Who Are the Real Heroes?

can still remember Great Grandpa Holmburg�s house in Riverton. It was a small but comfortable white sided, single story house, tucked under the golden umbrella of Cotton Wood trees in their fall glory. There was a grand Goose-Berry bush pushing out from under the eaves on the left side of the house, heavy with tempting green orbs of fruit. On the right was the gray gravel drive passing to the back of the house where the garage-work shop sat.

Inside the house it was always warm and cozy. The sweet smells of homemade jams, jellies, preserves and syrups permeated throughout. I can taste the Bosco mixed in milk that Great Grandpa would make as a treat for the two of us, before settling in for his stories of heroes past and the old west. I can see grandpa sitting there in his chair telling an engrossed six-year-old about the battles of that Great War he was a part of. I can feel the satin ribbon of his medal from that war and recall in my mind the pictures he wove of the local people in the Philippines he had come to know and care about. They were the people who were never awarded the accolades of heroism. For him, they were the real heroes in that far off place.

My back is baking in the warmth from the old pot bellied Ben Franklin stove in the corner. It radiates waves of heat from the glow of the gas jets burning behind the mica windows in the cast iron door. The throw rug under me is rough but familiar with swirling patterns of fading greens, blues, reds and yellows. The light is low and slightly yellowed as it peaks out from under the shade of the floor lamp standing next to the old desk. Sitting open to my left is an old cavalry footlocker, Great Grandpa Holmburg's War Chest. A faint musty odor of aged wood and cloth comes from it.

There he sits my Great Grandpa Holmburg. We kids, of course, just call him Grandpa. He sits there so high up in that straight backed wooden chair of his. He and I are the only ones here. I can sit here on the floor looking up at him and listening to his stories forever. I especially like his stories about the war. You know the one in the Philippines. The one that happened before the one we learned about in school called the First World War. That�s the one where grandpa got his medal. He was a hero for real. I mean you don�t get the president to give you the Congressional Medal of Honor for doin� nothing.

I particularly like it when grandpa lets me take out the old stereopticon viewer and look at all the pictures he took of battlefields and bodies and things. It's really neat to sit here and listen to him explain what went wrong at this battle or how this other battle was so easy. I wade hungrily through the pictures as grandpa tells the stories behind them.

Once when I was looking at a picture of a family standing in front of a small shack of a house, grandpa told the story about how he got shot. He told how the enemy had cut off his squad from the main force. He volunteered to go get help and was trying to get through the enemy lines when he was shot in the stomach. When grandpa stumbled into this farmhouse in the picture, the family that lived there hid him and took care of his wound.

"They didn�t know a lick of English and I didn�t know Philippineo, but they took care of me and dressed my wounds as best they could. Fed me too." His eyes gaze at some far off place beyond the walls of the house. "Took care of me right well they did. Whole family could have been shot for takin� me in the way they did."

Once grandpa was strong enough, the farmer helped him get to his headquarters and get help back to the rest of his buddies. Saving his buddies that way was why grandpa got the medal. There is even a picture of grandpa standing next to some general, getting his medal. Maybe that could be me someday, standing by a general and getting a medal for bravery.

The only problem with that story, when he told it, was how grandpa kind of went somewhere else when he was talking about these people in the picture. I don't now how to explain what happened. It was just kind of like his body got empty and was just reporting something that was going on right then. He never did tell that story again.

I asked dad about it later. He wasn�t any help though. He just kind of shook his head and told me I would "understand someday." I really hate when he does that. Why can't he just tell me today? Instead it's always "someday."

I look up at grandpa way up in that chair. His eyes are kind of twinkling. His face is thin and dark with years of life showing through. His gray hair is thin and cropped short. He doesn't have on his glasses. They are peaking out of the breast pocket of the old suit jacket he always wears. His big hands are resting comfortably on the arms of the chair. The skin on the backs of his hands is gnarled and weathered and the long thin leathery fingers are looped down over the rounded ends of the armrests. He's quiet for a moment, kind of looking into me, not at me. Is he going to ask me a question? He's my hero. It�s quiet here.

