mass casualty that I never thought we would live through. I wrote about that in my Vietnam story and will not repeat it here. What I had not written about was what happened the day prior to that mass casualty. Our Dust-off unit which was our helicopter support was called to retrieve what turned out to be the most sickening sight I have ever encountered. When the subject of horrors of war come up there couldn't possibly be anything more shocking than what we saw as we put on gas masks to relieve the stench while we began removing body parts of three Americans that had been executed, dismembered and stuffed into one body bag and left for the animals. We could not identify them. We recorded them as unknown. That night came the mass casualty. There was no time for mourning in Vietnam. My time to cry came many years after leaving Vietnam
It was three years ago that my son David-Scott and I visited the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, DC. That was absolutely the most moving experience of my life. I would suggest that anyone who was drafted during the Vietnam era to visit that memorial and while there recite this modified version of this adage in prayer: "There but for the grace of God, went I."
While I was there I stared at the wall. All I could see were names and numbers. I closed my eyes and then I began seeing faces. Yes they al had faces thirty seven years ago. I began seeing young men on gurneys lined up in the emergency room. I began seeing young men in body bags. I began seeing young men on Psychiatric wards. I saw one with a self inflicted gunshot wound completely through his head. I finally saw the 22 year old burn patient who died in my hands while crying out for his mother with his final breath. Yes, they all had faces all 58,267 of them. I know, I not only saw them, I touched them. I touched countless numbers of them.
It was then and there at "the wall" that I vowed to and did give up alcohol, which was a lifelong crutch for me. I did so not only for myself but in honor of those 58,267 names inscribed on that wall. The lack of alcohol in my system changed my sleeping habits. I could not sleep at night. I then began writing at the age of 69. I began writing short stories about friends and relatives. I was amazed at the quality of my writing and at times I would ask myself "who wrote this?" Wayne has always said that I have always had this ability within me, but it must have been covered by my lifelong alcohol consumption.
Yes the nightmares have somewhat ceased since I began writing and talking about my Vietnam experiences. I do continue to have moments at times. A good example of those "moments" would be as I quote once again from "A Pittance of Time." "My wife and I recently attended a Michigan State football game. Just prior to the kick-off the MSU Marching Band played one of the most beautiful versions of our National Anthem I have ever heard. Prior to the last stanza they paused for a few seconds. My eyes were fixed on those Stars and Stripes. It didn't take long for my thoughts to put me back in Vietnam. That "moment" found me cringing as approached this baby faced 22 year old whom I swear didn't appear to be a day past seventeen. Now what could possibly be pleasant about placing death tags on his right toe and left thumb?
As I've said all those names on that memorial did have faces some forty plus years ago. I said at the beginning of this story that something could be done to brighten those walls. Do you think that 58,267 photos could be added. It might take another 35 years or so but I'm sure those walls could be expanded.
If I haven't reached you yet, I will guarantee you that the rest of this story will at a minimum create a welling in your eyes. If it fails to do so then we just haven't connected.. Please read through it slowly and grasp each word.
THE REST OF THIS STORY
It is now late at night and Veteran's Day is coming to a close. I hope you enjoyed your party, parade or whatever it was you did today. Do you remember how it began? Do you remember giving that moment of silence this morning? I'm going to ask you to do that once again, but first I'd like to mention a couple of things. When that number of 58,267 is broken down some rather startling statistics are revealed. 39,996 of them were 22 years old or younger. 12 of them were only 17 years old. 5 of them were only 16 years old and one of them was only 15. 997 of them were killed on their first day in Vietnam. 1,448 of them were killed on their last day in Vietnam. There were 244 award presentations of the Medal of Honor. 153 of those names are on that wall.
Yes, it is late at night and Veteran's Day is coming to a close. It is now time to give that last moment of silence. This time please close your eyes and put all of your thoughts on those 58,267 young men and women that gave their lives so we could be here enjoying all of what we did today. When the 60 seconds are over you might just want to blurt out these words. "Thank you my friend, we miss you."
