Thank you, Master Sgt. Dan Campbell
My dad, the war hero
Technically, Memorial Day is meant to mark the sacrifice made by people who died while in military service to their country. My father died three decades after serving three tours in Vietnam. While there, he earned three Purple Hearts, a Bronze Star and the undying love of the men who answered to him. He was blown up, lost a lung, and came home with a back emblazoned with angry scars that looked like the map to hell.
My father died of esophageal cancer, an illness that is not connected to the Agent Orange he was exposed to while in country, though Agent Orange has been found to play a role in a pre-esophageal cancer condition that can lead to what killed my dad.
This will remain pure conjecture on my part. When my father was diagnosed, we talked about Agent Orange and whether that played a role, and he flatly refused to consider seeking benefits or recompense, and he forbade us to pursue anything after he was gone. A soldier fights — and sometimes dies — for his country. That was my father’s creed. In his last few weeks, he talked about how lucky he was, and how much he loved his family and country. It was inspiring, and when I told him his approach to death was noble to me, he smiled, eyes closed in the hospital bed, and said, “Scots are noble by birth.”
After he died, the stories trickled in that told me I was right, he was a bad-ass, though he always acted quite proper around me. Some of those stories were probably not what a daughter should hear, but I was honored to listen to all of them. A contentious divorce moved my father out of our house when I was 6. Those stories were gold to me.
Today, I’ll go watch my son and grandchildren march in their local parade (my son’s on his town council). I’ll get a little teary-eyed over the veterans in the parade, and I will think of Master Sgt. Campbell, who would have been so very proud of the three in the parade.
Well said, Godspeed Sgt. Campbell.....
I had a close friend who was a medic in a Dust Off unit in Vietnam. I met him about ten years after he served. He was smart, darkly funny and though it wasn’t always apparent, he was tortured by his memories. We were close through several of his romantic relationships. They all ended the same way. Just when he seemed happiest, his mood would change and he slowly drove the woman away, never being the one to say “we’re done”. Over time the same thing happened with many of his friends, including myself. Fifteen years passed of us barely seeing one another when he was diagnosed with lung cancer. He refused treatment although it would have likely extended his life. Through a mutual acquaintance he reached out to me and a small group of past close friends for support. The last weeks of his life we took turns staying with him. He was clear minded and lucid up to two days before he died. I can’t say we made up for those fifteen years in those weeks but we reconnected and he opened up about the war and how he sabotaged his own happiness over the years. He told me stories I hadn’t heard before, not so much a confessional as it was a lightening of the load.
In 1982 I went with him and another Vietnam Veteran friend to Washington for the dedication of the Vietnam Memorial. In general I’m a bit suspicious and cynical when it comes to memorials but to me that memorial reflects the gravity and sacrifice of war more than any other. As surely as the names on that wall, my friend, and many like him, was a victim of that war. If only sacrifice added up to peace.
His name was David.