If someone had told me just a few months ago that I would be attending a Veterans Recognition Breakfast, I
would have thought he or she was crazy. First of all, I am not a veteran and, in fact, until my son joined the Air Force, I actually had an aversion to all things military. This aversion goes back to the era in which I grew up. I was at the tail-end of the Vietnam War era – an era known for its antiwar sentiments and its popular saying that you should “Make Love, Not War.” I have to admit that I still am a bit of a pacifist and I don’t like war – I think it should be avoided at all cost unless it is in direct defense of our country. However, now that my son is in the military, I realize that although I may not support what some higher ups in the U.S. Government have sent our military overseas to do, we must stand by our men and women who are fulfilling their orders as part of the oath they took to defend our country.
When I recently had the opportunity to become a part of this Warrior Writers Fort Wayne project, I decided to take the plunge because it sounded like a worthy endeavor. I checked out the national Web site to see what the Warrior Writers were all about, and I found it to be an outlet where individuals in the military could express themselves and comment freely on their military experience and its effect on them and their families.
These are young men and women who are dedicating their lives to service in the military, just like my son. I became hooked.
My project partners, Air Force veteran Becky Roady (leader of the project) and classmate Adrian “A.J.” Rivera, have been collaborating with me on ways we can get military people and veterans involved in the Warrior Writers. Becky attended a movie night on the campus of our college, Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne (IPFW), to become connected with IPFW students who are in the military in an attempt to get them engaged in the project.
We also looked for places to conduct writing workshops for our project, and I decided to check out the Red Cross, which is known for its assistance to veterans and those in the military. So, I called up the Red Cross and talked to one of the people in charge of their military and veterans programs. It just so happened that they were having a Veterans Recognition Breakfast that same weekend. The Red Cross staff member invited me to attend and I accepted the invitation. As I arrived at the Red Cross breakfast check-in table, they asked me what branch of military service I was affiliated with – they had distinct name tags for the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, etc. – and I had to tell them I was not a veteran, just a guest. “I do have a son in the Air Force, though,” I said, trying to justify my attendance at the veterans’ breakfast, “and I’m involved in a project for veterans.”
I went in and took a seat at a nearly empty table, not knowing anyone in the room. As I looked around, I saw one table in the middle occupied by a group of gray-haired people, both men and women. Some were in uniforms, but most of them were in civilian clothing. “Must be World War II vets,” I thought to myself. At the other end of my table were a few guys who looked to be in my age bracket, maybe a bit older, and I heard them alking about Viet Nam, so it was easy to figure out from what era they were. Then, there were a couple of really young people in the room, and I speculated that perhaps they were still active military personnel – maybe even a part of the conflicts in Iraq or Afghanistan.
The breakfast started with the Pledge of Allegiance and a flag folding ceremony. It was during this ceremony that I learned most of the gray-haired people in the room were actually Korean War-era veterans. I started doing the math and realized that probably a lot of the World War II veterans were no longer among us.
The Korean War veterans wore white gloves while handling the U.S. flag and explained that the red stripe of the flag was for life, the white stripe for eternal life, and there were 13 stripes to signify the 13 founding colonies of the union. The blue stars represent the 50 states of the union, and they even pointed out which star represented our home state of Indiana – the 20th star, signifying that it was the 20th state to join the union. As the vets began carefully folding the flag, they explained the significance of each fold – I cannot remember now what each fold symbolized – but as a result of this ceremony, I came to appreciate the flag and what it represents to those who have defended it. After the flag was completely folded up and tucked in to form a triangle shape, it was presented to the Red Cross for its display.
The Red Cross, in turn, presented an award to one of the Korean War veterans in recognition of his volunteer service to the organization. At the end of the breakfast, I was given the opportunity to stand up and briefly tell about our Warrior Writers project and to encourage the veterans to participate. As a result, a few veterans expressed an interest in submitting their writings to the project. One of them was a 98-year old woman named Virginia who said she had some good poems she had written while providing “quasimilitary” service with the American Red Cross “ARC Club” during World War II and the Korean War. I was honored by her presence and excited about her interest in being a Warrior Writer. You can find her beautiful poem on page 5 of this booklet.
I am excited by the literary and artistic submissions of all of our Warrior Writers from Fort Wayne and am proud to be a part of the project. While I may not appreciate or approve of war unless it is in direct defense of our country, I can surely appreciate the stories and reflections of those who have served and I cannot wait to share them with the world!