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
A Nostalgic Trip
Written April 1st, 2011
This is a little inspirational story that I’d love to share. My brother Wayne Dyer was recently home for a speaking engagement. When I say home I mean in the Detroit area. While here he happened to have a free day. He asked me to go along with him on a nostalgic trip. We went to both our former Cottage in Sombra, Ontario and to the boarding home where we lived in Mt Clemens, Michigan in the 1940’s. It was all very interesting but not enough to write about. Then came the highlight of our trip.
We went to the small town house duplex we lived in on Moross Road on the East side of Detroit. We knocked on the door and Wayne introduced us and said that we used to live in this house back in the 1950’s. Wayne asked if we could look through the house. It was now occupied by an African American family. They were very friendly and welcomed us into their home. This family consisted of a father, a mother and a sixteen year old daughter. The mother was not at home at the time as she was working at a job that paid barely minimum wage. We’ll call the father William and the daughter, Mary.
William was laid off and his workers compensation was about to end. Mary was a junior at Denby High School. This was the same school that we all went to in the 50’s. Mary also had a part time job at McDonalds.
What a memorable feeling we had as we walked through that house. Mary had that upstairs nine by nine room to herself. This was the same room that all three of us shared. It wasn’t even big enough for her. The attic where Mother would hide Christmas presents was still there as was the Terrace that was connected to the kitchen and dining room. The refrigerator was in the same spot. The kitchen table and the ping pong table were the same ones we left there in the 50’s. I told Mary the story of the caramel cakes.
We went through the basement where we used to listen to Tiger baseball games. I told William that I remembered listening at this very spot as Virgil Trucks pitched his second no-hitter of the year in 1952. I also commented on the basement steps where we would sit and shine our shoes.
Wayne explained to William how we never needed a key to enter the house. He told him how we would climb up to the top of the roof and down the other side to the roof of the terrace and enter through the bedroom window.
Wayne talked at length with Mary and of her future aspirations. She seemed to think her reality would find her working full time at McDonalds and maybe someday become a manager.
As we were about to leave Wayne said to William that he spotted what appeared to be a dollar bill folded on the ground of his driveway. William picked it up and unfolded a one hundred dollar bill. Wayne said if he found that in his driveway he would take his family to dinner. William’s tears were real. He thought he was dreaming.
When we got to the car to leave Wayne said he forgot something. We walked back to Mary and Wayne told her “Since you are living in my house and sleeping in my bedroom and going to my school, you just can’t stop now.” He then presented her with a scholorship to his alma mater, Wayne State University. After seeing her reaction, even my tears were real.
This is a little inspirational story that I’d love to share. My brother Wayne Dyer was recently home for a speaking engagement. When I say home I mean in the Detroit area. While here he happened to have a free day. He asked me to go along with him on a nostalgic trip. We went to both our former Cottage in Sombra, Ontario and to the boarding home where we lived in Mt Clemens, Michigan in the 1940’s. It was all very interesting but not enough to write about. Then came the highlight of our trip.
We went to the small town house duplex we lived in on Moross Road on the East side of Detroit. We knocked on the door and Wayne introduced us and said that we used to live in this house back in the 1950’s. Wayne asked if we could look through the house. It was now occupied by an African American family. They were very friendly and welcomed us into their home. This family consisted of a father, a mother and a sixteen year old daughter. The mother was not at home at the time as she was working at a job that paid barely minimum wage. We’ll call the father William and the daughter, Mary.
William was laid off and his workers compensation was about to end. Mary was a junior at Denby High School. This was the same school that we all went to in the 50’s. Mary also had a part time job at McDonalds.
What a memorable feeling we had as we walked through that house. Mary had that upstairs nine by nine room to herself. This was the same room that all three of us shared. It wasn’t even big enough for her. The attic where Mother would hide Christmas presents was still there as was the Terrace that was connected to the kitchen and dining room. The refrigerator was in the same spot. The kitchen table and the ping pong table were the same ones we left there in the 50’s. I told Mary the story of the caramel cakes.
