Thank a Veteran

I am an old softy, despite my curmudgeon looks and sometimes stern demeanor. I tear up at parades when the bands march by, especially if Old Glory is flying. I get a lump in my throat when somebody forwards one of those touching emails about our military forces. I am in awe every time I see images of Arlington National Cemetery or one of the many fields in Europe where brave men and women from past wars rest. All those crosses...

I am the son of a WWII Army Air Corps Lieutenant and the father of a Gulf War Airman. I missed out on military service during the Vietnam era because my number was not called. (For those too young to know, the draft was run as a lottery by birthday; my number was 323 and my year of eligibility ended with the draw around 319.) My eighteen-year-old self didn't like the way Washington was running the war; I thought we should fight to win or get out. When the draft lottery started closing in on my number, I briefly considered conscientious objector status or flight to Canada. Okay, my thoughts about Canada lasted about fifteen minutes, but I did investigate the CO thing. I would not have qualified.

In the end I resigned myself to go if called, as if there was ever any real doubt; I loved my Dad too much to disappoint him, if nothing else. Besides, even back then my typical self-interested teen eyes watered at the sight of the flag. That was 1969; the fallout from the Tet offensive and the Mei Lei massacre were like open wounds on our national psyche. Even though I disagreed with the prosecution of the war, I was wholeheartedly in favor of letting people everywhere make their own choices about their form of government. I believed then, as now, that if people wanted communist rule, they should be allowed to make that decision freely, not be driven to it by force of arms or fear of famine.

There was something else that fortified my will to go to war if asked: Jane Fonda hadn't yet posed on the NVA anti-aircraft gun; the four Kent State protesters had not been martyred, but the anti-war sentiment was everywhere, especially on college campuses (my world.) I detested the anarchy most anti-war protests advocated. Sit-ins were one thing, but destruction and mayhem were not to my liking. Worst of all, our national embarrassment over the war left the returning veterans out in the cold or subject to too much heat. Never in our history had those who risked their lives under our flag been so badly treated when they stepped back into civilian life. Part of me wanted to stand with them or die beside them out of pure sympathy for how they were being maligned.

Forty years later I sometimes wish I had gone. When my son enlisted in the Air Force, I actually felt jealous of him. Had I not been too old, I might have joined him in uniform. I did investigate civilian service; I was one click of the mouse away from applying for a job as a tanker driver (if I had had my tanker certification I might have clicked.) The real thing that stopped me was the thought of my wife soldiering on alone at home. She worried constantly about my driving the U.S. highways; I can't imagine her fear had I been trucking fuel in Iraq.

So much for the secret life of Clair Verway. If you are still reading (you have too much time on your hands) let me suggest an active response to this vent of mine. Thank a veteran. Literally, physically thank someone who is or was wearing this county's uniform. Naturally, I try to send a little something to my son on Veteran's Day, but I usually make eye contact or actually speak to any uniformed passers-by and give them a thumbs up or a word of gratitude. Paul admonishes us to give honor to whom honor is due. I can think of no class of persons who is more deserving of honor than those who have served in our military. Write it down; make a plan; show someone how much you honor them. Do it!