Suzanne Rice

Jul 31 2024

Remembering “The Forgotten War”

It was a dreary summer morning in July. I was out early for my daily walk before it got too hot to be outside. I headed to the city hall/library complex to walk and to return a CD to the library. As I approached, I first saw some caution tape near the city flagpole. What is happening here on a random Saturday morning in July? It isn’t Fourth of July or Flag Day, Memorial Day or Veterans’ Day. What is it that they are commemorating on July 27? As I got closer, I noticed that the men had VFW hats on their heads. Still couldn’t figure out what they might be remembering.

**Saluting the Flag** (courtesy of Mark Gelhardt)

I went about getting my steps in for the day while thinking it was none of my business what they were doing there early on a Saturday morning. I couldn’t help myself; I had to find out, so I walked a little closer and got there just as their ceremony was finishing. I noticed someone I knew. He is a deacon at our church. I walked up to him and asked what they were doing. With a bright smile of pride on his face he said, “Today is the seventy-first anniversary of the end of the Korea War.”

**Seventy-one Years Later** (courtesy of Mark Gelhardt)

They were all veterans of the Korean War, and they were there to remember their fallen friends and commemorate their service to our country. They didn’t have to know each other from their days in Korea, but they were brothers in patriotism for their country.

I hadn’t finished my walk so I left his side wishing that I had asked sooner because I would have liked to join in their memorial to their fallen friends and their service. I spent the rest of my walk thinking of my own time in Korea and my connection to these wonderful veterans, most of them in their mid-90’s. Having lived in Korea for almost a year while my husband was assigned to the Second Infantry Division 1973-74, twenty years after the end of the Korean War, I had a special place in my heart for them. Had I known about their ceremony, I might have shared with them what Korea was like 20 years after their service there. Too bad.

**Remembering Their Comrades** (courtesy of Mark Gelhardt)

I was three years old when the Korean War started and wasn’t aware of what was going on across the world. It did come into focus when I got to first grade. One of my classmates had intimate knowledge of the Korean War. Her father was a veteran fighter pilot from World War II. In fact, her parents met in France when her mother was an Army nurse there. In Korea, he was flying a B-26B Invader with the 13^th Bomber Squadron, 3^rd Bomber Group over North Korea. He was killed on a night intruder mission and presumed dead on February 28,1954, having been shot down on August 10, 1952. Can you imagine the pain for that little family in a small Midwestern farm town as they waited for news? My friend was only six years old and her younger sister just three when news of their father was official. It was a sadness their friends helped his family carry for many years.

The presence of the men at the flagpole also reminded me of before I got on the plane to fly unauthorized to Korea in June 1973. Before I left my hometown (same Midwestern town), one of the teachers at the high school where I was teaching while Bill was in Korea came up to me and said he had heard I was leaving for Korea at the end of the school year. He said he was a veteran of the Korean War and told me a little about his wartime experiences. He showed me a couple of black and white photos of his war-time experience – several of them near the Deoksugung Palace. They showed the devastation of war, just what he had encountered. He asked me to go to the Deoksugung Palace while I was in Korea so that I could tell him about it when I returned; he described it as on the outskirts of the capital, Seoul. Those were my only instructions.

By the time I got there in 1973, the Palace was in the middle of Seoul, a bustling, modern capital. Like many who served in the Korean War, he had not spoken much about his service, but he was proud of answering the call of his country.

I had a unique year in Korea (other stories may be found here on thedayforward). It was nothing like the years of the Korean War, but also nothing like I had experienced at home in the U.S. or in Germany. It was still, twenty years after the War, a more primitive place with dirt roads, open-air markets and only a little Western influence. Kimchi was made in each home in large clay vats kept on the roof to “marinate” in the sun for months before it was ready to eat. Kimchee along with rice were staples of the Korean diet and each family had their own recipe. There was no central heating; instead, most houses used large charcoal blocks for heating the floor (ondol heating). No indoor plumbing. There were few personal automobiles; no soldiers had a personal vehicle. To get anywhere, we had to hail a “kimchee cab” or get on the bus. Yet, Korea was not at war and American soldiers were still there at the DMZ as well as scattered on posts all throughout the country to keep the peace. These were successors-brothers of the men near the flagpole on that July morning.

