By Ray Dupere

You’ve probably figured out by now that one thing I had to deal with as a pastor and as a chaplain were issues surrounding death and dying.  So, it was not uncommon for me to receive phone calls from parishioners asking me to visit people in the hospital.  The following are two such stories of that particular kind.

The first involved a call from an elderly lady in my congregation up in Hampden, Maine, asking me to visit her older sister who was in the hospital following a heart attack.  Since such requests were not unusual, I agreed automatically.  But then she went on to tell me that I needed to be careful because her sister did not believe in God and got very angry whenever anybody tried to talk to her about God.  I thanked her for that information and headed out to the hospital.

After inquiring about her room number at the information desk, I headed to the room and found Edna easy enough.  I introduced myself and as soon as I told her that I was her sister’s pastor she looked like she was a deer caught in the headlights.  It was quite obvious that she was very uncomfortable with me being there, so after talking for a few minutes about rather innocuous things I said my good-bye and went home.

A couple of weeks later I received a call from the same church lady telling me the same sister was back in the hospital after another heart attack asking if I would visit her again.  I said I would and headed back out to the hospital all the while asking God what in the world I was going to say to Edna this time around.

I found out her room number and this time as soon as she saw me, she was again the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.  We talked for a couple of minutes about nothing and then out of nowhere I asked Edna if she would do me a favor.  She asked what favor and I proceeded to tell her that since she was in the hospital for the second time in two weeks with a heart attack, I would consider it a great favor if she would please just let me do my job … at which point she very simply said yes.

At that point I began to explain to her about how God loved her, and He wanted her to be able to know for sure how she could go to heaven if she were to die of her next possible heart attack.  I explained how Jesus died on the cross for our sins and about the promise of God the Father that whoever believed in Jesus should not perish but would have everlasting life.  I then asked her if she would like to receive the forgiveness that Jesus promised and be able to have the assurance of heaven … to which she said yes.  I prayed with Edna and when we were finished, she had tears running down her cheeks and she thanked me profusely for coming to see her.  Following this, Edna recovered quite well and began attending church with her sister for a number of years afterwards.

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The second story also started with a phone call from a younger woman named Kate asking me to visit her brother who was in the hospital dying of emphysema.  When I agreed to visit him, she told me he was a Vietnam veteran and suggested that perhaps if I wore my Maine National Guard chaplain uniform it might help break the ice.

 

 I agreed and went home to change and then headed out to the hospital.

After asking for the room number, I found the room and was surprised to walk in and find a man simply sitting on the edge of his bed looking up watching television.  He had absolutely no tubes or IV’s or anything.  He was just sitting there with his feet dangling down looking up at the TV.  Thinking maybe I had the wrong room, I asked if he was Kate’s brother and when he said he was, I then introduced myself as her pastor.

For about a good half hour we proceeded to talk about Vietnam and where we had been assigned and we talked about all kinds of other things as well.  Eventually when the conversation began to slow down, I asked if I could tell him a story.  He agreed quite easily so I then began to tell him the story about the little old lady named Edna mentioned above.  That story had become a favorite of mine since it became a very easy way for me to break the ice about spiritual things with someone I didn’t know well.  I would simply tell the story and then ask whomever if they would please, like Edna, let me do my job.  So, this is what I did with Kate’s brother dying of emphysema.

He readily agreed so I shared with him just as I had with Edna that God loved him and wanted him to know how he could be sure that if he died, he would go to heaven.  In his case I asked him if it was true what Kate had said that he was dying of emphysema.  He said that is what he had been told by the doctors.  I asked him how could that be since he had no tubes or IV’s or anything.  He said he didn’t quite know anything other than that’s what the doctors had told him.  So, like with Edna, I asked him if he would like to receive the forgiveness that Jesus promised and be able to have the assurance of heaven … to which he said yes he would.  I then prayed with him and when we were finished, he had a big smile on his face and he thanked me for coming to see him.  It was about 4:00pm so I said my good-bye and said that I would be back the next day to check in on him and see how he was doing.