We went through the basement where we used to listen to Tiger baseball games. I told William that I remembered listening at this very spot as Virgil Trucks pitched his second no-hitter of the year in 1952. I also commented on the basement steps where we would sit and shine our shoes.
Wayne explained to William how we never needed a key to enter the house. He told him how we would climb up to the top of the roof and down the other side to the roof of the terrace and enter through the bedroom window.
Wayne talked at length with Mary and of her future aspirations. She seemed to think her reality would find her working full time at McDonalds and maybe someday become a manager.
As we were about to leave Wayne said to William that he spotted what appeared to be a dollar bill folded on the ground of his driveway. William picked it up and unfolded a one hundred dollar bill. Wayne said if he found that in his driveway he would take his family to dinner. William’s tears were real. He thought he was dreaming.
When we got to the car to leave Wayne said he forgot something. We walked back to Mary and Wayne told her “Since you are living in my house and sleeping in my bedroom and going to my school, you just can’t stop now.” He then presented her with a scholorship to his alma mater, Wayne State University. After seeing her reaction, even my tears were real.
Parkinson's, My First Four Years
I have written extensively about all of the subjects in this first paragraph. It is necessary for me to repeat them in order for me to tell this story. I will not be expounding on any of them other than when necessary. My name is David Dyer, I am 72 years old, and yes Dr Wayne Dyer, author of "Your Erroneous Zones" and many other best sellers is my brother. I was in the Army for 21 years and retired in 1982. I met my wife Janet in 1985 and my son David-Scott was born in 1986. I have been an alcoholic most of my adult lifetime. I had never been much of a church goer and never considered myself to be a religious person. IO incurred this disease called Parkinson's at the age of 68 and began writing at the age of 69.
With all that being said let's get on with this story. In August of 2007, I was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. I researched this disease and discovered that it was not only incurable but that my condition would only worsen as time goes by. My immediate thoughts were of complete denial. I continued drinking. The medication was not working and if anything it seemed to have a negative affect when combined with alcohol. It took most of one year, some personal counseling and nine magical words from my brother, Wayne, "Do not die with your music still in you," for me to tell my Vietnam story.
I finally revealed those harrowing experiences that I had concealed within e for the past 37 years. After doing so it frelt like a ton ofd bricks had been lifted from me. At this point I'd been a year into Parkinson's. My physical condition has shown no improvement but mentally I felt so much better after writing my Vietnam story.
Let's go back to those words incurable and worsen for a moment. "Janet, I am writing a story and don't want to take time out right now. Would you get the dictionary and tell me how Webster defines the word worse? "Certainly," she said, I'll get back to that soon. Soon after writing that story, David-Scott and I visited the Vietnam Memorial or "The Wall" in Washington, DC. While there, I vowed to give up alcohol completely. (It is not three years later and I am still "On the Wagon.).
"David, Janet began, "The meaning of the word worse is bad, harmful or unpleasant." "Thank you, Dear," I replied. Throughout our lives Wayne has often told me that I've always had this writing ability within me. Whatever was in me would always have a secondary effect to the alcohol which seemed to always have complete control of me.
After going on the wagon the lack of alcohol kept me awake at night. I soon realized that I did not need all that sleep and I began writing during those early morning hours. What could be bad, harmful or unpleasant about that?
Now let's go to October of 2008, where at Wayne's Seminar I would meet a girl named Connie. Connie has a personal story that probably would dwarf mine. Her story has yet to be written. I use the word yet in hopes that some day I will be able to do so. Connie is a Yoga instructor and today almost three years later I continue along with Janet with our weekly Yoga sessions. At the beginning she marveled at the way my Vietnam story was written and wanted to see more of my writing. She told me "David, you are a writer." She then added the words "writer's write." I began writing one story after another. She seems to be touched by just about everything I write and her inspiration deeply touches me. Bad? Harmful? Unpleasant?