Forty years later, our son, also a field artilleryman, was stationed in Korea. Oddly enough, he was assigned to the same battalion in which his father had served those many years before. In the intervening years, 1/15 FA had moved nearer the DMZ at Camp Casey/Hovey. After he got to Korea, I asked him to go visit the family in whose home I had lived in 1973-74. Things had changed even more spectacularly than in the twenty years between the Korean War and my own time there. When I suggested a trip to Ui Jong Bu to visit our friends, he replied, “I’m sure they are not there, anymore.” In place of the small, family homes surrounding the open-air market (not far from Camp Red Cloud), had grown an 11-story shopping mall. Underneath the mall was a high-speed rail line going from Dongducheon (Camp Casey) to Seoul. (While I was there in the 1970’s, the bus from Ui Jong Bu to Seoul took one hour – from Camp Casey add another hour.) On their high-speed rail, it took only 15 minutes from Camp Casey to Seoul!

The world in Korea had changed in those years and was now modern. Thanks go to the men at the flagpole on the dreary morning in July. Their love of our Country and their willingness to sacrifice brought better times for the South Korean people. Remembering and commemorating those they lost in combat was important to them 71 years later. (36,634 brave Americans gave their lives because their country asked them to serve in Korea.) It is often called “The Forgotten War”, but on this cloudy Saturday, it was not forgotten – their service will always live in the hearts of these patriots. God bless them.

Thank a soldier.

Editors note: The Korean War Veterans Memorial is located in Washington, D.C. southeast of the Lincoln Memorial. It is open 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It depicts a company of soldiers in the Korean War. It was dedicated in 1995. From my experience living in Korea for almost a year, through a hot summer and a frigid winter, it was a terrible place for a war (Is there a good place?). The summers are oppressively hot and humid (no air conditioning in 1973 or 1953); the winters were terribly cold. When Bill was pay officer, he had to drive in an open jeep from 4P1 (a forward operating base near the DMZ where a battery would be at all times to counter any invasion from the North) to Camp Stanley (about 20 miles) to get cash to pay his soldiers. It was 35 degrees below zero for that trip – he was almost frozen when he got to Ui Jong Bu – then, he had to drive back! At the Memorial, you will see the soldiers in all their gear. They needed every layer to survive the frigid weather. Go see the Memorial next time you are in D.C. https://www.nps.gov/kowa/kowahome.htm

Jul 30 2024

The Parable of the Dumb Lieutenant and the Good Samaritan – 1970

T’was in the summer of 1970 that I, with my wife, Pat, and newborn baby Jim, traveled the long road from Fort Bragg, North Carolina to Northern Virginia seeking refuge for them. I had been summoned by the rulers of the land to do my sworn duty on the fields of battle (Vietnam). Thusly, I spent the few days remaining to us settling them into place with her nuclear family. Whilst in the midst of the necessary preparations, I journeyed to Fort Belvoir to purchase from the market there (the PX) accoutrements to tend to our immediate future. And, lo, there I espied a document (the Army Times) with the posted listing of the entire cohort of 2^nd Lieutenants newly promoted to the esteemed rank of 1^st Lieutenant. Yea, verily, therein was the clearly legible name: James Richard McDonough.

I hastened back to tell Pat the exciting news but, on the way, realized that the day of promotion had already come and gone (the aforementioned document being a dated one of a week or so before) and since I had already departed my prior unit (which had itself since departed Fort Bragg for a long-duration military exercise) I was stuck — or so I believed–with not being promoted. The more I thought about it, the greater became my consternation. With no one to promote me, would I now fall behind my year group, even if only by a few weeks? And what of my pay? Would the greater bonanza of a 1^st Lieutenant’s salary be denied to me? To whom could I turn to get promoted properly? Should I ask the cadre at Jungle Warfare School (my next stop on the way to Vietnam) if they could promote me? Should I ask my company commander when I got to Vietnam? And what insignia should I wear in the meantime – the gold bar I now wore or the silver one that signifies the higher rank? These and several other troubling thoughts laid heavy on my mind.

However, being properly prepared by my four years at West Point to face even the greatest of challenges, I steadied myself and by the time I arrived at Pat’s side had resolved to take the initiative to straighten things out. After sharing the good news of a promotion (only lightly indicating any concerns), I announced that the very next day we would travel to Fort McNair in nearby Washington to get some clarifying instructions. Why Fort McNair? I had no idea (so work the minds of Lieutenants). Although I detected a look of bewilderment in Pat’s eyes, she nevertheless trusted my vast knowledge of military matters and consented to accompanying me.