Later that evening about 8:00pm I received a phone call from Kate saying that her brother had died.  Like the thief on the cross … it was simply one more reminder that it is never too late to take the time we have to get right with God.

San Marcos Cemetery, San Marcos, Texas: The San Marcos Cemetery is what I think of when I think of a cemetery. It was not large, nor was it flat, nor was it isolated, nor was it visible from the nearby main road. Rather it was secluded on a gentle knoll with lots of trees and simply lovely in every way. However, it did present one of the problems which I had always imagined might occur on the trip. As it turned out the cemetery had at least two family plots for people named Ivey. Whether they were related or not I never found out, but the information I had been given by the cemetery prior to leaving on my trip was for the wrong plot. I wasn’t too worried when I was the first to arrive and discover the error. I knew that Karl Ivey had been there the day before so I expected that he could set us straight once he arrived, and in any case a nearby cemetery worker was able to redirect me accordingly. As with the service the day before, the 15 of us at Glen Ivey’s service was also under a scorching sun, and although there were trees everywhere, they were not spreading out over Glen’s grave. Of the twelve services that I ended up doing, over half of them were on days that were quite warm. But true to form, Texas laid claim to being supreme by having the hottest weather of all. To read Glen Ivey’s Memorial Article click here.

 

Oakwood Cemetery, Winona, Mississippi: I tend to suffer from an obsessive-compulsive tendency. I say suffer because that is my wife’s claim. My claim is I am meticulous. It is why I tried my hardest to get as much information as I possibly could from the cemetery offices before ever leaving my home in Connecticut. I already mentioned that in one case I was sent the wrong information. In the case of Oakwood, I was sent no information at all. However, I knew that Guy Hester’s widow, Elsie Lynn, would be present so I did not fear being unable to find Guy’s grave when the proper time came. Though I was not able to visit all the cemeteries the day before, when I had the chance I did try to, and Oakwood was no exception. I drove up and down the lanes looking for a Hester family headstone, but to no avail. The next day when I and the almost 30 others arrived for the service, Elsie Lynn was there and the headstone was easy to spot, but I never saw it. There were a number of times when my obsessive-compulsive nature proved insufficient to the task, but God never did. To read Guy Hester’s Memorial Article click here.

Blue Ridge Memorial Gardens, Beckley, West Virginia: If you have never been to West Virginia you need to do yourself a favor and visit it. In some respects, it is like no other state I know. If you are not going up the side of a hill or mountain you are going down, or vice versa. Which actually makes Blue Ridge Gardens a bit of an anomaly. Not that it doesn’t have any slopes, for it does to be sure, but it is not nearly as hilly as I might have expected. And as it turns out, Jim Smith’s grave is on a relatively flat portion of the cemetery in any case, which, of course made it easier on the 15-16 of us who attended. It is at least reasonably possible that I am one of the most experienced members of our class when it comes to trying to find specific graves in specific cemeteries. As a minister I have spent more than my fair share of time in them. I had fairly specific information. I knew that Jim’s grave was in the Everlasting Life Section, Site 39, Plot A3. And I had a map with an X marks the spot designation. But it still took some time to find it. I probably walked right by it several times before finally spotting it once and for all, but once I finally did it felt good. It was going to be the last time I would be responsible for finding a grave on my trip. The next time at Arlington that job would have already been done by somebody else. To read Jim Smith’s Memorial Article click here.

Arlington National Cemetery, Arlington, Virginia: In my post-trip after-action report I mentioned the special nature

of being at Arlington National Cemetery. As a retired National Guard Chaplain, just being there was very special for me. But to be there to lead a memorial service for Hank Schroeder that would be attended by 45 classmates and spouses was almost beyond words. Even now as I try to write I find it much harder than for the paragraphs above. With those the words flowed easily, but for Arlington I am almost without words. Perhaps that is because from the top of my now-balding head to the bottom of my flat feet I am a military man. I was born at Fort Benning, Georgia, and raised on military bases all my life as a child. I probably heard the name Arlington National Cemetery before I ever really knew what it was or understood its significance. Even to this day I have not yet been able to give it the time and attention it deserves. The two times I have been there were both for very specific purposes, so I have not yet been able to visit as a tourist. I have yet to visit the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, which I have to say is a bucket list item for sure. I do not have the credentials to be laid to rest there, but Lord willing I will see it again. To read Hank Schroeder’s Memorial Article click here.