To date I have written close to fifty of these short stories, mostly inspirational stories about family and friends. I also have written a book which is yet to be published titled "My Brother, Wayne and I."
In these past four years since incurring Parkinson's, I have made four trips to Florida to visit my Mother. The most recent being this past April. How could I be so lucky to be able to visit my Mother at the age of 72 and take her to dinner and watch a baseball game with her as we celebrate her 95th birthday.
I also want to mention here that I have come to realize and truly believe that there is a God within me. There is no way I woulde have stopped drinking on my own. I tried too many times to no avail. As Parkinson's was entering my body the alcohol was slowly exiting. I thank you my God for allowing me to survive another 40 years since Vietnam and to begin writing at the age of 69. This brings me to what I call my signature four line poem.
When I vowed to give up alcohol
Which was my life long crutch
I was given a brand new life
It became my time to touch
Bad? Harmful? Unpleasant? Now that it's been the better part of four years since Parkinson's I believe I have completely dispelled to word "worse." If you don't believe it's completely gone you certainly will when you read what I'm about to write as I close this story.
As I said in the first paragraph of this story, I retired from the Army in 1982 after 21 years. I'm not going to reveal any dollar amounts but my retirement pension was 52 per cent of my active duty pay. That of course was not enough to live on even though I was single at the time. For the next 29 years I continued to receive cost of living increases. Now along with social security that seemed to provide me with a livable retirement income.
Recently the Veterans Administration determined that Parkinson's Disease is connected to this substance called "Agent Orange" which was used to flush out the enemy in Vietnam. Since there was this connection the VA has awarded me what is called Combat Related Specialty Pay. That, coupled with my retirement pay has doubled my retirement compensation overnight. Bad? Harmful? Unpleasant?
So this has been my life since incurring Parkinson's. Since I've done away with thew word "worse," I look forward at the age of 72 to seeing what the next four years may bring. First I'll ask Janet to look up another word for me. That would be "incurable."
With all that being said let's get on with this story. In August of 2007, I was diagnosed with Parkinson's Disease. I researched this disease and discovered that it was not only incurable but that my condition would only worsen as time goes by. My immediate thoughts were of complete denial. I continued drinking. The medication was not working and if anything it seemed to have a negative affect when combined with alcohol. It took most of one year, some personal counseling and nine magical words from my brother, Wayne, "Do not die with your music still in you," for me to tell my Vietnam story.
I finally revealed those harrowing experiences that I had concealed within e for the past 37 years. After doing so it frelt like a ton ofd bricks had been lifted from me. At this point I'd been a year into Parkinson's. My physical condition has shown no improvement but mentally I felt so much better after writing my Vietnam story.
Let's go back to those words incurable and worsen for a moment. "Janet, I am writing a story and don't want to take time out right now. Would you get the dictionary and tell me how Webster defines the word worse? "Certainly," she said, I'll get back to that soon. Soon after writing that story, David-Scott and I visited the Vietnam Memorial or "The Wall" in Washington, DC. While there, I vowed to give up alcohol completely. (It is not three years later and I am still "On the Wagon.).
"David, Janet began, "The meaning of the word worse is bad, harmful or unpleasant." "Thank you, Dear," I replied. Throughout our lives Wayne has often told me that I've always had this writing ability within me. Whatever was in me would always have a secondary effect to the alcohol which seemed to always have complete control of me.
After going on the wagon the lack of alcohol kept me awake at night. I soon realized that I did not need all that sleep and I began writing during those early morning hours. What could be bad, harmful or unpleasant about that?
Now let's go to October of 2008, where at Wayne's Seminar I would meet a girl named Connie. Connie has a personal story that probably would dwarf mine. Her story has yet to be written. I use the word yet in hopes that some day I will be able to do so. Connie is a Yoga instructor and today almost three years later I continue along with Janet with our weekly Yoga sessions. At the beginning she marveled at the way my Vietnam story was written and wanted to see more of my writing. She told me "David, you are a writer." She then added the words "writer's write." I began writing one story after another. She seems to be touched by just about everything I write and her inspiration deeply touches me. Bad? Harmful? Unpleasant?