About the Author
Mary Popovich is a 1989 graduate of Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne (IPFW) with a bachelor’s degree in English. She currently is enrolled in the IPFW Master of Liberal Studies program. Her son, Tech. Sgt. Jonathan Popovich, is a weather forecaster/meteorologist with the U.S. Air Force. Mary is a Fort Wayne native with more than 20 years of experience in business marketing, communications and public relations. She works as marketing coordinator/business advisor for the Northeast Indiana Small Business Development Center, hosted by IPFW at the Hobson Center.
Veterans sharing writing, drawing, art, photography and music with the civilian community so that it may better understand our experiences during and after war.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Looking Back: Reflections on Marine Corps Recruit Training
Black Friday. These two words make most women very happy every fall. The great sales that are run in conjunction with this particular day, which falls after Thanksgiving, have mobs of shoppers out and about as early as 12:01 a.m. in order to compete with other shoppers for the items that they desire. Now, if you mention these two words to a person serving or who has once served in the Marines they will most likely cringe. Black Friday is the term used to describe training day number 1 in Marine Corps recruit training. This is truly a dark day for every recruit on the Marine Corps Recruit Training Depot. Before I explain this day I must back up and explain the first week of recruit training. I will explain it from my perspective specifically as I assume everyone’s is fairly similar. A group of kids, myself included, were driven by buses from all over Indiana to the MEPS (Military Entrance Processing Station) in Indianapolis where we were all processed for our trip to the recruit training depot in San Diego, California. This process was mainly just obtaining the paperwork for the trip. We received our flight itineraries, boarding passes, tickets and food vouchers that we were given so that we could buy one final meal at the airport in San Diego before being picked up and taken to the depot. Upon landing we were all very excited about finally arriving and were getting extremely excited about how the next few months were going to turn out. We ended up eating and then were waiting in the USO lobby meeting the people that we would be living with for the next 3 months. It seemed like just as soon as we began to relax these individuals that seemed 10 feet tall at the time walked in and began very kindly explaining just how everything needed to be done in order to get onto the buses and to the depot. So we all casually loaded what few things we were actually allowed to bring with us and then boarded the buses. Now this is where our lives were turned upside down. A drill instructor boarded each bus and as soon as the door shut behind them they began yelling things that I do not even feel comfortable typing with my three year old in the room even though he can’t read. We were ordered to put our heads between our knees and we were literally piled on top of one another. They drove us around like this for around 3 and a half hours, and we only knew this because they had not yet ripped our watches off and thrown them away which would happen soon enough. If you have even been to San Diego you know that the airport is no further than 5 minutes from the depot so the mental sodomy had already begun without us knowing it. Upon our arrival at the depot it was now sometime around 8 p.m. and we were again instructed to stand on the famous “Yellow Footprints.” While standing there some highly decorated Marine came out and actually did give us a kind and motivating speech in regards to how our lives were getting ready to change and that we had definitely made the right decision regardless of what we may think in the next few months. As soon as he left it was once again on like Donkey Kong. They took us into a room and forced us to put everything that we had brought except for our clothes into a little box which they for some reason angrily rifled through while throwing items of ours into the trash at random. Next we were given the most dangerous haircuts of our lives. Three Italian mobsters cut the heads of over 150 frightened young men in what seemed like 5 minutes. Some of the guys’ heads were literally bleeding and we were all worried about what would be next. After this we filled out paperwork, received shots, and were given the items necessary for our survival of the next week. We were not allowed to sleep for the first seventy-two hours and were nearly murdered when we dozed off while waiting for the next life-threatening situation. After this we were dumped off on the person that we thought was our drill instructor. We were surprised at how nice he was compared to the individuals that had been screaming at us ever since we had boarded the buses. Over the course of the first week he made sure that we obtained all of the items necessary for survival of the next three months. We also took drug tests and weeded individuals out for a variety of different reasons.
This is where the term Black Friday was first mentioned. Our current drill instructor informed us, on our first Friday morning at the depot, that he would be taking us to our actual drill instructors right after breakfast. He took us into a squadbay, which is where we would live for the duration of recruit training, and lined us all up and had us sit on the floor to wait for our drill instructors to come out and receive us. He snuck out the back door and then the door to the duty hut opened and three of the scariest men that I have ever seen walked out and stood directly in front of us at the position of attention. They stood like this without speaking for a few minutes but it seemed like an eternity. Finally, our senior drill instructor Staff Sergeant Jesse Everson introduced himself and his two possibly rapid subordinates Staff Sergeants Chris Hambaugh and Grant Settle. After the introduction our senior drill instructor went home and as soon as he was gone I think I blacked out for the next three days. They literally flew around the squadbay while showing us where to put everything through the very skillful usage of the f-word and nothing else. Somehow while only using the f-word, I may be slightly exaggerating but only slightly, they got all of us situated in our bunks and had all of our possessions placed into our foot lockers which is where we kept everything. Then they made us pick them up, turn them upside down, dump everything on the floor and then run around the squadbay while spraying our “filthy nasty bodies with liquid soap and some awful cologne. Then we cleaned everything up, did it again and then cleaned it up over and over again for the next few days. 15 minutes into Black Friday we had completely lost track of time and were occasionally given literally 20 seconds to eat when they would take us to the chowhall. We could eat as long as we wanted, within reason, until someone in our squad would look up at the drill instructors. Now we were all aware of this rule but completely unable to follow it. I am not sure what time we were actually allowed to go to sleep on Black Friday but I do remember about five minutes after getting into our racks Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Settle began whispering things into my ear that were I to repeat through any medium I am certain that God would strike me down immediately.