This is my fourth or fifth time in Washington D.C. The first time I came I did all kinds of sight seeing, taking the subway from the hotel or from the IBM school into the capital. I have seen the Smithsonian, the Kennedy Center, the Washington Memorial, and the White House, all the usual tourist spots.

Yesterday I went to dinner with Richard. I had met Richard earlier in the week at a class we were both attending. During dinner we had talked about a lot of things, including our families, jobs and such. At some point we started talking about the sights and places we should go before we had to leave for our respective homes. I was taken aback when Richard asked if I had ever been to the Vietnam Memorial.

"No, never really had time," I replied slowly.

"You should go, you know. I remember you told me you were on river boats, and you had lost a buddy there."

Richard looked at me as if he were waiting for something. He had also been on the boats but did not appear to mind talking about it. Earlier that evening we had somehow started talking about "in-country." I had become very uncomfortable and changed the subject several times before he got the message. Now he was bringing it up again. I was becoming irritated.

"Look I just never had the time. Besides, that was in the past and I don't see any need to bring back bad memories."

Richard saddened visibly. "What about the good memories? You did have some, right?"

"Yea, there were good times," I sighed. "It's just that it took a long time to get back into living. Besides, I really don't like to revisit the dead."

"I know what you mean," he replied as he looked down thoughtfully at the dinner check in front of him. "You know inside though you aren't over what happened there."

God, I suddenly felt like boiling over on him. How dare he tell me what I was over and what I wasn�t over? What did he know about what I felt?

Then it struck me like a bolt of lightning - I wasn't over my time in-country. I had just pushed it all aside, both the good and the bad. I realized that if anyone else had said anything about not being over the war, I would have laid them out on the floor without another thought. But Richard had been there. He had lost both buddies and a leg. He had earned his medals. He was a hero by anyone�s standards and he knew exactly what I was feeling at that moment.

I looked straight in his eyes as his gaze came back to me. Yes, he knew and he was right I still had ghosts lurking around in me. And so I agreed to go, and so I am here walking up the green from the subway station, sweating in chilly sixty-degree weather.

We are approaching from the Washington Memorial side. I can see people wandering around. Some are crying openly while others simply stand like statues placed for effect. The near end of the jet-black marble wall is poking up from the ground. My hands are clammy and my shoes feel too tight. Things seem to be surreal like the quiet of a funeral parlor with people talking in whispers so as not to wake the dead. Even the sounds of traffic jostling up and down Pennsylvania Avenue are fading off and muffled. The light ahead is getting grayer and things appear to be misting over. Somewhere, far off, is the rumble of the diesel engine of a truck. Or is that a truck? It almost sounds like the diesel engines of the riverboats back in Vietnam.

Only two klicks left to go and we will be back at base. Then all we�ll have to worry about are the roaches, centipedes, watery food and the never-ending drone of the rain. The rain is the worst. It has constantly come down for the last few weeks. That�s the monsoons for you. Sometimes the rain comes down as a drizzling mist, but more often than not, it is a steady running wall of water. God, how I hate this weather! The only part of the sun reaching us is dull steel gray light oozing between the gushes of water. Even the green of the jungle is grayed out.

The rash is back too, between my toes, on my ass, under my armpits. All the poncho really does is create a constant steam bath within inches of my skin, where the sweat and rain become indistinguishable from one another. A perfect growth culture for whatever the hell this rash is.

Well, only eight weeks and I will be on my way back to my ship in the gulf, instead of running around on this relic from World War Two. When word came down that personnel stationed on ships could trade duty with someone in-country, I jumped at the opportunity. Why had I taken that duty swap anyway? Three months ago the reason was clear as a bell, a chance to be a hero, to get a medal to put up on the wall and stories for my kids and grand kids. Really dumb man. Now I�m not so sure being a hero is all I thought it was. Well, like my dad had warned me, "Don't volunteer for anything." Me the hero, sorry gramps.

I can see by our wake that the Lieutenant has slowed our speed a bit. The bank to the north has become veiled in mist. The south bank is far enough away now, so we really don't have anything to worry about from snipers. I can feel the tension leak out with the constant sweat. I will get back to the hooch, my home in this God forsaken place, try and dry off and get some sleep before we have to go out again. Maybe I can write a letter home. No, everything is so wet the ink will just run like blue watercolor.