West Point Cemetery, West Point, New York: I hope that what I am about to say is not considered sacrilegious. To my mind, the thing that makes the West Point Cemetery special is simply the fact that it is at West Point. That and of course the people that are buried there. As cemeteries go, it is not the most beautiful one I have ever been in. It is not the largest one. It is not the most well-kept one. Nor is it the most significant one. But it is the only one at West Point, and for that reason it has a specialness that no other cemetery can hold a candle to. There are many great people buried at Arlington, but there are great people buried in cemeteries all over our country. But West Point is like no other place, and those of us who were privileged to go there know that only full well. I was not a very special person before arriving at West Point, and I was not a very special cadet while I was there. I cannot speak for the twenty or so who attended, but just being a cadet made me feel special, and I have felt special ever since. B Arnold and the Traitors could sing, “We got to get out of this place!” with pure passion and truth, but every one of us knew we would never be able to get West Point out of us. And that is what makes the West Point Cemetery so special. For those like Joe Silva, Jon Shine, Pick King, Paul Sawtelle, John Woodrum, Harry Thain, Chip Oliver and Ken Yonan, who end up being buried there, it is like saying that when our time has come, we simply want to go home one final time.

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 To read Joe Silva’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read Jon Shine’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read Pick King’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read Paul Sawtelle’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read John Woodrum’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read Harry Thain’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read Chip Oliver’s Memorial Article click here.

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To read Ken Yonan’s Memorial Article click here.

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Before I close, I would like to say a special thank you to all those who attended the twelve services. It was a great encouragement to see how selfless our classmates were in hosting me during my travels, and in taking the time to attend, as well. In several cases, former roommates and friends travelled great lengths to attend different services, whether from Washington, D.C. to Detroit and West Virginia, or from Florida and Texas and Chicago to Montana, or from various points of origin to Texas. At every service, there was at least one other classmate besides me in attendance, and often many more. It was also encouraging in three instances to see local folk turn out as well due to the event being publicized in hometown newspapers. All in all, it was one of the most rewarding things I have ever done in my life and ministry.

A Semi-Final Place: I titled this piece “A Semi-Final Place”. Obviously, I did so with a distinct purpose in mind. It is because no cemetery is the final resting place for anyone. The Bible teaches us that all souls will one day all be raised from the dead … the just and the unjust alike. No one who has ever lived will remain in the place where they were laid to rest. Even those who due to some misfortune or another did not have the luxury of a “final resting place” will be raised from the dead. According to God’s perfect plan there will come a day when everyone’s soul will be reunited with their body. The fact of the bodily resurrection from the dead is part of the declared purpose and plan of God. In fact, there will be two resurrections, and not just one. And as Revelations 20:6 says, “Blessed and holy are those who attain to the first resurrection.”

I was recently watching a Season 2 episode of “Designated Survivor” and the closing scene showed President Kirkman and his brother standing at the grave of the First Lady who had died a few episodes earlier. As the camera panned away and the cemetery came into view, I realized I could use the cemeteries as a theme for a story about my trip. By “my trip” I’m referring to the cross-country trip I took this past July to do memorial services at the graves of our eleven USMA 1969 classmates who fell in Vietnam and who are not buried at West Point.

The final service for the eight buried at West Point was held in late November. Such a theme may put some potential readers off, but as a pastor part of my job is to help people to find peace with God in the face of death. With that in mind, bear with me as I reflect on the semi-final resting places of our classmates.

