As a kid, I really didn’t pay attention to world events.  I knew that we were at war, but at Subic, the microcosm of life was centered around the Station, and we weren’t really effected by the war.  We knew that it was happening, but there was a job to do at Subic.  Every military professional, however, kept an eye on what was going on over there.  The only times it really impacted dependents was when you were playing at a friend’s house, and the black Navy sedan with the Naval Officers in their dress whites pulled up.  I was asked to go home, and a few days later, my friend was gone, because his father had been shot down, killed, or captured somewhere in Southeast Asia.  These incidents didn’t happen on a regular basis, but they happened, and I remember them.

The military has a plan for everything, including what was considered highly unlikely, so when Saigon fell, Subic put its plan into action.  The Seebees were mobilized to Grande Island, the Red Cross (which included my mom) were given instruction, and the Naval Community prepared to receive the people and materials that were making their ways via the Naval Task forces, aircraft, and civilian ships across the sea to us.

Mom volunteered to help in Operation Babylift, where Vietnamese infants had been sent by their parents away from South Vietnam.  These children arrived at Subic, some wearing necklaces of Bot, gold with which to pay their way), and Mom helping to find sponsors and, later, reunite families at Grande Island.

Dad was busy arranging for the reception for the ships of the former South Vietnamese Navy, racking and stacking them wherever space could be found, and clearing them of vermin and ordnance, and later arranging for their overhaul and disposition.

Mom worked eighteen hours days, and Dad worked twenty hour days, leaving me with the dog, and our wonderful maid, Lina, who stepped up to the plate, and, in her own small way, contributed to the overall response to the evacuee situation.  This lasted about a month, until the last day.

Mom remembers:

One of the first refugees to arrive was a Vietnamese doctor.  He had lost contact with his wife in the confusion, but pitched in to assist the Americans by providing translation services, and cultural training (teaching the American volunteers about Vietnamese protocol and taboos.)  He stayed until the the last helicopter ferried the last of the refugees from the ships of the Naval Task Force.  When the helicopter landed, the last person off of it was his wife, and they were reunited.  That was closure for me as far as the Fall of Saigon was concerned, but I still have strong feelings about why events turned out the way that they did…

Thirty years later, I have learned much.  I learned how the country treated her returning veterans, and how the American public was manipulated by the mainstream media, who have since lost my trust completely.  I learned that any blame of the “loss” of the Vietnam War was on the shoulders of the politicians, and not the Forces on the ground.

I remember those days, and I want to express to those who served my feelings:

It took decades for the American public to learn how badly it has treated our Vietnam Veterans, and caused untold damage to those Veteran’s lives by its refusal to step up and help heal those who returned.  There are, however, many who never stopped believing that the Vietnam Vets are heroes in no less stature than any who served before them, and it has been my honor to be counted among their supporters.

If you are a veteran of the Southeast Asia Theater of Operations (1955-1975):  Welcome Home!  And thank you for standing the line on my behalf.

I would rather heft a 70 pound pack on my back and “ruck” or “hump” 12 miles over hilly terrain than put on t-shirt, running shorts, and “go-fasters” and run 2 miles on a flat course…

When I was a young Marine infantryman, I did run, but only because I had to.  I never go into the groove of running.  I got bored with it, and it hurt!

Towards the end of my Marine career, I was fortunate to have SSGT Tony Molino as a leader.  He recognized that it took a greater degree of motivation to get me psyched up to run that the average bear.  Because he knew me well, he came up with a plan that turned my sense of the romantic into an effective weapon.

“Imagine,” he said one day, as we were slogging through our daily five mile jog through the back streets and wildlands of Camp Margarita (aboard Camp Pendleton), “That you are running with the Scottish kings of old…”

I’m pretty sure that the likes of William Wallace, Robert the Bruce, and the Douglas Clan Chieftains never put on their Adidas or New Balance running shoes for a quick jog around the castle.  They had other, more important, things on their minds, and they really weren’t kings…  But the idea was implanted, and- can you believe it?- it worked!  As I ran, I fired up my imagination, and it wasn’t long before I felt the presence of my Scottish ancestors at either side, with the Pipes skirling in the wind, giving my feet wings.  My mind would not allow my body to weaken in the company of such heroes, and I fairly sailed through my daily runs.  Even my Captain, CAPT Evan Davies, would come with us, and see me cruising along, my mind across the sea and 800 years away.  he asked Tony what was afoot, and Tony simply said, “He’s running with Kings.”

But time passed…  Tony fell to cancer, CAPT Davies left after his tour, and I left the ranks of the Corps.

After all those years, I ate like an Infantryman, even though I didn’t burn it off doing infantryman things.  I grew fat, out of shape, and my priorities skewed…

My long time readers have followed my journey, my fight to come to this place, to serve once more on foreign soil, in this last Great Military Adventure.  I regaled you with the pride of dropping enough weight to get back into uniform, and the struggle to learn the new technologies and differing Army procedures as a Guardsman.  I told you of my pride in earning the right to wear a combat patch…

There was one task left for me to complete…

I had to take an Army Physical Fitness Test to get into the Guard.  That test, well, perhaps it might not have withstood the scrutiny of higher headquarters, but because I was running towards the sound of the guns, instead of running away, any subterfuge was dismissed because folks knew they had a soldier whose heart was in the right place.