Diesel, our forever-diligent engineer, is sitting on the engine hatch doing something to number two again. Oil and water soaked rags in his left hand, are pressed against the combing to hold him steady against the sway. His right arm is down below, out of sight, yanking on something. He will be heading home soon as well. Actually he will bug out of here before me, the lucky stiff. We can write and keep in touch.

Hell, what is his real name? I don't know. I'm sure he told me once when I came on board, but I�ll be damned if I can remember what it is. Oh well, we will have time to exchange addresses and names before he leaves.

It's funny, here we have been running up and down this river, forever it seems, trying to stay alive, and I don't even know anyone's real name. Even the lieutenant goes by "Wheel Man" or ass-hole, when we�re pissed at him. And Boats, standing his station by the 50-caliber machine gun on the bow, is just Boats. God, am I ever ready to get out of here!

The only real sound is the chug of the twin diesel engines. The rest of the sounds, the birds and variety of other critters, are dull and distant behind the rain curtain. Even the splash of the wake, coming together behind us, is muffled. None of us has said much since we dropped "Crazy Larry" off up-river. There isn't a lot of sense trying to talk when you have to shout in the ear next to you to be overheard above the engines when they are bellowing full out.

This sure isn�t like the movies I use to inhale as a kid. Movies where John Wayne or Jimmy Stuart ride into the jaws of death to return victorious and collect the rewards of their heroic deeds. Instead it�s dull grueling work, done without enough sleep. Its being scared most of the time and counting the days till I go home. No, this definitely is not what "The Lone Ranger" does with his silver bullets.

What the hell is that coming from the south bank out of the trees? God, a rocket, coming straight at us! I have to warn the others, but everything is a disjointed series of unreal snap shots and I can only watch. Diesel is straightening up as the rocket simply wipes off the head that should be above his shoulders. Light flashes so bright I can't see and sound roars so loud that I feel it compress my eardrums with hammering force. The shock wave throws me spinning into the air.

Water is engulfing me, black, cold and choking. There's no direction. Where's up? I break the surface choking for breath as water spews out of my nose and mouth. I kick frantically swimming for shore, trying to keep from being pulled back under by water logged boots and clothes. I have to go under water and fight my way out of this damned useless poncho. I break through the surface again and begin swimming as fast as the drag on my clothes will let me. God isn't the shore going to get any closer? Lord; get me the hell out of here, PLEASE!

Mud is under my knees. The forward momentum of my lurch is dunking me under the black water again. My hands are pushing into the goo trying to get me upright. My feet can't seem to get any traction. I�m making some progress, finally. I can see the bank shooting up only a couple of feet away.

My footing is gone and I am going down again. Oh my God, the pain. I've been hit in the knee. I can't move. I'm pinned like a bug on a collectors display tray. Jesus, where is that sniper and where did he get that rocket?

Boats is next to me. He's doing something in the water around my .... Oh God, the pain! I'm loose again. Boats pulls me up. The lieutenant is on the other side of me, as the two of them yank me through the muck. I can see they are yelling at me to get my ass moving if I want keep it. Why can't I hear them?

I try my feet but the pain in my left knee is like fire. I look down. Shit, I can see what's wrong. There are ugly, jagged splinters of bamboo sticking out at crazy angles from the joint. Red blood is mixing with black-green muck in a sick oozing paste. We are on the bank and out of the river.

I can't seem to keep focused. Boats and the Lieutenant are on either side holding me upright and dragging me along. Bullets are ripping through leaves and trunks, scattered but scaring the hell out of me. I can't hear the rounds as they slam past us, but I can see the leaves shred and the bark fly off tree trunks as the projectiles rip through the foliage around us. It's frantic moving, jerking, fading in and out, stumbling and hobbling. Everything is getting black. It's quiet here.

