Suzanne Rice

Feb 09 2019

Love At First Sight? Really? 1970

It was the fall of 1968. The Corps had returned from summer activities – leave & cadet duty (mine was Army Orientation Training [AOT] with the

101st Airborne at Fort Campbell}, and academics & extracurricular activities were in full swing. I was privileged enough to be selected by my peers at KDET, our school radio station, to be the Station Manager. Shortly thereafter, I went over to Building 600, which housed administrative functions, including the Post Signal Office, to conduct the customary meeting between the Station Manager and the faculty advisor, whose assigned position was Post Signal Officer. As I entered the office, my attention was immediately riveted on the receptionist, who was one of the most beautiful young women I had ever seen in my brief adult life. I distinctly remember thinking, “I want her to be the mother of my children!” That may sound corny, but it was absolutely my reaction. Her name was JoAnne, the spelling of which I found intriguing, and subsequent to that first meeting, I asked her out. I learned that she recently had graduated from the State University of New York, at Oneonta, with a degree in education, and was working as a secretary until she could find a teaching position in the local area. We began dating regularly and I learned the attraction was mutual.

We continued seeing each other the rest of Firstie year, with one of the highlights being the Ring Hop (a formal dance held to celebrate receiving new Class Rings).

Another highlight occurred during a powerful winter storm that descended just prior to St. Patrick’s Day in early 1969. The weather encompassed a significant area in the northeast and closed down much activity for a few days; it hit particularly hard at our location in upstate New York. On somewhat of a whim, I thought it would be a great

surprise to visit Jo at her home, which was about 2 ½ miles away in Highland Falls. So, I slogged through a couple of feet of snow to appear at her front door. Needless to say, she was quite surprised, as were her parents, who were unable to get to work because of the snow (always good to make points with potential in-laws). The relationship grew; we got pinned (the USMA version of “going steady”) and I gave her a miniature of my class ring.

We spent nearly all our free time together, limited more by my schedule than hers. Graduation came and went, and we maintained our relationship on a long-distance basis while I was assigned to Fort Benning for Airborne, Ranger and Basic Infantry Officer training. When I returned home prior to the Basic Course for Christmas leave and was visiting Jo and her family, I concocted a scheme to lure her into Newburgh and while she was shopping, snuck into a jewelry store and bought an engagement ring. On our way back to her house, I sprung the question while stopped at a traffic light (I did not, however, get down on one knee for obvious reasons). Momentarily taken aback, she recovered her composure and said yes! We set a temporary date and I returned to Benning.

While there I discovered that the US Air Force had a regular shuttle flight along the east coast, which stopped at Warner Robbins Airbase in Georgia and McGuire Airbase in New Jersey. I researched the logistics and determined that even though we trained Saturday mornings (six-day workweeks were standard in the Army at that time), it was theoretically possible to make the 90+ mile automobile trip from Benning to Robbins Saturday after class in time to catch the flight to McGuire. Jo would make the 120-mile trip from her home to meet me there, where we could be together for about 24 hours. One time, I even arranged the necessary removal of some wisdom teeth to occur on a Friday afternoon, so I would not have to go to class the next day while recovering from the procedure. That allowed me to leave with enough time to drive leisurely, rather than frenetically, though my Corvette was up to the latter task.

After Benning, I reported along with several classmates, to Fort Carson for my first assignment with 2d Battalion, 10th Infantry, and we finalized the date of our wedding. We set it for August 29, 1970, which would give enough time to plan. We made arrangements to have the ceremony at the Air Force Academy Chapel in Colorado Springs.

Jo joined me a little over two months prior, getting a temporary job at a fabric store, since she was quite adept at sewing, while I ran around in the nearby woods, doing Army things. Two of those Army things

turned out to have an impact on our wedding plans. First, subsequent to us setting the date and making arrangements, the luck of the draw caused my Battalion to be scheduled for a one-month readiness assignment involving potential riot response duty for anywhere west of the Mississippi, which overlapped our wedding date. Since ours was what is now called a “‘destination wedding”, our parents, and Jo’s brother and sister, who were part of the wedding party, would join us in Colorado Springs. The only downside was the fact that our “honeymoon” would have to take place in nearby Denver, instead of a romantic getaway site.

