In a recent magazine article I wrote, about a visit to the Indiantown Gap National Cemetery, I spoke about my embarrassment at being thanked for my service every time I ask for the veterans’ discount while shopping. My own 40-month Army experience was a net positive. But, having visited several military cemeteries, like this one, and Arlington, and in San Diego and Normandy, I’ve realized that under the endless, uniform white markers, lie many who weren’t so lucky.
Let’s go back about 50 years to my time in South Korea, during what is now described as the “Second Korean War.” We were stationed near the DMZ, above the three lines of defense along the traditional invasion route from north to south. So, every night we went to bed with the knowledge that we were expendable should the shit hit the fan. But we were young. And it didn’t.
Among the regular jobs of my unit was delivering test alert messages to various positions near the DMZ. The response to these was transmitted back to Seoul to gauge the system’s responsiveness to the then-rampant infiltration from North Korea. There was a window in which to deliver these messages that started at midnight and ended at daylight. Young and foolish, none of us wanted to roll out really early, so, after a night of drinking in our Quonset hut quarters, we generally managed to get in our jeeps and drive into the darkness so as to arrive at these remote spots right at 12:01.
The procedure usually involved stopping just short of some South Korean army checkpoint in the middle of absolute nowhere, pausing to fill out the details of time and place on a bi-lingual form, and then rushing forward to give them the message to send down the line of communication. These sand-bagged sites were full of trigger-happy conscripts, and here we were, in the middle of the night, suspiciously pausing in front of their positions, headlights shining in their eyes. More than one incident had been reported when the nervous ROK soldiers had opened fire–even on an American general. You can hardly blame them. Frankly, it’s a wonder we survived.
Yes, I was a bit in harm’s way. But I never fired a shot and never had one fired at me. So, when I have occasion to look down those rows of tombstones, set in the green grass against the background of a blue sky, I don’t dare think of myself as a brother in arms, but as an appreciative citizen–a citizen of a country that has sent so many people to their end, whether to fight for freedom or for economic imperialism. That distinction doesn’t matter to me. What does is the difference between those who have actually been in battle and those, like me, who haven’t.
I have no residual affinity for my service. I don’t wear caps or march in parades or belong to the VFW. I don’t feel I deserve to be honored or thanked. I volunteered because I felt the need to pay my dues as a citizen of this country. Please, let’s make that distinction! Honor those people, some of them brave, all of them heroes, who came back shattered, or who never came back at all. Just give me the 10%.
©2024, David B. Bucher
SoEast 
Amen!
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