I fade back in and I find I am lying on my back. The rain is pouring down on my face, trying it�s best to drown me. I try to get up to run, but Boats holds me down. I can see his mouth yelling at me to stop jerking around like a fish. Why can't I hear him? I have this roaring going through my head like a freight train. I try to fight my way to my feet, but searing pain drops me like a rock and I fade out once more into quiet.

I fade back in. I'm looking up at the most beautiful face I have ever seen. There is no rain washing over me. I'm dead and have gone to heaven, right? But no, the face before me is sad and lonely and very much a part of the here and now. The face belongs to a woman kneeling down beside my head. She is one of the mountain people. I can tell by that hat draped on her back and by the clothing she wears. She is talking but I don't know the dialect. Footsteps, I can hear them running in across a dirt floor.

"You scared the shit out of us, you dick head," a voice gongs in my ears. It's Boats� face crowding out the beauty of the woman. He looks ten years older. Mud and blood are all over his flack jacket, face, and arms. "Is the leg doing any better?"

It's coming back to me. My knee is ripped apart and the boat and Diesel are gone. I start to sit up and a wave of nausea sweeps over me. Boats gently pushes me back down and lifts the woven straw blanket off me. He reaches down and pushes on my leg. The knee responds with a dull thudding lifelessness.

"Listen!" Boats starts in, "Don't move around. The Lieutenant and I are going to base camp and get a medic and stretcher for you. These people," he looks at the young-old woman, "will keep you safe until we get back. The old men are out giving that sniper a merry chase. He won�t be bothering you here."

"Don't forget where the hell I am," I chide him. "I'm due to go home soon."

He smiles at me, "You'll be home sooner than you think."

For the next several hours my Angel, I don't know her name, sits by me watching me and chattering on. I only understand maybe one in ten words, but the melody of her voice is just the medicine I need right now.

Angel feeds me a thin but wonderful soup and occasionally wipes my head with a clean damp cloth. She lapses into quiet now and then, listening. Then she begins speaking again in her soothing singsong voice as she dips the chipped wooden spoon into the equally chipped wooden bowl.

She has stopped talking again, listening. Now I can hear engines in the far off distance. They are diesel engines from a riverboat. The engines go idle for a count of forty, then rev up and back away. Angel looks at me and smiles. She continues to spoon feed me as we wait. Oh what a beautiful smile.

Boats is here with one of the camp medics, the lieutenant and a couple of Marines. The medic carefully cuts away the material of my pants to get a better look at the tangled mess that is left of my knee. Angel is off to one side, watching as the Marines gather on either side of me and haul me into the litter someone has laid out. There is pain, but now it�s a quiet pain. The Marines are cinching down a web strap across my chest. Now I'm up in the air on the litter. I hold out my hand to Angel and she gives it a sad squeeze. I smile back at her, grateful for her presence and the sound of her voice. I don't know how to say thank you to her any other way.

The lieutenant steps in beside me with an anxious grin playing across his face. "Well you got that medal you were so worried about. You could have done it different you know." He backs away and the litter begins to move with me as its prisoner.

My brain flashes a reply to the ass-hole�s dumb comment. "Who cares about the stupid medal?" Right now I don�t care, but maybe I will feel differently about it later.

We are jogging and dodging through the jungle. Vines and bush limbs keep clasping me as I am hauled along. I�m getting drenched again by buckets of rain. My knee is revealing it�s sadistic nature and is feeling again. Every bounce is shooting slivers of white hot fire up and down my leg. The pain is back full force and everything is getting red and muffled. Sound is going away. The color is fading, becoming a black wall around me. It's quiet here.

The marble is almost black. It's like a well, and I stare back out at me from deep inside. My face is wet and puffy. I've been crying. I don't ever remember having relived that time in-country like that before. The details were so total with sight, sounds and smells.

At the bottom of the wall panel in front of me is a small wreath, hung on a white wooden frame with a picture of someone�s son, or husband proudly gazing out from within the ring of fading cloth flowers. Pinned to the top is a Silver Star taped to the bottom of an old yellowed envelope. The smudged ink of the name and address of the receiver is blurred beyond readability. This is probably the last letter that ever came from that marine, lost overseas in the war that was not a war, joined to the medal given posthumously in recognition of bravery and heroism. Every word of that letter is most likely engraved in the heart and mind of the one who left it there.