After Black Friday recruit training became fun for me. Some of the recruits took a little more time to adapt to the situation and lifestyle and some recruits never actually became acclimated. For the next four weeks our time was split nearly 50/50 between classes and physical training including close order drill or marching. I had no idea that we would be spending so much time in the classroom. We took classes relating to everything under the sun. I also never realized how important the history of the Marine Corps is to Marines. To Marines past, present and future the history of their Marine Corps is just as important as the knowledge required to properly utilize their weapons in a wartime situation. We learned everything from how the Marine Corps was founded in a bar called the Tun Tavern on November 10, 1775 from the most recent Medal of Honor recipients. We also learned everything required to properly wear our uniforms. It seems as though this would not require a large amount of instruction but it certainly does. Every mead, ribbon and rank insignia has to be placed in the correct spot most times within an eighth of an inch or a person higher ranking will have a great time “explaining” your errors to you. One process that we received nearly constant instruction and practice on was weapons maintenance. We cleaned our rifles more than a person with obsessive compulsive disorder cleans their hands. They were immaculate at all times. While we cleaned them one recruit would stand in front of the squadbay and have us repeat random tidbits of Marine Corps history in order to memorize it for our written examination.
Weeks five through eight consisted of our rifle training and instruction relating to various field exercises. For these learning exercises we were sent to Camp Pendleton. We were loaded like sardines into buses for our trip. We were all pretty excited as this was the first time we were allowed to leave the depot in five weeks. My bus was supervised by Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Settle and we were forced to keep our heads between our knees because we did not rate to look at freedom. He informed us that if we did in fact look up he would put a bullet through the eye ball that he saw first. The weeks spent at Camp Pendleton were pretty exciting. Me were finally able to fire the weapons that we had been carrying around for five weeks. One night during firing week were did some firing at night and we were given some tracers rounds to put into our magazines and fire downrange. When we started using the tracer rounds it looked like some kind of Star Wars firefight because they light up their trajectory through the release of some chemical. Another exciting thing that we did was our night wartime exercise. They set up a course with concertina wire or barbed wire and various other obstacles that we had to get through. We had to low-crawl through water and climb over large objects all while the drill instructors were throwing rocks at us and calling it sniper fire. They also played noises of wartime situations over the speaker system to make it seem more real. Fake mines were blowing up all around us and it was pretty intense. Even though we knew it was fake it seemed incredibly real. Starting the day we arrived there we also began training for “The Crucible” even though we did not exactly know it. We began going on short hikes and learning various skills and processes that are necessary for survival when going on hikes in combat zones.