**Ft. McNair Along the Potomac River, Washington, D.C.** (Kidskiddle.com)

The next morning, we arose early and arrived soon enough at McNair, where I showed my military acumen by asking the MP at the gate how I might find the “personnel office”. “Sorry, Lieutenant, I don’t know,” he answered, “perhaps you could ask someone on post. Now could you please drive through so the cars behind you can get by.” It was a reasonable answer, I thought, although I was surprised that he didn’t know. Perhaps I should have been more specific.

At any rate, once we parked, I followed his advice and asked a few uniformed officers and non-commissioned officers passing by where the appropriate office was, always being sure to render proper military courtesies when doing so. Although all were polite, none were quite sure what I meant. One, however, did suggest that at the far end of the nearby parade field was a large ‘administrative’ building that might hold the answer. So, with our objective in sight, off we went.

All such ‘administrative’ buildings, at least in those days, tended to be a maze in themselves. Once we passed through the front doors, we saw only long hallways and unintelligible acronyms abutting each room. Bit by bit, however, we resolutely made our way, now and then asking directions and, for the most part, getting bemused looks back for our trouble. Finally, one charitable soul thought about it a bit and gave us a floor and room number to head toward. I sensed we were closing in on our quarry.

Here, a nice lady took a moment to ask us why we were there and what help we might need. She listened to my summarization of the issue at hand and then she asked that we wait for a moment while she went to yet another room nearby. A short time later, she returned and asked us to accompany her to meet the official who ‘might’ be able to help. Here we met an Army Major (whose name I am ashamed to admit I do not recall) who politely invited us to sit and explain to him what was going on. So, I did, to which he listened both patiently and keenly before excusing himself, leaving Pat and me alone for what seemed like a long time. When he returned, he resumed his seat and reopened the conversation by asking us many questions about our backgrounds, how we met, where I was headed, did we have children, and so on. To say that he was engaging would be an understatement. I enjoyed the discussion, but quietly wondered why he was so curious, why he was able to pass so much time with us, what he actually did on this post, and why he just didn’t tell me what I had to do to get the promotion matter settled and done with.

After about 30 minutes or more, the door opened a crack and a uniformed figure signaled to the Major. Nodding to Pat and me, our host then arose, told us how much he had enjoyed our talk and asked that we join him as he led us towards yet another room where he stood back and gestured for us to open the door and go in. We did.

Therein stood a gathering of a dozen people or so, some in uniform, some without. On a table in the corner stood several refreshments – a small cake, a tray of cookies, a pitcher of Kool Aid. A flag stood at the head of the room, where the Major invited us to stand.

**Preparing to “Publish the Orders”** (DVIDS)

He then directed a non-commissioned officer to “Publish the Orders”, after which he produced two silver bars, giving one to Pat to pin on my hat while he affixed the other to my collar. I was promoted! I was also stunned, even as the line of strangers came by to shake hands and offer their congratulations.

In the hours, weeks, and ultimately years that followed I reflected on the lessons of that morning. I was not to believe that anytime and anywhere in every headquarters on every post an officer and his team of supporters are standing by for a wayward lieutenant to saunter in to be promoted. The good Major surely had many pressing things to do, but he did not let it preclude him from looking after a naïve lieutenant and his wife. He did not ask for reimbursement for the lieutenant bars or the refreshments, which he surely purchased himself. He did not make me feel self-conscious about my foolish and needless concerns about ‘not being promoted on time.” He did not bemoan the unexpected interruption to his day and the work-time loss of the people he gathered. Instead, he honored both Pat and me without the slightest reference to himself and in so doing showed me what leadership is all about – taking care of people over whom you have the authority to act and the capacity to help.

It was an example that I have never forgotten and have endeavored to emulate ever since whenever the opportunity arose. And although I look back upon the occasion with a significant degree of embarrassment, I realize what a wonderful and priceless moment it was.

**Newly Promoted First Lieutenant McDonough & Family**

Jul 30 2024

9-11 Experience from Abroad – 2001

When 9/11 happened, I was working for British Petroleum whose headquarters was in London. In the afternoon on 9/11 I flew on a 1 ½ hour British Airline flight from London to Brussels for some business meetings. I had just gotten off the plane when I saw a news flash on the airport TV that a plane had hit one of the Trade Towers in New York City. Initially, the reporting seemed like it was a private aircraft. I immediately called my daughter who I thought was working at her company’s upper east side NYC office. She was actually in her Chicago office but had been in contact with her NYC colleagues. Her colleagues did not have to evacuate, as did my brother-in-law who was near the Wall Street area and had to walk 10 miles back to his home in Brooklyn. She also said it appeared to be a private small plane. As I watched the TV it was revealed that a large passenger jet hit the Trade Tower.