**Standing Throughout the Whole Ceremony**

Second, a little less than two months before the actual wedding date, my battalion was conducting an exercise in Pike National Forest. I had completed my company time and was elevated to Battalion staff as the assistant operations officer (assistant S-3). After we completed the exercise, the unit moved back to main post and I was designated the officer in charge of the Detachment Left in Contact (DLIC), which in a non-combat environment was the cleanup detail. After the cleanup, as we were ready to begin our return to Carson, I and my driver, who was primarily an armored personnel carrier (APC) driver, were motoring quickly along a gravel road in an M151A1 Jeep, when we came to a sharp turn in the road. He started to make the left turn, when the wheels broke loose on the gravel and we skidded sideways. The tires hit the adjoining grass surface, and the Jeep, having a documented notoriously high center of gravity, started to roll over in my direction. My driver was able to jump out as the Jeep rolled, but I wasn’t so lucky. I almost made it, but the side of the Jeep caught my left leg just below the knee breaking the fibula, though I was able to avoid being crushed by the vehicle. When the dust settled, my driver kept apologizing as he helped me limp to the nearest aid station, which was just a quarter of a mile down the road. The medics temporarily patched me up and we finished the move back to post, with me stopping at the emergency room of the hospital. They put my entire left leg in a walking cast and told me it would take approximately two months to heal enough to walk without it. They immediately scheduled me for a one-month follow-up.

During the four weeks’ time, I managed to become mobile enough to be able to go to the field without crutches. At my one-month appointment, the doctor removed the cast, did an examination and told me he would give me a different cast which could be taken off in a month, assuming my leg was healing properly. Since that would occur approximately a week after our wedding, I respectfully told him that the cast had to be off before then, since I wasn’t about to walk down the aisle on my wedding day limping along in a cast. Although it was personal, it became my self-appointed mission, not unlike many at USMA, especially during Beast Barracks. Being compassionate, he modified his prognosis, had me report in two weeks, reexamined me then and gave me some mobility tests. I did well enough to not need the cast, so he wished me good luck and sent me on my way. Although the muscles in the leg atrophied to some extent from lack of normal use, I was able to carefully ambulate for the ceremony, much to Jo’s delight.

Throughout this whole process, she stepped up to the role of wife somewhat prematurely, in a stellar way, doing all she could to make my life easier. I knew I had made the right choice for a lifelong partner.

Jan 09 2019

Keeping In Touch With A Soldier 1970-2015

It all started with a blind date in 1970 arranged by Bill’s childhood friend who had just graduated from the USAF Academy – well, not exactly. It was really initiated by his new wife who was teaching next to me at Sperreng Middle School in Crestwood, Missouri. Previously having introduced Bill to lots of girls, they had once even fixed him up on a cadet trip to Colorado Springs with a young lady whose name they claimed to be Cherry Tart or was it really Sherry Tarte? (Never knew if they were pulling my leg or if it was true!) Bill and I had several dates that first Christmas, and then, Bill, by now a First Lieutenant, was on his way back to his assignment in Dachau, West Germany.

USA Stamp from 1971 — **1971 Airmail Stamp**

This would be my first experience with how it was possible to communicate with an American Army soldier stationed far away.

We wrote a lot of letters for 18 months.

At that time, if I sent an Air Mail letter on a Monday written on very thin airmail paper and placed in special airmail envelopes (it would be weighed to be certain that it was not too heavy), it would arrive in Germany on Wednesday and, if Bill had time to answer immediately, I would get a response by Saturday. Pretty quick turn-around. One week, I received a letter, a cassette, a card and some photos! Over the months, we began to expect quick responses. We even arranged a visit to Germany the next Christmas – all by Air Mail. Not sure how that could have possibly worked but it did. Weeks before my trip, Bill sent me a phone number for the staff duty office in case he didn’t meet me on time at Frankfurt Airport. How could he have possibly known that his car would break down on Christmas Eve, the day of my arrival, that he would have to find a rental car in Augsburg to pick me up from the airport (a trip of about three hours) and that he would be two hours late; I thought I had forgotten what he looked like since we hadn’t seen each other for a year. As I waited in the airport, it took me a while to figure out how to get German money without knowing a word of German and to make the telephone call. After more than an hour of waiting, I decided to call the staff-duty officer who immediately said, “I’m so glad you called. Captain Rice left a message for you.”

Because of this ease of communication, you can imagine the discomfort Bill felt when I didn’t answer the proposal of marriage letter he wrote the next February and sent from Grafenwohr where he was on a field problem.