Also during our time at Camp Pendleton we did our marksmanship training on the M16 A-2 service rifles that we had been carrying around the entire time that we had been in training. It was pretty exciting as I had never done much shooting before joining the Marines. The Crucible was the pinnacle of recruit training. It was the beginning of our fourth and last week at Camp Pendleton. We spent the entire day cleaning the squadbay and general areas. Towards the end of the day we were given additional items that we would need on during the Crucible. We packed our packs and were given our “hooches” or tents that we would be sleeping in for the next few days. Before taking off on our initial hike that would take us to the starting point we had to put up and take down our hooches I think around 20 or thirty times as a nice little game for the drill instructors to watch and laugh as they screamed at us. Once we actually arrived at the starting point for the Crucible the drill instructors actually lightened up a little bit and explained in detail how the next few days were going to go and gave us all of the information that we needed in order to accomplish our goal. Once we started the Crucible we were on our own as far as deciding when to eat and when to fill up our canteens. It almost felt like freedom after all of the micromanaging of our lives that we had been dealing with so far. During the Crucible we would hike through the mountains and it was beautiful. The weather was amazing and we were all pretty well conditioned for the hiking. Every four or five miles we would stop at a Medal of Honor station. The drill instructors would read the citation to us and then explain sort of everything that happened in the situations. Once they explained it to us we had to break off into five man groups and try to reenact the situations. These were pretty tough as the things that past service members have done in order to be awards the nation’s highest honor were pretty remarkable. On the final day of the Crucible we were all pretty much exhausted. We had to hike up the Reaper which is the steepest hill that I have ever seen. In order to get warmed up for it we went on a ten mile hike and were given time to eat any food that we had left. We had eaten so little and done so much that when I ate the orange that they gave me I literally immediately felt rejuvenated. I don’t actually know how high this hill was but I know that with our 70 pound pack on our backs we literally had to lean forward while hiking in order to not fall backwards. Since this marked the end of being in the field and the Crucible quite a few of us got into a small group with the senior drill instructor and sprinted up this enormous hill. It was amazingly rewarding to accomplish this feat. For once the drill instructors treated us with some dignity and respect. Immediately afterwards to stretched out and showered up and were inspected my corpsman for and wounds or damages to our bodies. After this came one of the greatest things ever…….the Warrior’s Breakfast! We were allowed to eat with the drill instructors and those of us that sprinted up the Reaper were allowed to eat with the senior drill instructor which for some reason was pretty exciting. I ate my weight in cinnamon toast crunch. Afterwards about half of our squad threw up all of the food that they had just eaten due to the fact that our stomachs had shrunk and they overate. It was hilarious. At this breakfast our senior drill instructor informed us that over the course of the last 2 and a half days we had hiked 54 miles and had only eaten 2 and a half MREs during the whole thing. I never would have thought that I would be capable of doing that much in that brief of a time period. It made us all feel pretty good to think about what we had done.
Our final four and a half weeks of boot camp went by pretty quickly. Once we arrived back at the recruit depot our worlds were turned upside down. Our senior drill instructor decided to take a couple of days off and went home. Our two remaining drill instructors decided that we were treated too kindly at the breakfast and decided to have a tornado go through our squadbay. We all got settled back into our foot lockers and racks when the drill instructors decided we were moving too slowly and needed a reality check. They informed us through many different mind games and physical training that we had not yet accomplished anything and that most of us still wouldn’t make it to graduation. At this point any of the recruits with half of a brain realized what they were doing and that these were just mind games that we needed to get through in order to acquire the title that we all so desperately wanted; United States Marine. The only thing that we really had left were Final Drill. Final drill was the competition amongst the different squads in our company to see which squad was the best at close order drill. Close order drill or marching was one of the staples throughout recruit training. We practiced nearly every single day as a way to teach us camaraderie, instant willingness and obedience to order and just the marching in general. Close order drill is something that would remain distantly important throughout the career of a Marine. Every academy that a Marine attends throughout his or her career involves showing a level of competence in close order drill. During the last four and a half weeks every time that Drill Instructor Staff Sergeant Hambaugh was in charge of us he would have us setup the “mini-grinder.” Close order drill is what Staff Sergeant Hambaugh did. He was a phenomenal instructor in this area. The mini-grinder consisted of pushing all of our racks to one side of the squadbay in order to drill inside “Hambaugh’s House.” The reason for this was that there were no witnesses in Hambaugh’s house. He would have us train extremely hard and had us do some pretty ridiculous and painful things, but when we were done with the mini-grinder we had learned quite a bit and had come together more than we were prior to doing it. Other than training for final drill all that we really did was train for our final physical fitness test and go through class regarding what life in the fleet would be like and useful tips that we would need in order to be successful throughout our Marine Corps Careers. In the end our squad, Platoon 3066, finished second amongst the six squads that competed in the final drill competition. After we had completed every aspect of recruit training all that was left was a motivational run in the morning before graduation that was referred to as “Visitor’s Thursday.” Visitor’s Thursday was the first time that we were allowed to see our families since the day we arrived on the depot. We woke up early as usual and went to the clothing store in order to purchase new physical training gear so that we looked our best for the run. We did a warm up work out and then headed to the north end of the parade deck. We were all lined up in our respective squads and were surrounded by our families even though we weren’t allowed to look at them. Once we completed our run we went and showered and then went to the parade deck in order to find our family members. It was pretty exciting to see everyone that made the trip to San Diego in order to watch me graduate. We went and ate at the A & W Root Beer stand on board the depot as we were not allowed to leave. We spent the entire day together and it was great to see the people that I had not seen in nearly 13 weeks. The next morning we woke up and dusted off the uniforms that we had saved for graduation day and had never worn. We went out to the parade deck and lined up in our squads and then marched around the parade deck in order to show off for our company commander and our families. Once that was completed we lined up and our drill instructors gave us the eagle, globe and anchor emblems to affix to our covers, or hats, that signified that we were now United States Marines. It was an incredible feeling. Within seconds of our being released to our families someone jumped on me from out of nowhere and I had no idea who it was. Once I finally looked up I realized that it was my best friend Robert. I had no idea that he was going to make the trip and it was a big surprise. I then introduced my parents to my drill instructors and then got the heck off of the depot as soon as I could. It felt great to finally leave those gates and be free!!!!!