Grand Lawn Cemetery, Detroit, Michigan: Detroit is known as a place that was once a great city but is now a decaying relic of its past greatness. Grand Lawn Cemetery rests in the presence of some of that decay, but as its name suggests, it is a lovely reminder of what the city once was. At about 30 city blocks, it is a large cemetery, and Barry McGee’s grave is under a small tree in Section 27, which is in the far right-hand corner of the cemetery. The section is about the size of two football fields end-to-end with no upright grave markers. The flat marker was all by itself with no obvious evidence of other family members being buried nearby. It was covered with dirt and small branches and some overgrown grass, which is what you might expect with no known next of kin. However, when the nine of us who attended left after the service, the marker looked presentable and should remain so for a little while longer. To read Barry McGee’s Memorial Article, click here.

Ridgelawn-Mt. Mercy Cemetery, Gary, Indiana: As cemeteries in bigger cities go, Ridgelawn-Mt. Mercy is probably just about as typical as they come. It consists of a rectangular tract of land bordered by West Ridge Road on the north and West 41st Avenue on the south; and it rests in a fairly ordinary residential/commercial area of the city. It is well-maintained which is what you would hope for your loved-one’s final resting place. Terry O’Boyle’s grave is in a family plot bordering on a secondary lane leading into the cemetery from West Ridge Road. As with Barry McGee, there were no known next of kin, which perhaps explains why the family plot was neatly kept, but the grass around Terry’s flat marker was a bit overgrown. So much so that when I asked a cemetery worker to help me find it I discovered that I was almost standing on top of it. Unlike national military cemeteries which are all beautifully kept, I did wonder as we five classmates left, who will clean the overgrown grass off Terry’s marker the next time? To read Terry O’Boyle’s Memorial Article click here.

Oak Hill Calvary Cemetery, Corning, Iowa: As is probably the case with many small towns in America, Oak Hill Cemetery sits by itself on a rectangular plot of land just outside and in this case just south of the Corning town limits. It was not as impressive as some, but it had obviously been around for a while. Certainly long enough to have an ample grove of trees and green grass and to be nicely presented. Ed Northup’s grave was in a family plot at the top end of a slowly rising slope. This portion of Iowa is not altogether flat, which meant that it was possible to look around and see some scenery as we waited for people to arrive. One thing that can be said for small town America is that though they may not always have magnificent cemeteries, their people have big hearts as that little cemetery made room for the second largest turnout on the trip with just over 30 people in attendance. Ed’s service was one where I was not able to spend the night in the immediate vicinity the night before. It was about an hour and a half drive to Corning from Des Moines, and then an hour and a half back before I could head off for my next destination. It meant that it was the only time where I did not get to spend any time exploring the grounds a little bit. I would have liked to have done that. To read Ed Northup’s Memorial Article click here.

Fort Snelling National Cemetery, South Minneapolis, Minnesota: This was a big, beautiful cemetery with over 200,000 graves; and it was meticulously maintained. I drove around and took pictures from several different vantage points, with each picture containing row upon row of graves as far as I could see, and with no grave being repeated in any of the pictures. Perhaps it was because this was the first national cemetery on my trip, but I was quite moved being in the presence of so many veterans’ graves. I also felt a great sense of patriotic pride as I looked around at the wonderful effort, we as a country put into remembering our fallen heroes. Art Nabben also has no next of kin, but finding his grave was not very difficult for the six of us attending. The cemetery has great online information, so it was very easy to find his individual grave in Section P, even in the midst of thousands of other identical graves. Also, there will be no need to worry that his grave will not be presentable the next time someone looks for it just north of the center of the cemetery. To read Art Nabben’s Memorial Article click here.

Choteau Cemetery, Choteau, Montana: In a way, the Choteau Cemetery reminded me of the one in Corning, Iowa. The one difference would be that instead of being a small plot of land on the south side of town it was located to the east of town. That and the fact that it was a flat plot of land rather than slightly sloping. However, that did not mean that there was no scenery to be had. In Iowa you needed to be on a rise to see any scenery, but in Montana the scenery rose up all around you demanding to be looked at. I remember as I was approaching town from the south and seeing a butte rising up from the valley off to the left. As I passed by, I looked up and imagined that as a kid Tom Dellwo must have ventured off with some friends to climb that butte to see what they could see of the rest of the world from the top. As I was standing in the cemetery behind Tom’s grave leading the service I was facing south and made reference to the butte off in the distance and mentioned my imaginings. That little cemetery in Choteau was the furthest point north in my travels and the place of the largest gathering with just over 35 present. After that, it was time to head south towards Arizona. To read Tom Dellwo’s Memorial Article click here.

