In light of today being the anniversary of 9/11, it seems particularly appropriate to share this story, from the mind of the star of the "Eyewitness to Combat" section of this site. He writes:
"A young United States Marine, just 20 years old, was experiencing his first off-base convalescent leave from Balboa Naval Hospital.
He had been a 19 year old infantry Sergeant in Vietnam and had been severely wounded while serving his second tour of duty in the jungles of the DMZ around the Khe Sanh Air strip.
He had been wounded three times and wore the Purple Heart ribbon with two gold stars on his uniform to signify this fact.
He felt totally out of place as he walked the “beach” in San Diego, California.
Not knowing where he would end up or where he was going, he could feel the tingling up his spine he had experienced in “Nam” whenever the enemy were near.
While not fearful, his uneasiness gave way to hyper vigilance as he began to have intrusive thoughts of past roving patrols; the wide streets becoming rice paddies; sidewalks becoming trails along dikes separating flooded fields; buildings becoming treelines, and people becoming “Charlie”.
As he walked, he began to search the “treelines” for a safe haven in which to seek shelter. One place in particular caught his eye and he instinctively “dove” through the opening; which was in fact just a door. This safe haven was simply the bar of a downtown hotel, decorated in all dark wood and low lights. It was dark; it was empty and safe; it was closed in and the perfect “bunker”.
As his vision adjusted to the dark surroundings the bar came into view or rather into awareness. He moved toward it, almost stumbling from dizziness. He settled upon a stool near the end of the bar, barely aware that a pair of eyes was studying him intensely. Looking down and straight ahead, his peripheral vision picked up the image of red gunnery sergeant stripes and four hashmarks signifying twenty plus years of service in the Marine Corps.
Upon regaining his composure the young Marine ventured a serious glance to his right. There sitting just four bar stools away was an “Old Corps” Marine: a Gunny, in his mid forties. His face was hard and he maintained the presence of authority. Yet he smiled and turned so that the young Marine could see the “salad dressing” on his uniform.
He had many ribbon decorations, signifying combat in both WWII and Korea. He lifted his glass to the young Marine and said: “the rest of the evening is on me; Semper Fucking Fi!!!” The young Marine finally felt completely safe and at ease; responding: “Semper Fi Gunny, and thanks.” The Gunny, under his breath, responded: “Oorah!” as he was well on his way to feeling no pain.
The young Sergeant moved next to the “old” Gunny and introduced himself. The Gunny, “Penny”, did the same and followed up with a teary eyed statement of total understanding: “I’ve not seen many of those in my 25 years in the Corps” as he pointed to the Purple Heart ribbon. He then pointed to his own with its two gold stars.
They looked at each other in total understanding; neither being able to speak for some time, just drinking glass after glass of beer. However the immediate respect they had for each other became readily apparent in the way they looked at each other and in the way they talked with each other. Finally they became sufficiently comfortable with each other and sufficiently inebriated to begin to share their common “experiences”; the wars that each had endured.
As they drank and as they shared their hearts and souls with each other, the differences in their ages and years between conflicts faded and they began to dwell into the deepest darkest abysses of their souls. As they became totally absorbed in their conversation a third Marine had entered the bar and had moved to the darkest corner of it.
He became vaguely but immediately familiar to each of them. He touched their hearts and they both; young and old, began to softly speak about him. He was their friend; he was their brother. They began to talk openly about him; his humor, his screw ups, his courage, his bravery, his friendship, what an “outstanding fucking Marine” he was. How they wanted to kick his ass; how they loved him; how he was “one crazy son of a bitch”. They talked openly in front of him; yet without embarrassment, as if wanting him to hear, to know, to understand. They talked angrily of him; affectionately of him; taunting him to come sit with them, to join them in a drink.
It was uncanny that both the young Vietnam Vet and the WWII/Korean Vet had known the exact same Marine, years and wars apart. Yet they did! And there he was right there in the same bar at the same time that they were.
They both looked deeply into the eyes and heart of the third Marine with reserved reverence.
Then when all that could be said about him was said; they both grew silent, eyes welling up with tears, they drank to him, held each other and softly cried.
The old Gunny holding the young Sergeant or was it the young Sergeant holding the Gunny. They freed their souls and saluted the third Marine for he was the one who did NOT return from battle and is forever carried in the hearts of every Marine until his death. SEMPER FIDELIS! Always faithful to all Marines; living and dead. To never forget. "Oorah!" meaning “You're God-damned RIGHT!”
How do I know this is true? It's because I was that young Marine Corps Sergeant.
This is not to say that Marines care more for the Third Marine than the Army cares for the third Soldier or that Marines drink more and cry more, although they probably do. It is to say with assurance that the THIRD WARRIOR is NEVER FORGOTTEN.
For whether that THIRD WARRIOR was known intimately or simply observed in death, he becomes the catharsis for the mourning of those of us so fortunate to have survived to carry on their memories. As long as warriors carry their memory in our hearts, they never truly die but live in us in another dimension.
Therefore it is necessary for those of us who survived to “live” for those who did not. To reduce their sacrifice to that of killer by taking our own lives out of guilt would be the grievous of injustices. They live in us and if we take suicide as the way out of our grief, they die a second and possibly a final death.
WE HAVE A RESPONSIBILITY TO LIVE ON, TO BE HAPPY AND TO HEAL, for that is what they would have wanted for us. So live, love and HEAL...
© 2010 by Lily Casura / Healing Combat Trauma. All rights reserved. Use with attribution.