As I watched the TV, a second plane hit, and I knew it was a big problem. I immediately had this urge, which is hard to explain, to get back home. It never entered my mind to be concerned about flying since I flew almost every week to some place. I tried to book a flight from Brussel to London to fly back to Chicago to catch an American Airline flight but could only get an early morning next day flight on British Airlines. I called my colleague to cancel my Brussels meeting. My colleague seemed to be as concerned as I was and therefore understood why I couldn’t attend any meetings. I stayed up most of the night watching TV as events unfolded.

**Reporting from Britain 9-12-01** (London Times)

Once I got into London, I then tried to book a flight back to Chicago but at that point all planes were grounded. I booked myself into a hotel at Heathrow airport and continued trying to get on the next available flight to Chicago. Oddly, the hotel was filled with Americans trying to do the same thing as me. I stayed up most of the night trying to get on a flight to Chicago and watching the reporting about the attack. I was flying on American Airlines which was not only my company’s airline of choice, but since I have flown so much, I was in the top of their flyer status group. This allowed me to have a direct line to the “privileged class” customer service and therefore getting me priority on booking a flight. Despite all of that, I couldn’t get on a flight for three days. Even then, I could “only” get a coach seat, which to normal people was great, but to a “travel snob” who only flew business or first class, it was a downgrade. BUT I didn’t care, I just wanted to get home. When I finally boarded the plane, coach seating was filled with people like myself. I did feel sorry for those people who had regular coach seats on previously cancelled flights because they had very little status with American Airlines and had to wait in the back of the reservation line.

During the three-day wait, I only interfaced with fellow American business travelers who were at the hotel. We didn’t know much and only speculated. I didn’t sense any fear. Everyone was just fixated on getting back to America. No one left the hotel, which was a shuttle-bus ride from the airport terminal, since we were waiting to be contacted about what flight we could get onto, then get to the airport as soon as possible

As it turned out, I was on the first European flight to land at O’Hare. It was very eerie to fly over O’Hare and not see any planes on the runway. After going through Customs, again being the first people to go through Customs, I thought I would run into a lot of cameras and reporters, but it didn’t happen. I got a taxi, got home and felt I was back where I belonged.

Of course, my family was very glad I made it back home. As I look back, my mission became to get home, and I thought of nothing else. It wasn’t until I was home that I realized how paralyzed everything was and how scared everyone was.

Jul 18 2024

Down Under…With No Reserve ‘Chute – 1978

I certainly claim no expertise or long experience in parachuting, as do many classmates and “master blaster” friends, some with hundreds of static-line and free-fall jumps. My brief parachuting career consisted of only 7 static-line jumps, each uniquely exciting. But my last jump was my most memorable by far: a “water descent” into the shark-infested waters of the South Pacific off the coast of Australia … without a reserve ‘chute!

A little background. In August 1967, I was among the first group of USMA cadets to be allowed to attend the US Army Parachute School at Ft Benning, GA, as an extra cadet training experience following my required month-long troop training assignment (known then as AOT – Army Orientation Training) in a regular Army unit. To be part of this privileged group, we volunteered to give up 3 weeks of our 4-week cadet summer leave. What a deal! We made all five of our jumps from the venerable US Air Force C-119 Flying Boxcar, earning the coveted silver wings of an Army Paratrooper.

**C-119 Flying Boxcar Dropping Airborne Troopers**

As an aside, it was during that training period that Hollywood legend John Wayne visited Ft. Benning to film scenes of real soldiers in airborne training as part of his new movie, The Green Berets. We airborne trainees were offered the opportunity to be part of the filming of that movie if we were willing to report for an extra day of training on Saturday, a rare day off. Because I had previously made plans to meet my girlfriend in Atlanta, I turned down John Wayne’s kind offer of “stardom” and headed to Atlanta instead. Good thing, too: that girlfriend has been my wife for over 50 years now!

Just two years later, January 1970, as a 2d LT in the Florida phase of Ranger School, I parachuted into Eglin Airfield marking my 6^th jump. With no future assignments to airborne outfits, I thought my jumping days were over. Until 1978, that is…

During my tour as a Tactical Officer at USMA from 1976 to 1979, I was selected to be the Officer in Charge of the Australian Royal Military College (RMC) Exchange. Well, someone had to do it! This duty included escorting 4 outstanding First Class (senior) USMA Cadets to Australia for 2 weeks in August 1978, which, incidentally, was in the dead of winter “Down Under.”