West Point Grafenwohr Training Area — **Grafenwohr Training Area**

The letter took more two weeks to arrive in St. Louis. If I had been he, I would have assumed that my answer to his proposal was “NO” and that would have been the end of that! Instead, when he returned from his field duty in Grafenwohr, he worked up his courage to make an international call. To do that, he had to go to an American bank on post, purchase a whole lot of Deutschmark and pfennig coins – about a bucketful – and drive to the middle of town to the Deutsche Bundespost (Post Office).

Deutschmark Coins — **Deutschmark and Pfennig Coins**

He then had to get the post office attendant to connect him to a telephone operator in the USA and then proceed to keep the coins continually going into the telephone to keep the connection to me active. Happily, his proposal letter arrived earlier on the same day that he was sitting in the Post Office with his pile of coins and I was able to give him an immediate answer when he asked, “Did my letter arrive?”

We always have had a soft spot in our hearts for the U.S. Postal Service, as you might surmise. There was more to come. I received my engagement ring from the postman on a Saturday in March 1972. Friends of Bills’ from his first unit in Dachau, who were PCS-ing (Permanent Change of Station) back to the U.S. offered to send the ring from Ohio upon their return to the U.S. so that it would be a shorter and safer mode of travel to me in St. Louis

West Point Engagement — **Well-traveled Engagement Ring**

For Bill’s birthday in 1972, I decided to make a phone call to him from my parents’ home in Southern Illinois. He had just been in a serious accident in Grafenwohr in which he had been thrown through the front glass window of his jeep and glass shards had been embedded into his face and eyes. At the time, an international phone call was very expensive, and his mother told me not to call – it would be more than I would spend on a different gift, she said. I did it, anyway, but the bill didn’t come until after our marriage and our return to Germany for the rest of his assignment. When the phone bill did arrive, I discovered his mother had been right – that one phone call cost $180!

Military families face many times of separation, so communication becomes very important to the soldier and his family. In 1973, when Bill went off to Korea for a year unaccompanied assignment soon after our marriage, we experienced a new way of communicating – the MARS station, that could relay phone conversations. The MARS system was begun in 1926 and has been very helpful for soldiers and families since then (and still today).

Military Auxiliary Radio System — **MARS Insignia**

A network of volunteers, licensed amateur radio operators, connect the soldier with his family. This is a free service that uses no satellite connections but is a network of high frequency radios bouncing their signals off the ionosphere providing long-distance communications. It worked like this: a soldier went to a MARS station where he could initiate a call and a connection was established to a network of radio operators. As the conversation began, the soldier would say a sentence or two and then say “Over”. It was then that a response could start which also ended with “Over”. (It was hard to remember!) The “conversation” could only be a few minutes but was better than a letter because we could hear each other’s voices. When the time was up, the soldier ended it with “Out” and it was over. I didn’t realize it at the time that the radio operators were listening to the conversations. (They had to be listening so that they knew when to flip the switch from one side of the conversation to the other.) A friend told me about a conversation with her husband from Vietnam: there was some interference on the line, so she didn’t know how to answer. She was surprised to hear a new and unexpected additional voice – the radio operator – who told her, “Ma’am, he said he loves you!” These “phone patches” still remain an active project and a back-up to our more sophisticated communication should we ever need it.

Military Radio Equipment — **MARS Amateur Radio Equipment**

Military Radio Operators — **Volunteer MARS Radio Operators**

In 1992, when Bill, now a Colonel, was in Kuwait setting up Kuwait Forward after Operation Desert Storm; he had a room of his own with a phone that could make calls to Army posts in the US. He could then have his calls patched through to our home in GA. What a treat it was to get a call as often as he could find the time. And no “Over” and “Out”. Progress in twenty years!

One of our favorite communications whenever Bill was traveling was for each family member to write some little sticky-notes (crayon drawings from our little son, and short messages from the rest of us) and tuck them into the toes of socks, into the pockets of BDU’s (Battle Dress Uniform), into the ”Dopp-kit” (toiletries case) with the toothpaste and shaving cream, in the toes of boots, etc., etc. Wherever we could hide them. How simple is that?!?

Bill liked these notes so much that when he was no longer the traveler, he would hide notes in our children’s luggage. Being able to relate to the pressures of a New Cadet, he put notes into our son’s bags whenever he would head back to West Point from leave at home.

By 2015, when our son was deployed to Afghanistan, we could email, text, and talk face-to-face and even use cell phones from his room on a forward operating base. Amazing. How will soldiers and their families communicate in the future? Who knows!