To date I have written close to fifty of these short stories, mostly inspirational stories about family and friends. I also have written a book which is yet to be published titled "My Brother, Wayne and I."
In these past four years since incurring Parkinson's, I have made four trips to Florida to visit my Mother. The most recent being this past April. How could I be so lucky to be able to visit my Mother at the age of 72 and take her to dinner and watch a baseball game with her as we celebrate her 95th birthday.
I also want to mention here that I have come to realize and truly believe that there is a God within me. There is no way I woulde have stopped drinking on my own. I tried too many times to no avail. As Parkinson's was entering my body the alcohol was slowly exiting. I thank you my God for allowing me to survive another 40 years since Vietnam and to begin writing at the age of 69. This brings me to what I call my signature four line poem.
When I vowed to give up alcohol
Which was my life long crutch
I was given a brand new life
It became my time to touch
Bad? Harmful? Unpleasant? Now that it's been the better part of four years since Parkinson's I believe I have completely dispelled to word "worse." If you don't believe it's completely gone you certainly will when you read what I'm about to write as I close this story.
As I said in the first paragraph of this story, I retired from the Army in 1982 after 21 years. I'm not going to reveal any dollar amounts but my retirement pension was 52 per cent of my active duty pay. That of course was not enough to live on even though I was single at the time. For the next 29 years I continued to receive cost of living increases. Now along with social security that seemed to provide me with a livable retirement income.
Recently the Veterans Administration determined that Parkinson's Disease is connected to this substance called "Agent Orange" which was used to flush out the enemy in Vietnam. Since there was this connection the VA has awarded me what is called Combat Related Specialty Pay. That, coupled with my retirement pay has doubled my retirement compensation overnight. Bad? Harmful? Unpleasant?
So this has been my life since incurring Parkinson's. Since I've done away with thew word "worse," I look forward at the age of 72 to seeing what the next four years may bring. First I'll ask Janet to look up another word for me. That would be "incurable."
Monday, July 18, 2011
Summer Activity
Without a doubt my favorite summer activity is and always has been the game of baseball. My love for that game for most of my life would be as a fan since my playing days were over in my mid teenage years. I do have a couple of baseball stories to share. The first one being very early in my lifetime and the second was rather recent.
When my brother Wayne and I lived in Mt Clemens in the 1940's we discovered a love for that game. We taught each other how to play the game. I can remember cutting out box scores from newspapers and pasting tghem in scrapbooks. After moving to Moross at the end of the baseball season we'd put a baseball in the pocket of our gloves and tie it tight so it would be ready for the next spring.
In the year of 1952 that spring seemed to come early. Now when I use the term "Playing on Moross," that means playing on the island that separates the east and the west sides of Moross Road. Itr is large enough to play catch on. It is even large enough to play football on which we did several times. So this February spring day in 1952 we played catch on Moross. A couple of other kids soon joined us. I was thirteen and Wayne was twelve. One of those kids seemed to be huge for his age of twelve. He towered over all of us and really threw that baseball hard. This was the year that I noticed what you might call my growth spurt.
Wayne showed us an ad in the Superman comic book where it showed a 97 pound weakling getting sand kicked in his face at the beach, when he decided he had taken enugh he turned himself into Charles Atlas and got his revenge. We all started doing sit-ups and push-ups and running. Wayne and I were in better physical shape than we ever had been.
We went to the gymnasium with our new friend, where we learned to play basketball. This kid already knew the game and seemed to be better at it than anyone else and he was only twelve years old. Believe me, I am not making this up. He then told us of an American Legion Baseball League he would be playing in. He was going to be in the 13-14 year old league.
We rounded up enough kids and put a team into that league and it just so happened that we played our first game against this same kid, who was still only twelve years old. No one could hit him. He seemed to strike out just about everyone he faced.