**Author (r) with 4 USMA cadets at the RMC in Duntroon**

Our schedule was packed with touring, starting at the RMC in Duntroon, sightseeing around the capital at Canberra, visiting the US Ambassador to Australia, being “wined and dined” at various social events, and participating in classes and military training. The Australian military at the time had a very “macho” culture and we were challenged daily to show our friends whether we had the “right stuff.” Their biggest challenge lay ahead.

That challenge and a major highlight of our trip came as an invitation to visit the Australian Army Parachute Training School at Williamtown. Located on the Pacific coast near Newcastle in New South Wales, it’s about 100 miles north of Sydney.

The Parachute School senior officer and staff warmly welcomed us and laid out their plans for our day: we were invited to make a “water descent” into the shark-infested waters off the coast! No worries! We were to be plucked out of the water quickly by fast boats. With my 3 airborne-qualified cadets, we four Yanks enthusiastically accepted the Aussie invitation and challenge to jump with our Australian counterparts: 4 RMC cadets and their Australian Army captain.

As we suited up for the jump, I noticed we would be using the standard T-10 parachute, similar to what I had used in all my jumps. One major difference, however … when I asked for my reserve ‘chute, I was told “it was not needed; it would only get wet!”

**Author (l) and Australian Army Captain Counterpart**

Our instructions were simple: once we jumped from the aircraft, we were to keep our eyes on the 500-foothills surrounding Williamtown. Then, when about eye-level with them, to turn our quick release buckle and strike it to loosen all our parachute harness straps – that meant we would then be dangling by the 2 straps under our armpits 500 feet above the water – not a comfortable idea, but better than getting entangled in the straps, lines, and canopy when we hit the water.

**Quick Release Buckle for a T-10 Parachute Harness**

We four Americans boarded the aircraft, an Australian RAAF Caribou, and sat opposite our 5 Australian friends. It was a beautiful day, although the winds seemed brisk on the ground. Aboard our lead plane was a “wind dummy” which the Aussies planned to kick out to measure windspeed and direction for safety.

**RAAF De Havilland Canada DHC-4A Caribou**

On the first pass at jump altitude, the Aussie “stick,” led by my counterpart captain, briskly walked off the lowered rear ramp while we watched as their canopies fully deployed and the ramp closed up. Next pass would be our turn.

Within a few minutes, our plane looped back over the water, the ramp dropped open, and the green GO light popped on. I led my 3 cadets off the ramp into the cool air and watched as each of our ‘chutes fully opened. I guess we didn’t need that reserve after all!

Not much time to think, though, as I descended rapidly and popped the quick release button at about 500 feet and dangled by two harness straps under my arms. As I neared the water, I then became aware of the high wind speed. During my final 50-foot descent to splashdown, I was sailing horizontally on my back above the water. I pulled my arms up over my head, slipped out of the harness straps, hit the water and watched my chute still fully inflated and sailing away, greatly relieved to be unentangled. And, true to their word, the Aussies plucked us all out of the drink quickly and sped us to shore.

Now safely on shore with my cadets, the senior Aussie Parachute School officer explained that all remaining jumps after ours were cancelled because wind speed had exceeded 20 knots, well above the safe jump limit. He then told us that the Aussie captain who jumped ahead of us had been blown ashore and landed on top of a building, breaking his leg and barely missing a high-tension line. He quickly added, “No worries, mate! We didn’t want to disappoint you Yanks by cancelling the jump too soon before you had your chance!”

Needless to say, we were all thankful he did not cancel the jump and very grateful that the water descent ended safely for us. But mostly, we Yanks knew that the Aussies knew we met their challenge and upheld the honor of the Corps!

Jun 10 2024

Murphy – Home and Reception – 1971

Getting home was a full-time goal in July 1971. It was on what I concentrated my thoughts and days. I found out that I could get a “drop” of two days if I was able to get the direct flight from Saigon’s Tan Son Nhut airbase to McGuire in New Jersey. There would be no need for another civilian flight from the west coast. Battalion arranged it and I left early.

We were flown from Phu Bai by C-130 to Saigon — my first and only visit to the capital. It was a different Vietnam and seemed quite secure. Troops were in Khakis and the roads were bustling. We were billeted in barracks much like arrival at Long Binh as I recall and had a whole new out processing again that took several days – mostly because we all had to undergo drug tests. If you failed, you were extended to rehab as the Army did not want to return current addicts to the states. Some troops were a bit anxious as we waited the test results.

