Some Wars Never End

Kelly and her Dad

This post is from a series of Facebook entries written by my friend and teammate, Kelly Baker. She recently accepted one of those ‘awareness’ challenges, this one to bring attention to the sad statistic that, every day in this country, 22 US war vets commit suicide. Kelly’s challenge was to do 22 pushups daily for 22 days in order to raise awareness for PTSD suffered by war vets, which often ends in suicide.

Every one of us knows someone who fought for our country somewhere, at some time. Regardless of how you felt, or feel,  about the wars themselves, you must remember that these are our fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives. These people have seen things and done things that the rest of us are lucky enough to have been able to avoid. They fought to keep the rest of us insulated from the real horrors that are an unfortunate part of the human condition. We owe them our respect.

Sometime during Kelly’s daily postings, she decided to write her dad’s story. I’ve included it here because I think it strikes a chord that all of us need to hear so that we don’t allow ourselves to wallow in the complacency that freedom affords.

If you, too, are moved by the experiences of this one man, I recommend doing something to help out. Pushups are great for your upper body, but there are other ways that will help the vets more directly.

Two great organizations to consider if you’d like to help make a difference are DAV (Disabled American Veterans), www.dav.org, and Operation Gratitude (operationgratitude.com), which provides social packages, care packages, letters, etc. to vets and active military. Both are reputable charities.

And now, the story of Sergeant A.J. Bazar, Jr:

Some of you know this, some don't. My dad is a Vietnam veteran with PTSD. Time does not heal all wounds. Some remain for life.

If you have never gone to war you can't imagine what someone who has has seen or done. It changes you, and affects everyone around you that care about you most.

Dad is older than most of the guys in his platoon. Old enough to have a college degree, the job he would later retire from, and be married. But not so old he couldn't be drafted. They called him Professor. One of the first memories he has of Vietnam was being mortared as they arrived. For the record, that's what fireworks sound like.

Dad's platoon was transported from remote location to remote location dangling beneath a helicopter. Felt like sitting ducks the whole time.

They depend on one another for survival. Young men from different backgrounds who are now, in effect, family. Death can come from anywhere. Booby traps, ambushes, and people who look like civilians.

Dad brought a camera with him to Vietnam. My brother and I looked through that album often to see our Dad as a young man. There are pictures of the guys playing football, fishing for whatever they can catch in the rivers, playing guitar, posing on top of a downed helicopter. Some look like photos from a vacation (Vietnam was a pretty country until the war), but the photos of the men with their weapons are a jolt back to reality. Perhaps the most telling is one of a solitary soldier standing with his feet in the surf of the South China Sea looking down as the waves wash away his footprints.

Monsoon season, and the platoon is trapped on a hill for a month. Conditions are poor enough that supply helicopters can't reach them, so once they're out of C-rations they eat bugs and roots that they can find. Every day in Vietnam is One Day at a Time, a mantra that many men will repeat later in life attending AA meetings to deal with the alcoholism they suffer as a result of self medicating.

What happens when you're the guy that makes the decisions? Dad never discusses any fire fight he was in. The only one we know anything about is the one the Army awarded him the Bronze Star for. They summarize the event neatly. Upon identifying enemy soldiers trying to evade across a rice paddy, Dad had to make some quick decisions. The war is just like author Jack London says, "kill or be killed", and that was exactly what happened. The Army sanitizes the language to the number of enemy soldiers "silenced" vs. captured along with important intelligence documents secured. The thing was, those soldiers were like our soldiers. Guys ordered to serve in a war they could give half-a-damn about, who would rather be with their families, and who were just following orders. For someone like my Dad who takes no decision lightly, it weighs on your conscience.

March 23, 1971 while collecting the explosives he had set up to protect the platoon's position overnight, my Dad trips a booby trap. The ground erupts beneath his feet turning his world into fire, noise, and pain. The platoon reacts as trained, and a medevac is called. The Professor is leaving Vietnam.

If you survive a land mine, the injuries are catastrophic. Dad has a fractured right arm, his fractured right wrist must be fused, his fractured right leg set, right ankle and right foot reconstructed, he is peppered with shrapnel that must be dug out of his skin leaving 2 mm deep quarter shaped scars all over his body. His shattered left leg is noted to be cold in the medical records as they close him up. Two days later he will be in the OR having that leg amputated above the knee.

2005. I am at my parent's house when the phone rings. My Dad answers it and spends some time catching up with someone he obviously knows. I figure it's one of his cousins, but he says "No. It was the first guy in my platoon to reach me after I was injured. I haven't talked to him in over 30 years." Over 30 years. This man had heard Dad survived, but it wasn't right for him until he spoke with him himself. He spent over 30 years trying to track Dad down so that he could talk to him. They did not know it that day, but 10 years later they would finally meet again face to face.

Seems that every medic is nicknamed Doc, and this platoon was no exception. After his tours were done, Doc returned to the States and became a financial planner. He was also in touch with most of the guys, and began to plan a big reunion weekend in the Rocky Mountains in 2015. Everyone except those who already passed away or had health problems too severe to travel were going to be there.

July 2015. The platoon gathers at a ski resort in the Rocky Mountains. Most of the guys had not seen each other in over 40 years, and in an instant "a bunch of old guys" (Dad's phrase, not mine) are young again. They talk and laugh, get misty eyed, talk some more, and make up for lost time. My Mom said "they never shut up." Doc had planned multiple activities and meals the whole weekend, gave each guy a book with collection of photos and other things he'd created at his business, and provided the perfect forum for healing. They would plan to do it again in 2016.

This September the guys will meet in San Antonio. A few others that were not permitted in Colorado's high altitude by their physicians will be in attendance, and one passed away after last year's reunion. My Dad is as excited as a kid going to Disney World about seeing his friends again. This is the last day of this challenge where I'll be posting videos, but I'll be quietly continuing on my own. Our servicemen and women need our support every day.