Holy Hope Cemetery, Tucson, Arizona: Normally when you think of cemeteries you think of green grass and maybe gentle slopes and curvy little lanes that weave their way through the gravestones. Don’t bother trying to think of such things in Tucson, Arizona. No one living there pretends that grass is normal, not in their back yards nor in their cemeteries. What they do imagine to be normal in July is temperatures over 100° as a matter of course. I was told by more than one person not to wear a coat and tie for the service, which I had planned to do at all of them. So, I didn’t. Instead, I wore a USMA golf shirt which I ordered by phone while driving across North Dakota and had shipped from West Point to Tucson. As it turned out all that special effort to stay reasonably cool beside Bill Pahissa’s grave was totally unnecessary. There among the semi-reddish sandy soil and under a fairly large but scraggly tree, and on an unseasonably mild day, I experienced the nicest weather of all the services on the whole trip. Standing there with 13 others also represented the further point west in my travels. To read Bill Pahissa’s Memorial Article click here.

Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery, San Antonio, Texas: Having just written about the nicest weather, I suppose at some point I need to mention the not so nicest weather. You might expect that at some point that would have involved a thunder storm, but that did not ever turn out to be the case. Rather, the weather that was the hardest for me to deal with was the scorching sun and heat. And I think that the epicenter of that occurred next to George Bass’ grave in San Antonio, Texas. I knew the day was going to be hot before I ever arrived at the cemetery; but as I arrived, I hoped that we might find shade under one of the many trees that were everywhere to be seen. Such was not to be the case. Section X was equaled in size only by Section W, and with well over 2,500 graves it actually offered great hope with a fair number of trees to be seen spread around the section. But alas, George’s grave was right in the middle of the largest open space in the section offering no hope of rescue from the sun which made its presence felt the moment the 15 of us stepped out of our cars. Perhaps that was to be expected of the southernmost point in my travels. To read George Bass’ Memorial Article click here.

To this day I cannot remember why or how I got involved in skydiving. I only remember that it happened right after jump school at Fort Benning, Georgia. As a young single Second Lieutenant, I had some time on my hands during the Infantry Basic Course, so skydiving was one of the ways I filled up my Saturdays and Sundays. Since I had just completed jump school, my instructor did not take a lot of time teaching me the finer points of the sport. He briefly explained how to get out on the step of the small plane and then push off and form a spread-eagle position while I waited for the static line to open the parachute. I’m pretty sure I completed my static line jumps and my first five free falls in one weekend … and once I did, I was hooked.

I say he did not take a lot of time to teach me the finer points of sports jumping, but to be fair, I’m not sure that’s totally accurate. I only know that on my third free fall jump I ended up on my back as I was falling to earth, and no amount of kicking and jerking of my arms and legs was any help in getting my body to roll over into the proper face-down position. So, sensing that time was ticking away, I pulled my ripcord and soon enough I was jerked into the appropriate feet-to-earth orientation. I then looked up and discovered that my parachute was simply one big jumbled-up mess otherwise known as a malfunction. And that is when I discovered that the routine boring repetitious training that we had at jump school actually worked. I reached down and put my left hand over my reserve parachute and pulled the cord. I then took the spare chute in my hand fluffed it out until the wind caught it and it billowed up and it was time to start preparing to land. Upon landing my instructor explained that the way to right oneself was to simply arch your back and form a spread-eagle position again … and with that he sent me right back up for my final two free fall jumps.