I suggest letters, anyway. As nice as all the new-fangled communications are, an old-fashioned letter has some still important features. It can be tucked into a pocket for reading whenever the soldier misses his family and as many times as he likes – no wires, no batteries, no power needed.

The Girl I Married (And How I Got There) – 1969

When the gates at West Point opened to let us out on June 4^th, 1969 there was a mass exodus of the Best of the Line punctuated by a cacophony of revving engines and screeching tires. Before the dust could settle on Highland Falls, it seemed like all of the Class of ’69 had fled. But not entirely. A stay-behind formation of romantics lingered a while longer (some for a few hours, some for a few days) to do what had been denied them up to that point – get married and, furthermore, to do it at our rockbound highland home.

**Interior of the Old Cadet Chapel**

I was among that group, a likelihood I had fully discounted a bare 12 months earlier when I was yet determined to be a young warrior bachelor. Now, along with scores of my classmates, I had entered the marriage lottery for day, time, and chapel ending up with 1 pm, June 8^th at the Old Cadet Chapel, then the designated house of worship for Jewish cadets.

No matter that my bride was Protestant and I was Catholic; this is the way West Point did things and I was about to marry the most beautiful girl in the world. How could I be so lucky? And how did it happen? Well, that, as they say, is the rest of the story.

[caption id="attachment_2294" align="alignleft" width="300"] Entrance to Ft. Belvoir

It (almost) begins with the First Class Trip – that wonderful boondoggle where in two halves the entire class in the summer of 1968 was flown to the home of select Army branches so that we could be familiarized (and wooed) with what they had to offer us upon graduation. At each place, we would train on the equipment, try out branch-specific tactics, and get dazzled by the professionalism on display – all this capped by a formal dinner-dance where young women would be present. The latter were involved by direct invitation of a cadet or by a blind-dating pool kindly engineered by the locals (we were matched by height). Only in one place – Fort Belvoir, then the home of the engineers – did I think I knew a local girl.

As it turns out, as a young boy and ‘Army brat’ I had lived in Damascus, Syria where my father was assigned to the embassy. After being there a year or so, we sponsored an incoming Air Force family, which happened to have three little girls (and at that time, no boys). Being very young (this was the early 1950s) I was annoyed with the invasion of the girls (I had one sister as well then), and reluctantly put up with them.

West Point 1969 Family — I’m Outnumbered

Despite my ill humor, our families became good friends and in subsequent military tours over the years we would see each other from time to time as our travels brought us across common paths. They had settled, I knew, in northern Virginia. So here I took a chance.

Securing a phone was difficult in these pre-cell phone days. A single pay phone accepting only nickels, dimes, and quarters would be available in some selected ‘sinks’ (the basements of the old barracks), usually blocked by a long queue of cadets. I awaited my turn, finally placed a call, and when the mother answered, asked to speak with Sandy, so I could invite her to the dance. The answer was that I could not, since Sandy had recently been married and moved on. Flustered (I lacked worldliness back then, as now) I excused myself and got off the phone. Only then did I remember there were two other girls. A few days later, I screwed up my courage once more and this time wrote a letter inviting Jeannie to the dance. A week or more passed before I received a response – again from the mother – stating that Jeannie could not possibly go out with me since she was only 15 years old. (Note, no name was offered either time). I was now shattered.

Two weeks later, however, with the trip coming desperately close I made one final try (again by letter) and this time got the right name – Pat. She accepted, but by now I was clearly on the defensive. The night of the dance, I stood outside the Belvoir officers club in the company of approximately 400 classmates, all of us eagerly anticipating the arrival of the ladies. Pat’s mother would be driving, but I figured I would recognize the car (they always owned a station wagon) before either of them. At last I saw it, and as I wondered how this date might turn out they pulled up and a stunning young woman in a white evening gown stepped out. My heart leaped, freezing me in place for a moment even as my classmates surged forward (or so I perceived) en masse. Recovering just in the nick of time, I elbowed my way to the front and greeted both mother and daughter, the former soon departing and the latter charming me the entire evening and for the rest of my life.

I never recovered, but henceforth got her name right even as my thoughts of bachelorhood faded into oblivion.

We were married four days after graduation in that Old Cadet Chapel, returned to West Point much time later to live nearby it for three years (behind the old PX in what was then known as Dunover Court), and had our third son baptized there. It pays, you see, to be persistent, even as you bumble through life.