When I look back on it even today, I think of how proud I was just to be able to stand up to the plate and take my three swings. Yes, it was an honor to have known, befriended and played baseball and basketball with Dave DeBusschere.
Dave became an All State baseball and basketball player at Austin High School. He was also an All-American at the University of Detroit and went on to a Hall of Fame career with the New York Knickerbockers. He eventually became the Commissioner of the American Basketball Association. He was truly one of the greatest athletes of our time. It was an honor to have known him.
Now let's go forward to the year of 2006. Actually it was more like 2001 when I began playing fantasy sports. In fantasy sports it takes about 75 per cent luck and 25 per cent skill and knowledge to really compete for the big prize. This I not only competed for in 2006 but I won first place over several thousand teams. This was the playoffs of 2w006 when the Tigers were in the World Series against St Louis. I was placed in their Hall of Fame for winning and also received the $5000.00 first place prize.
Now for a little footnote to this story. Can you imagine three young boys, ages 12-13 playing catch on Moross in the early '50s. All three of them would one day wind up n the Hall of Fame in three completely different categories. Dave DeBusschere for Basketball, Wayne Dyer for International Speaking and David Dyer? Well why not? For Fantasy Sports.
When my brother Wayne and I lived in Mt Clemens in the 1940's we discovered a love for that game. We taught each other how to play the game. I can remember cutting out box scores from newspapers and pasting tghem in scrapbooks. After moving to Moross at the end of the baseball season we'd put a baseball in the pocket of our gloves and tie it tight so it would be ready for the next spring.
In the year of 1952 that spring seemed to come early. Now when I use the term "Playing on Moross," that means playing on the island that separates the east and the west sides of Moross Road. Itr is large enough to play catch on. It is even large enough to play football on which we did several times. So this February spring day in 1952 we played catch on Moross. A couple of other kids soon joined us. I was thirteen and Wayne was twelve. One of those kids seemed to be huge for his age of twelve. He towered over all of us and really threw that baseball hard. This was the year that I noticed what you might call my growth spurt.
Wayne showed us an ad in the Superman comic book where it showed a 97 pound weakling getting sand kicked in his face at the beach, when he decided he had taken enugh he turned himself into Charles Atlas and got his revenge. We all started doing sit-ups and push-ups and running. Wayne and I were in better physical shape than we ever had been.
We went to the gymnasium with our new friend, where we learned to play basketball. This kid already knew the game and seemed to be better at it than anyone else and he was only twelve years old. Believe me, I am not making this up. He then told us of an American Legion Baseball League he would be playing in. He was going to be in the 13-14 year old league.
We rounded up enough kids and put a team into that league and it just so happened that we played our first game against this same kid, who was still only twelve years old. No one could hit him. He seemed to strike out just about everyone he faced.
When I look back on it even today, I think of how proud I was just to be able to stand up to the plate and take my three swings. Yes, it was an honor to have known, befriended and played baseball and basketball with Dave DeBusschere.
Dave became an All State baseball and basketball player at Austin High School. He was also an All-American at the University of Detroit and went on to a Hall of Fame career with the New York Knickerbockers. He eventually became the Commissioner of the American Basketball Association. He was truly one of the greatest athletes of our time. It was an honor to have known him.
Now let's go forward to the year of 2006. Actually it was more like 2001 when I began playing fantasy sports. In fantasy sports it takes about 75 per cent luck and 25 per cent skill and knowledge to really compete for the big prize. This I not only competed for in 2006 but I won first place over several thousand teams. This was the playoffs of 2w006 when the Tigers were in the World Series against St Louis. I was placed in their Hall of Fame for winning and also received the $5000.00 first place prize.
Now for a little footnote to this story. Can you imagine three young boys, ages 12-13 playing catch on Moross in the early '50s. All three of them would one day wind up n the Hall of Fame in three completely different categories. Dave DeBusschere for Basketball, Wayne Dyer for International Speaking and David Dyer? Well why not? For Fantasy Sports.
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