From there I bought my own sports parachute gear and for the next four years I brought my gear with me wherever I went hoping to find a jump club where I could systematically start filling up my log book with a record of all my various and sundry jumps. While stationed with the Berlin Brigade in Berlin, Germany, I had occasion to jump in a number of different venues. Jumping in West Berlin was never going to happen for obvious reasons, but I did find a German jump club in Braunschweig, West Germany, which was about a two and a half hour drive away. It meant that I had drive through East Germany to get there, and I had to apply for a weekend pass whenever I wanted to go, but as long as I was judicious in how often I asked, my battalion commander was willing to accommodate my new-found passion.

The other person I had to be careful with was my wife, Avril, of course. Looking back on it now, I realize that she was a lot more accommodating of my jumping habits than I realized at the time. Not only did she let me go away on those occasional weekends to Braunschweig, but she also allowed me to crisscross Europe on our vacations looking for jump opportunities. The result was that by the time my Berlin tour was over, I had logged-in jumps not only in Germany, but also in Spa, Belgium, and at a jump club near Salisbury, England, and even at an obscure drop-zone somewhere in Northern France. We had been to England for a couple of weeks, and as we were driving back to Berlin across France we passed by an open field that had a sign that read “Baptime de l’Aire”. Even though I had taken French at West Point I did not immediately recognize the phrase as relating to skydiving; but it did not take me too long to imagine that it might.

So, with Avril’s permission I turned the car around and went back to check it out, and sure enough it was a jump club. The French jumpers were more than happy to let me make a couple of jumps with them that day before we continued on our way.

All of the above explains how I ended up with my jump gear in Vietnam. When it was my turn to go to Vietnam in the Fall of 1971, I was due to fly out of McChord Air Force Base in Washington State. As it turned out, my roommate from our Firstie year was in medical school in Seattle. Also, there was at the time a huge skydiving center in nearby Snohomish, Washington, so I took all my jump gear with me. I stayed with John a few days and did some jumping and Space Needle sightseeing, and then headed off to Vietnam with my jump gear in tow.

I was in Vietnam towards the end of American involvement there, so I ended up with several different assignments. I started out with the 101st Airborne Division up in Phu Bai, and from there I went to Long Binh before finally ending up in Cam Rahn Bay. Wherever I went I had my jump gear in tow, with the one exception being when I was at Firebase Jack – for obvious reasons. I never intended nor expected to get the opportunity to jump, of course, but having brought my gear with me to jump near Seattle, I had to take it with me the rest of the way. Oh, I just remembered, I did not take it with me on R&R in Hawaii, either. I’m pretty sure that was one occasion when Avril would not have been so understanding; and to be honest I really didn’t have jumping on my mind then, in any case.

Fast forward to my last week in Vietnam. I was sitting at a table in the Cam Rahn Bay Officer’s Club with several other guys drinking whatever; and somehow the subject turned to skydiving. As it happened, a number of the other guys either had been or still were skydivers. I’m pretty sure I’m the one who then confessed to the absurdity of the fact that I happened to have my jump gear with me in Vietnam. Imagine the shock when two other guys at the table confessed that they too had their jump gear with them! And as if that wasn’t shock enough, two of the remaining guys were Huey pilots and as a matter-of-fact asked the three of us if we would like to make a jump! What? How could that be possible? They simply said that if we wanting to make a jump, we should meet them at 0700 the next morning at a designated hanger, and they would take us up.

We didn’t need to be told twice. At 0700, there we were right where they told us to be, dressed in our jump gear with our chutes on our back, ready to board their chopper. They told us that they would take us out into the boonies and up to about 12,000 feet and let us jump. They also told us that since there was no telling who or what might be out there we should immediately prepare to be picked up once we landed. The other two jumpers were more experienced than me, so they told me to jump first and then they would follow and hook up with me. It all went like clockwork. When the pilots gave us the go signal, I jumped out and did the best spread-eagle position I knew how; and the other two guys came and hooked up with me. We probably held the three-pointed star for about 20-30 seconds and then pulled our ripcords and landed and scooped up our chutes and waited for the chopper. The pilots came down and whisked us away back to the Cam Rahn airfield thus ending my one and only “combat” parachute jump … far and away the most memorable one in my log book!