We also were able to purchase new uniforms and put our ribbons together. The climate played hell with mold and mildew on the stuff we brought with us. I had several awards to which I was entitled. Of course, I had the US Bronze Star medal with “V” for valor and Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry with Silver Star for Lam San 719 which I was proud to have. Interestingly, I would later get the citations for each. According to the US citation, I cleared numerous enemy mines – most all were Marine mines. And the Vietnamese apparently divided the killed enemy and weapons captured in an operation among medal recipients – I got credit for 37 kills but killed no one I knew of in the operation.

I also had another Bronze Star and Army Commendation Medal from the division for service in a combat zone. These two were called “roster awards” in the division. If you kept yourself clean and alive for six months you got the Commendation Medal, for ten months the Bronze Star – they were for honorable service in the combat area and issued by roster lists — I did not think too much of them. I also got the US Vietnam Service Ribbon and the Vietnam Campaign Medal for the same thing – being there. I was really glad not to have a Purple Heart, but so very respectful and proud of those who did. The guys next to me got hit, but for some reason God spared me.

The third medal I was proud of was an Air Medal award. In WWII you received an air medal after 30 combat missions in an aircraft (like B-29 missions over Germany). In the airmobile Army, you got one for 30 combat assault helicopter flights. Pilots and crews had dozens of awards – many oak leaf clusters. All you had to do is keep track of the CAs (combat assaults) you were on. LTC Rodolph’s staff had turned our officers on to the recognition and submitted our guys when we hit 30. I had one award.

I want to make something clear about military awards. I was around some very brave men – men who acted without regard to their own lives and in defense of their buddies. Sometimes, they get recognized with a medal because someone else takes the time to recommend them and write the justification. That did not always happen because of time or circumstance. With the exception of LTC Rodolph’s Silver Star, all the valor awards I saw awarded were earned – Chaplain Young’s stands out. I guess service awards are for doing your job. Not sure where that ends and exceptional effort begins. There were a lot of exceptional and brave guys in Vietnam without many military awards.

Anyway, we finally left Saigon on a commercial airliner and the cheer was deafening as the plane took off.

We again flew for hours through Japan and across the polar ice cap. I remember how beautiful the Great Lakes were from 35,000 feet.

We arrived at the New Jersey airbase and processed through customs. I had no souvenir weapons or stuff, and my jungle fatigues and gear were taken from me at Saigon. The customs agent at the base was very nice and he said, “Welcome home, Captain.” That was my first greeting.

Several family members met other troopers, but I knew I would be alone. I had hoped to surprise Mary Ellen with my early return and planned to take a bus to New York and another to Teaneck. She knew a “drop” was possible, but I still thought I could surprise her. She knew the plane was down and I had returned. In those days information was given out readily.

I took the bus to New York’s Port Authority Building in Manhattan. I was in clean Khakis with my ribbons and carrying my B4 bag.

To most everyone I was invisible. Several in the station did look at me and then quickly away – one hippie- type spit in my general direction. Homecoming was not so welcoming an affair from many of my countrymen. On the bus to New Jersey, I sat near the driver — nice guy. We passed some girls in hot pants (real short, tight pants) that had become popular while I was away. I stared and he said, “Well, soldier, some things have gotten better.” I agreed.

I got off the bus at Queen Anne Road and Cedar Lane as I recall and walked the several blocks to Grayson Place. My pace quickened with each step, and I hoped that Mary Ellen and Sean would be home. I rang the doorbell and her Mom answered. I walked in and Mary Ellen leaped at me from the kitchen. She was wearing a yellow hot pants outfit and I thought she never looked more beautiful – lucky guy I was, indeed. We kissed and held each other like there was no tomorrow, and her parents retreated to the kitchen.

Sean was not there. Anne Marie and Kathy, Mary Ellen’s sisters, had taken him out for a walk in his carriage. Soon they returned and I held him for the first time in my life. What a feeling!

After some calls to my folks and an evening together, we traveled the next day to Port Chester to see my Mom and Dad. While the year had been hard on Mary Ellen and me, I really did not appreciate the tough time I had put my parents, brothers, and sister through. We all enjoyed the reunion.

One of our neighbors down the street had penned a makeshift sign and put it on the lawn. All it said was “Welcome Back Capt Murphy.”

This is the final chapter of a seventeen-part series, entitled “Pop’s War”, written originally for and dedicated to the Murphy grandchildren.