Thanks Vets

                So there are a few guys I want to say thanks to this weekend. Really, there are a whole lot of men and women who deserve thanks. Anyone who has ever worn a U.S. military uniform to be specific.

                Well, except for that Bergdahl guy, or whatever her name is now. Obama can thank him/her.

                Some of these guys are deceased.  Most are not. Only one of them reads my ramblings as far as I know.  They all deserve my thanks.

                Starting with my father-in-law who served in the Pacific Theater in World War II. He talked his parents into giving their permission for him to enlist at 17.  Seventeen. Take a look at the 20-something you know living in his or her parent’s house trying to decide if he should work for a living, go back to school, or you know, hang out.

                My father-in-law mainly only spoke of his KP duty on the USS Kingsbury. He liked working in the kitchen. But he had a battle station and he manned it a few times. That’ll make you grow up fast. Seventeen.

                His main job was riding in the smaller troop transports to deliver infantry to various beaches in the Pacific. You know, the boats whose front fell open as a door through which dashed our brave young men into frequently hostile conditions. He never said if they ever picked them up later. Seventeen.

                Then he came home, finished high school, went to work for Burlington-Northern every day for 35 years, and raised the family that gave me my wonderful wife who has given me my wonderful family. Thanks one hell of a lot Jim.

                I worked for a guy who was a tank commander under Patton. He was a great guy with a lot of great stories, not a single one of which that I ever heard mentioned live fire and you know there were many.

                I worked with a guy who said his time in the service was dedicated to making sure Guam was not overstocked with tequila. He had a weird little tattoo of a skunk on an anchor on his forearm that he swears he had no recollection of receiving.

                I worked with a fellow who spent his Vietnam era years in the service stationed in South Korea. At night they would listen to the radio traffic in Vietnam and thank God they were in Korea. And then feel guilty for having the thought.

                I had a business associate who said he spent his 19^th birthday in a firefight in Vietnam and I worked closely with another Vietnam vet who had/has a paralyzing case of PTSD, God bless him. I hear that he is in a program now caring for horses, or vice versa, that is really, really helping. Lord, I hope so.  Thank you, pal.

                Forgive me if sometimes I think Jane Fonda should lose her Hollywood horse teeth to an angry vet with a roofing hammer.

                When Barb and I lived in Detroit I worked with a couple of Vietnam vets. One had been a sniper for the Rangers. He told lots of stories about bugs and snakes and one about a tiger but never any about what he did, other than to say he averaged one spotter per two trips out. Don’t be a spotter.

                The other fellow had been a medivac pilot shot down behind enemy lines.  He crawled back to safety under cover of night, covering himself with leaves and detritus during the day so as not to be discovered by patrols of Viet Cong. He said he kind of lost track of time during all that from the fear and the fever but when he made safety the calendar said it was three weeks later. I believe him because he had the skin condition to prove it.

                He and his family invited Barb and me to spend our first Thanksgiving away from home and family with them. Swell guy.

                One of my best friends served himself as did/are all three of his sons. One of his sons recently returned from his second tour in Afghanistan or Iraq—I should know but I don’t—where he led his own platoon of men on missions searching for and neutralizing bombs. He returned with all his limbs and digits and we are all very grateful for that.

                A friend of my son’s was not so lucky, returning from his Middle Eastern tour minus both his legs. Lost to a roadside bomb, followed by a medically induced coma that lasted literally months. He woke up at Walter Reed. Now, I’m told, he lives quite independently with his girlfriend and has a positive attitude that is very inspirational. One of the things he does now is ski instruction for other paraplegics.

                Is “thanks” even close to being a big enough word?

                And another friend of my son’s was incredibly lucky having returned from two tours in Afghanistan as a machine door gunner—one of the jobs a guy is least likely to return home from. Thanks to that brave young man.

                And there are others. So many others. My uncle served—kept Greenland from being invaded by the Russians and the Irish. I have a cousin-by-marriage and a nephew-by-marriage who served. And there are probably a score of others that just aren’t coming to mind right now.

                I mean no offense if I have left you or your loved one out and you feel like I should not have. Every man and woman who put that uniform on and risked their lives or simply did their jobs in order to keep us safe and preserve this great republic of states deserves our thanks this Memorial Day and every day.

                Tuesday we can get back to shrieking at each other again over stupid political differences. Until then why don’t we all bow our heads for a second.