Jim McDonough Family — Finally, the boys outnumber the girls

Dec 03 2018

Pigs and Corn – 1972

In the aviation unit I flew with in Vietnam, our own stupidity and bad judgment usually posed more serious risks for us than those from the bad guys. My assault helicopter company supported the Republic of Korea [ROK] Army troops of the White Horse and Tiger Divisions.
Early in 1972 our ROKs captured a North Vietnamese Army (NVA) Rest and Recuperation center in a mountainous valley of central South Vietnam, complete with a treasure trove of live pigs and corn. To “win the hearts and minds of the Vietnamese people,” the Koreans decided to donate the captured corn and pigs to their adopted local orphanage forty miles away in Nha Trang.

The only way to get the livestock and produce out was for us to fly them out in our helicopter. The Korean troops chopped a tiny clearing in the jungle canopy on the side of the valley, what we called a “hoverhole,” just big enough to fit a Huey helicopter. I was still a “new guy” in country and was flying copilot, known as “Charlie Pop,” that day when our bird got the mission. It was our first sortie of the afternoon, so the bird was heavy with full fuel, and it was starting to get really hot when we arrived in the valley and wormed our way down through the hoverhole.

There were about two loads worth to haul out, but somehow my Aircraft Commander, the battle-hardened pilot in charge of the helicopter, let the Koreans talk him into trying to fly it all out in a single lift. So, the troops packed bags of corn about two feet deep across the entire floor of the Huey, and then threw the five hogtied pigs on top of the pile and told us to go. I was later to learn that these Vietnamese “potbellied” pigs are considered as high-fashion pets by Yuppies, because they are so cute, but I sure didn’t think so that day.

We were severely overloaded as it was, and air temperature was killing our lift, so naturally as the “Charlie Pop,” I was given the honors of being on the controls to bring the bird out. As I pulled in power and started to climb up through the hole in the canopy, the overloaded rotor was already losing speed dangerously, and the controls were starting to get mushy. Understand, our assault Hueys had no doors.

One thing I should mention is that pigs do not like to ride in helicopters. What I mean to say is, pigs really don’t like to ride in helicopters! So about twenty feet up, half a ton of tied-up pigs started squealing and thrashing around in the helicopter, making control almost impossible. As the rotor blades wallowed around in the hoverhole, the blade tips started chopping leaves and branches, swirling loose debris through the cabin, which really pissed those pigs off.

By this time the entire platoon of Korean troops on the ground were standing directly beneath the helicopter, staring up at this incredible sight. There was no way I could let the bird down without squashing a dozen or so of them.

**Huey Open For Pigs and Corn (Guy’s Didn’t Have Doors)**

Fortunately, I guess, the pigs got so agitated that they started knocking bags of corn loose from the pile on the floor. Despite the lurching gyrations of the Huey, as loose corn joined leaves and brush flying everywhere, raining down on the troops, the aircraft lost enough cargo weight that the rotor quit bleeding RPM.

As the rotors finally cleared the canopy, I actually thought we were going to make it out alive, and I started to ease the control stick forward, desperate to pick up some airspeed. Too soon. The front ends of the skids caught in the branches and I thought we were going to nose it in right there.

The Aircraft Commander grabbed the controls away from me and yanked the power control up. This succeeded in breaking the skids free of the trees, but also put an excessive load on the already dangerously slow rotor. Turned out, though, it was the tail rotor that was really trying to kill us, because by this time it had also slowed so much that it was impossible to counteract the overtorque on the main rotor.

I never knew until that day that a helicopter could whirl around after running out of tail rotor control and still remain flying. The books say it can’t. But I guess I wouldn’t be telling you this story if it the books were right.

We spun a pair of clockwise gyrating rotations as the Huey plunged down the valley side, skimming the canopy and slinging bags of corn and two of those damn pigs far and wide. As the aircraft fell sideways, the rotor slid into undisturbed air and the bird began to get enough airspeed to re-establish directional control. Even still, it took about four more hairy minutes to nurse enough airspeed and altitude to finally climb out of that valley and start back to Nha Trang.

We had nearly lost four American aircrew members and a million-dollar aircraft, costing about $1,000 per hour to operate, trying to rescue maybe $50 worth of corn and pigs. All of this so the little orphans could appreciate the humanitarianism of our war effort. As it was, we only got about half of the total loot to its final destination.