Fast forward to this morning…

My morning PT group was formed with the express goal of getting everybody in shape for the APFT.  We spent countless hours working on push-up, sit -ups, and running.  I, of course, am the oldest guy in the group, and I was probably the most out of shape, with the farthest to go in getting back in shape.  It has been a hell of a fight…  I set for myself a goal:  If I passed the APFT, I would allow myself to enjoy a small cinnamon roll from Cinnabon’s…

This morning, SSG “Elder” and I went to the gym, and there he did admister the Army Physical Fitness Test.

I had trouble with a “dead zone”, the first four inches after pushing off of the “down” position…  In the past, I just couldn’t break through it…  I usually crapped out at about 24 push-ups (30 is passing for my age group)…  That was enough to sap my motivation a bit.  My form would suffer, and no matter how hard I thought I was trying, I couldn’t get past that barrier…

Not today…

I started out, and felt strong all of the way through.  My form was perfect, and I blew through 25 like nobody’s business…

…And somewhere, faintly, in the back of my mind, in the deep recesses of my imagination, I heard it…  The faintest sound…  The striking up of the Pipes…  The first hum of the drones…

I blew through 30, and fought hard to see if I could keep going, and finally gave up the ghost at 34 push-ups – a personal best…

Sit-ups were next, and I had already proved to myself that the 31 required would be no problem.  As I rounded out an honest 35, the Pipes in my mind drew closer, and the phantom Piper blew the low “E”, set to Pipe a reel or a jig…

One event left…  my nemesis…  The 2 mile run…

I stretched out, and then looked to SSG “Elder”, with his stop watch in hand.  “Are you ready?” he asked…

But he and I weren’t the only ones there…

(William Wallace was a nobleman, a knight who spoke Latin and french, and probably little Gaelic…  He never wore a kilt in his life, and rode horseback most of the time…  Just so you know…)

But into my ear whispered a phantom, the image of Sir William, as played by Mel Gibson (“Braveheart”, do ye ken?), and he would run the very ridges of Scotland, from highest Hi’land Peak, to the very streets of Glasgow and Edinburgh- the rascal- simply because it was his pleasure to do so…

“So, laddie,” the spirit of William said into my ear, “Are ye up for a wee jaunt?  What say ye, Bobbie?”

“Aye, William, if this young pup thinks he can keep up!” Robert the Bruce said, just the other side of me…

(When you’ve the likes of this pair, you don’t dare say no, nor do you fiddle with the moment, as absurd as it might be…)

The Piper struck up a lively air, and the race was on!

I started out strong, knowing that the ten or so seconds I needed for the end of the race should be made up now, since I had the quick energy…  I needed to come in at 18 minutes, 40 seconds to pass.  I had hovered around 19 minutes even…

At the quarter mile mark, somebody had gathered the rest of the band, and my mind was filled with the full resounding glory of the Pipes and Drums, as well as the panting breath and bawdy quips of the two ghosts who ran on either side of me…

The finish line lay about a quarter mile ahead of me, and I saw SSG “Elder” waiting at the line.  “Let’s go, lad, you’ve got a bit left in you!” William growled.  SSG “Elder” began to run towards me.  He reached my side, and then reversed direction, “Push it, SGT B!”

100 meters, with SSG “Elder” exhorting me onwards, Robert the Bruce offering encouragement, and Cousin Billy threatening to put his claidheamh mòr (Claymore sword) up where the sun don’t shine iff’n I didn’t get my arse in gear in short order!

50 meters, all four of us sprinting for the prize!

25 meters, and I poured it on, the Pipes screaming in my ears!

Finish, with a war cry that they heard at the gates of Castle Stirling!

The time: 18 minutes 19 seconds…

I had passed the Army Physical Fitness Test…

It took a little while to compose myself, as I staggered about, trying to catch my wind, as SSG “Elder” looked on with approval.

“Good job, lad.” William said, “Ye done well.” And he and Robert drifted away, to fade back into memory…

And I caught another presence, just a hint…

“Thanks, Tony.” I whispered.

I felt a smile, and it too was gone.  I miss my friend, but I know that he is somebody’s guardian angel, and he checks up on my every now and again.  Call me crazy, but it’s a comfort…

SSG “Elder” confirmed the score…  And then, in keeping with my personal prize, took me to Cinnabon, and bought me a cup of coffee…

…And a small cinnamon roll…

Okay, now I can come home…

Your humble scribe's first picture in Iraq!

I made it!

It’s the first step towards the resolution of many issues…

Gun Line regulars have followed my journey up to this moment, this defining moment.  Now comes the time where, having put my money where my mouth is, it is time to earn a little interest.

I am here.

More to follow…  Much more…