The day Leroy told us about Vietnam

I don't know anyone who has died in war.  Not even anyone second hand, a friend's cousin or a co-worker's neighbor.  No one.  That's just one of the privileges of being relatively wealthy in America; everyone goes to college instead of joining the Army. 

The closest I've come to wartime death is when our minister reads the names of those soldiers killed in service during the last week.  We started that ritual at my church years ago, and then,  I remember being overwhelmed by the long list of names.  Now, I hate to admit, but my brain has grown used to it.  This war is a war without a face, and it's easy to forget.  Too easy.

Growing up, the Vietnam War was in our family room.  Every night, grainy black and white, then color.  And on the cover of Time Magazine that sat on our coffee table.  And in our songs. War (What is It Good For?).  Absolutely nothing.

We even wore the war on our wrists. I can’t remember my POW's name, but I do remember thinking about him, especially at night, touching the name engraved in in the nickel-plated bracelet.  Reading the date he had been taken captive.  Calculating how long it had been.  Two years, 3 months, 18 days.  Nineteen days.  Twenty. 

I used to teach a class in Ohio history, and as history is wont to, we followed the trail marked by war.  French and Indian, Revolutionary, 1812, Civil.  Then the affects of World War I on manufacturing in Ohio, the role of WWII is creating women's rights and the boom of steelmaking.  We know a little bit better now and do better, but then it was a war-driven curriculum.

The boys -- ten-year-olds-- loved the class and got particularly excited with the advancement of weaponry and transport.  It bothered me, the same way I'd imagine it bothers a mother when her son turns every stick into a gun. 

I knew that our custodian, Leroy James, had served in Vietnam, so I asked him to speak to my class one Tuesday.  I remember him saying sure real fast, then backtracking in the days to come.  "I don't really talk about this.  Will they ask me lots of questions?"

When the day came, the kids did ask a lot of questions, and I could see their enthusiasm grow.  It was "cool" that a soldier would carry an M60 with 100 pre-loaded rounds. It was “awesome” that Leroy had been a ground soldier in a rice field.  But then one boy asked if Leroy had ever been hurt, and the whole tone shifted. 

Leroy took a big pause.  He would sigh, start a sentence, then sigh again.  He was, I could tell, thinking about something he hadn't thought about in a long while.  "I was shot three times."  The class lit up.  Wow, three times! 

Leroy, always the chummiest of fellows, said something like, "That ain't nothing to get excited about.  Getting shot hurts. Blood is real."

The room got real quiet.  Real fast.

"We was out on rotation and had been in a waiting spot for a few days.  Charlie - you know who that was?  - occupied a hill and we was told that we had to take that hill.  I knew it was a mess of trouble.  You never want to be going up a hill in war.  They got eyes on you.  No one makes it to the top."

Leroy was sweating really badly at this point.  Everyone in the room was leaning in.  Somber.  

"Me and my friend was in the middle of the pack. The whole company charged the hill and everyone I knew…well, they went down pretty fast.  We was sitting ducks, you know what that means?" A pause.  "I got shot about half way up the hill. Right here, in my shoulder.  And again, near my elbow.  Can you see the scar?"

He pointed.  The kids nodded.  

"I remember laying on that hill, taking one more bullet.  Then the blood, like water, pouring past me, rolling down the hill.  I don’t know how long, then he noise stopped, the VC came down off the top and was poking around making sure they'd killed us all.  One guy stood right next to me, I knew I had to play dead.  You know what that is, playing dead?"

Pale nods. Silence. 

"I don't really know what happened next.  I woke up in California.  They said I'd been out for nearly two weeks.  All I know is that everyone was gone.  Just me and one buddy made it home."

Then Leroy took out the handkerchief he kept in his back pocket and wiped his face.  I knew the story was over and there were not going to be any more questions that day.  I also knew I'd never ask Leroy to speak with my class again.  He was perfect, the kids were changed, but I wasn't going to ask him to climb that hill again, or remember that blood. 

Every day after that day, there was a certain well-deserved anointing of Leroy.  The sixteen kids in the class told their friends and those friends told others, and before long, the whole fourth grade knew about Leroy.  They didn't talk about war the same way either.  They finally understood -- I finally understood -- the peril and risk.  War was not a game, a TV show, a movie.  When Leroy would pass the kids in the halls, they would straighten up the same way they did when the principal walked by.  "Mr. James, hello Mr. James," they would say, like we had a super-hero among us.

Those kids would be a thirty now, and for their whole adult lives, our country has been at war.  I wonder if they remember that day, our custodian telling us about what it means to serve.  I wonder if today -- this Memorial Day -- any of them are thinking about Leroy or the others.  The ones who died on that bloody hill. 

I hope so, I really do.

Today, Leroy – Private Leroy James, wherever you are – I want to say thank you.  Thank you for charging up that hill.  Thanks for playing dead.  Thanks for coming home.  And thanks for that winter Tuesday afternoon twenty years ago.  The day you told us about war. 

And to your friends, especially the ones who did not make it home to tell their stories: our country is forever indebted and humbled by your valor.