I figured it would have been cheaper and far more sensible if the Koreans had just shot the pigs, burned the corn, and gone into town to buy some presents for the orphans. Hell, knowing what I do now, I would have paid for them myself. If only to have been spared the memorable experience that evening of scrubing overheated pig feces out of the helicopter cabin.

Note: As with all war stories, I swear that every word of this is the exact honest truth, because you just can’t make this stuff up.

Oct 22 2018

Someone To Listen, Part 3 – 2010

Previously, I began telling stories of some of the military veteran hospice patients I was privileged to serve as a patient volunteer. Their stories continue ….

My next patient, Mr. Glenn, was a terminal cancer patient who lived with his grandson in a small house perched on a mountainside, two counties distant from my home.

**A Mountain-side House Similar to Mr. Glenn’s Home**

Glenn was articulate and ambulatory, though in considerable pain, and I thoroughly enjoyed our time together. His was my introduction to the heart-breaking family dynamics so often involved in end-of-life situations.

Glenn was divorced, living in his remote house alone when his cancer was diagnosed. Since his two grown daughters each lived at considerable distance, and couldn’t be troubled to assist their dying father, the caregiving role landed squarely on his grandson. Butch was a bachelor who ran a home-improvement business in the county, but he gave up his business and moved in with his grandfather to tend him in his final days. To be able to stay at home, Butch converted his trade into making wooden wishing wells, play houses and lawn ornaments to support himself and his grandfather from home.

**A Wishing Well Similar to Butch’s Handiwork**

The maturity and good spirits of this young man always impressed me enormously. Whenever I arrived for my weekly visit with Glenn, Butch would cheerfully greet me in the driveway, standing beside his truck, ready to go down the mountain for his weekly grocery shopping trip. He never gave any indication that he felt imposed upon by the situation, the burdens of caring for his grandfather, or the abandonment of responsibility by the rest of his family. Our time together was limited to his departure and return from his weekly supplies run, but I always saw in him a degree of love and caring rare for someone so young.

My visits with Glenn were always enjoyable. Even in his pain, his sharp mind clearly showed through. He had been a chemical engineer who joined the Navy in 1940. His first project was to perfect a process to stabilize red phosphorous, so it could finally be used as a primer for explosives.

He turned his patent over to the US government and was rewarded with a commission in the US Navy. Following Pearl Harbor, he was rushed to the Aleutian Islands as a brand-new Lieutenant Commander to command a tiny outpost “defending” his microscopic island from Japanese invasion.

**The Aleutian Islands Where Mr. Glenn Did His War Service**

Glenn always spoke of the Aleutians in derogatory terms, declaring that the worst thing we could have done to the Japanese Empire was to let them have the useless islands, and spend their resources defending them from invasion. He seemed disappointed that the attack never came, so he could have abandoned his rock to their hapless troops. In his wry wit, he told me the Japanese were way smarter than the US Government when it came to defending islands from invasion, in the far north at least.

I remembered enough inorganic chemistry to be able to ask occasional intelligent questions, and Glenn delighted in telling me more than I ever thought I would want to know about phosphorous and the remarkable phosphate ion. Following the war, he had spent a career as a research chemist with Kodak, earning numerous patents, and he was a wealth of information about photochemistry. Every week I found myself looking forward with great anticipation to my sessions with this marvelous veteran.

**Logo of Eastman-Kodak While Mr. Glenn Was a Scientist There**

I never did learn much about the family dynamics that led to his dying of cancer on a remote mountainside with only his grandson attending him, beyond the basics. But he never showed any sort of bitterness or resentment. The mutual love between Glenn and Butch was clear in everything I saw.

Every visit, Glenn needed to rise from his recliner and use his walker to get to the bathroom. As a patient volunteer, my job was to assist him up and down, and with his walker, but nothing else. But when somebody needs more help than that, you do what needs to be done without regard to the rules. As time went by, he needed more and more help with this procedure, and I could tell that his energy was slipping away.

So, it was not really a surprise when the hospice organization called to say that he had finally passed. I never knew how well his funeral was attended, or whether any of his family besides his devoted grandson Butch were there, or even whether he received the military honors that he had earned in his wartime service. But I wrote a card of several pages to Butch, and hoped, perhaps, that a part of it was shared with at least someone who would have cared.

*********************
These World War II veterans are a national treasure that has almost completely expired now. Take every opportunity you can to warmly greet any old veterans you encounter. Spend a while with them, listen to their stories and let them know that there is someone who understands and appreciates their military service. That is really all they ask of us.