Down the face of the obelisk, Richard is kneeling in front of a list. He is praying quietly inside himself, oblivious to anyone else nearby.

A woman stands silently, facing another list of lives lost. Wrapped closely in her arms is a fifteen, or maybe sixteen year old girl. The breeze is stirring wisps of hair around their heads and playing with the hems of the skirts they are wearing. Is this a mother and daughter here to visit all the girl has ever known of her father? They appear transfixed by what is before them.

I turn around and behind me there stands a large man in worn wrinkled jungle greens looking at me and waiting. Over the left breast pocket is a tower of ribbons, four rows of them. Draped across the rows, a single black ribbon. Either rain or tears have caused rivulets of stain to bleed down across the lower two rows of service awards. The streaks appear most appropriate as they mar the fabric of the ribbons from Vietnam. On his head is a red beret. Just below the front peak of the beret, is the unit emblem, slightly faded. His being there does not startle me. I am just curious as to why he is behind me, waiting silently.

His eyes narrow, crows feet growing out towards his hairline. "You all right?" His voice is rough and gravely, but the words are spoken with gentleness. His expression is of concern and caring.

I think about it for a few heartbeats. "Yea, I'm fine. Thanks." I choke on the words.

His bear-like arms reach out and embrace me, folding me in and giving me back the warmth I had not noticed was gone from me. I'm not embarrassed, just thankful. I needed that hug desperately and he somehow knew it.

He lets go and steps back at arm's length. A sad but knowing smile appears on his weathered features. His right hand comes off my shoulder and engulfs my own right hand in a brotherly grip. He shakes my hand once, turns, and is off walking slowly, quietly toward another soul lost in memories at the far corner of the memorial.

My eyes are still flowing with tears but they are of relief and not burden. I feel a lifetime of weight lift and drift off into the distance. Understanding has finally come to me many years after my great grandfather passed on. Understanding about who the real heroes of war are.

The sun is warm on my back as it sinks slowly between the trees. The air is cool and alive on my cheeks. Sounds of life come from all directions, and I feel peacefully quiet here.

Since my encounter with the ghosts of my past, I have only occasionally drifted into memories of times I use to feel were best left untouched. When I do, it is usually the good things I remember most.

I remember the people, displaced from their own land in a war they did not want, making life continue in spite of what had been thrown at them. I remember the children who would tag into camp behind a mother or any other relative that might have taken them in. Those children wanted to play cards or pick-up sticks or anything for a while. Anything that would let them pretend they still had a childhood.

I remember Angel watching over me, even though I was a stranger in her country. She cared for me when I could not care for myself, while those others, her friends and relatives who lived in that temporary village near the river, put their lives on the line for me. They had placed the entire village in dire jeopardy for a stranger in a strange land.

Even today our society creates blockbuster movies about the "Rocky Balboa" like heroes, facing insurmountable odds for the prize at the end of their struggle for justice. The youth of our culture become mesmerized by the daring-do of dark sinister characters that win revenge for wrongs done in gigantic blazing, bloody battles exploding across the screen from opening credits to copyright trailers. That same media machine, as the next possible "President of the United States", grooms generals who lead winning wars in real-time media displays in foreign lands.

And yet the real heroes who have been and will be are the ones who never see the ribbons and plaques. They are not blazing in glory across the pages of a book. The real heroes are the people who only want the killing and destruction to go away. The war that has engulfed them is not their own and yet that same war steals their land, their loved ones and their lives. The combatants are foreigners from strange lands, wielding weapons of destruction that are beyond comprehension. The real heroes are those who survive and must live on after the foreigners have gone. They are the ones who must rebuild their lives on land laid barren by war. These are the real heroes, because despite all that has been done to them, they are willing to risk what little is left to them, even their very lives, to help someone they see as in greater need than themselves.

These simple folk are the real heroes wandering through every soldier and sailor's dream. They are the ones who make love and caring have meaning when our hearts have grown cold and callused in the blood letting of battle. The distant memories of their voices, the visage of their faces, their unselfish acts of true love remind us that they are the real heroes.

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