Happy Memorial Day holiday, loyal airmen.  As our country prepares for the first unofficial long week-end of the summer season, what with grumbling about high gas prices and the thrills of the movie blockbusters up there on the silver screen, we should stop for a brief moment to give thanks to those we remember on this special day.  Which, for your Air Chief, means recalling the most vivid dream I ever had.

I served in the U.S.Army in Vietnam during 1967-68.   As the end of May 68 rolled around, I had only one week left of my tour and started the paper-chase process that would get me shipped home.  In the last 90 days of one's tour, you became a Short-Timer.  The First Sergeant of our company relieved me of my duties so I go about getting my paper work in order.  One morning, knowing I was almost done with that task, he asked if I'd volunteer to ride shotgun for him on his daily courier run to Saigon.  We were stationed at an airstrip 22 miles north of the capital city.  It was a beautiful day and knowing I had very little left to do, I agreed to go along.  We went to Supply, signed out hand pistols, then climbed into the sergeant's jeep and took off for the big city.  In Saigon we stopped at various Army offices delivering and picking up packages.  By mid-afternoon Sarge informed me we had one last stop and then we'd be heading back for the base.  That stop was the United States
Mortuary Depot at the Saigon Airport.

As we drove up to this giant, nondesript green and gray warehouse, I felt myself getting nervous.  Although I'd never been there before, every G.I. in-country knew what this place was.  It was the place all the American slain were taken for identification, embalming and final placement in plain, no-frills coffins for the long journey home.  Every day this facility processed hundreds of young American boys, doing their best to make them presentable for that final journey back to their loved ones.  Having parked the jeep, Sarge told me I could stay there and wait for him or go in with him.  The choice was mine.  Part of me rebelled at the idea of setting foot in that place.  I am not a ghoul and seeing dead people is not something I enjoy in the slightest.  But what I am is a writer and my curiosity is what drives my talent.  For no other reason than to see with my own eyes, to live the experience, I agreed to tag along.  Call it an act of duty as a writer.

I would later write about that experience for our local paper here in Somersworth and to this day I still meet people who remember that one column.  I was told that it was actually read aloud on some local TV news broadcast.  The power of words is humbling indeed.  But that is not the what this Log Entry is about Loyal Airmen.  So moving on. 

Two nights later, that trip to the mortuary still very fresh in my mind, I went to sleep and had the most vivid dream in my then 21 year old life.  It seemed I was awaken from my slumber by voices, lots and lots of voices.  I climbed out of my bunk, threw on some clothes and walked out of the barracks.  Once outside I could see the huge empty field to the front of our barracks was filled with dozens of campfires around which were hundreds and hundreds of soldiers.  It was the middle of the night and I was confused as to what they were all doing there?  I slowly approached the field and started walking through their camp.  All of them, gathered around those blazing fires were so alive, so animated, chatting away, laughing and clowning around like all young men do.  I tried to see their unit patches on their sleeves in hopes of being able to identify what outfit they belonged to.  But the brightness of the flames and the darkness of the night prevented me from getting a clear view.  Then, all of a sudden, Top Sergeants all over the field began yelling for them to “saddle up!”  Meaning, get into formation.  They were moving out.  This they did with practised ease, quickly and efficiently.  Seeing I was going to be in their way, I moved off to the side of the road and stood there watching them assemble.  Once they were all lined up, they became silent and the night became powerfully still.  Somewhere down the road, a Company Commander gave the word, and once again the grizzled sergeants relayed the command, “MOVE OUT!”

And that army of young men, most not even 20 yet, started marching past me into the thick, dark jungle ahead.  And as they did, I suddnely knew who they were.  And my chest tightened and tears welled up in my eyes.  And as they moved past me, one of them turned and said with a sad sweet smile, “Don't forget us.”

I never have.  On this special weekend, I remember them, and all the brave men and women who gave their lives in the service of our country in all wars.  Who paid the ultimate sacrifice to guarantee your freedoms and mine.  I will never ever forget them, nor those serving today in foreign lands.  God bless them all, Americans every one.

Ron – Over & Out.