About the Author:
Brandon Parkison, age 25, served in the United States Marine Corps from 2004 to 2008. Among the bases at which he was stationed were the MCAS in Cherry Point, North Carolina, and the Al Asad Air Base in Iraq. Parkison served as a paralegal in the Marine Corps, most recently in the rank of a corporal. Prior to that, he was an OIF from September 2005 to March 2006. Parkison grew up in St. Joe, Indiana, where he currently resides with his wife, Johna-Marie, and their son, Blake Allen. He works full time as warehouse manager for Korte Does It All while pursuing a bachelor’s degree at Indiana University- Purdue University Fort Wayne (IPFW).
Looking Back: Remembering My Soldier Pen Pal
By Adrian Rivera, Co-Founder of Warrior Writers Fort Wayne
I was a fifth grader at a private Catholic school when the September 11 terrorist attacks happened. I can remember both fifth grade classes being called into the social studies classroom so we could watch the footage of the attack and subsequent aftermath play out right before our very eyes. We didn’t have class that day; I suppose that reading about history was taking a backseat to actually watching history play out on that primitive television in the center of the room. Being an eleven year old kid, I was pretty much oblivious to the whole thing, as shallow as it was, I can still remember wanting to get home and watch Dragonball Z on Cartoon Network. The reality of the situation really did not penetrate the childhood bubble that I was living in,
and I guess I can be grateful for that. I was lucky that way.
Later on that year, the fifth grade class began a pen pal program. We would write to local soldiers stationed overseas, likely with the hope that we would be bringing a piece of normalcy and home to them. I can remember writing my first letter to my soldier and it was the coolest thing in the world to get a letter
back. I was really excited to share the letter with my mom and family. Even after the pen pal program officially ended, and I think we only really had one required back and forth communication, I continued writing to him. I can’t remember what I was writing about, probably the kind of arbitrary, childish things that eleven year old boys write about or want to talk about with someone they have never met but idealized. I remember, though, that in one of his letters he mentioned that he was missing something. Something like Gatorade, cookies, or just the food from home that we have so readily available here. Whatever it was, after we received this letter, my mom and I packed a box of food, Gatorade mix, and goods from home for him, promptly sending it out. I don’t think he was expecting this, but he wrote back saying that he was genuinely grateful for it. He mentioned how he shared it with the other guys, who were kind of jealous of the extra attention that he was getting. We ended up sending another box with more of these items, in an effort to make sharing easier. This really was the coolest thing in the world.
I can recall that, in one of my many childish letters, like the eleven year old boy that I was, I asked him if he had killed anyone. I’m sure I didn’t think anything of this; I was genuinely interested in whether or not my soldier had killed any of the scary bad guys during his time over there. There was something different about his reply letter. Inside of it there was a letter for me and a letter for my parents, a distinction that had never been made before. I remember reading my letter, which was similar to all the rest that I had received from him, but I was curious to know what he was writing to my parents. It piqued my curiosity: it was almost like a game, a secret that I wasn’t privy to but one that I desperately wanted in on. I don’t remember if I received my answer then or if this revelation waited until I was older, but I would eventually get it.
The letter to my parents essentially answered my eleven-year-old-boy question: it turned
out that my soldier had killed someone during his time overseas. If I recall correctly, he stated one night that he was shocked while on duty. Someone attacked him, and in this situation where it was either him or the other guy, it ended up being the other guy. I believe he felt justified in doing it, and in the heat of the moment, he knew he had to make a choice. But this act and this realization did not make him feel good, though. In fact, he regretted it. Deeply. He hadn’t been able to talk about it yet, but he said at the end of the letter that writing about it was almost therapeutic for him. He felt better about sharing his experience with someone else, and I can see that this would have been the first step for him in the recovery process. Writing out his account offered him a kind of expression that spoken word failed to provide. I feel like this speaks to the power that writing can have when it comes to getting over a traumatic event, further validating the work and benefits of the Warrior Writers project.
Looking back, I see that my soldier did the responsible thing by not answering my question straight out. He included it in an addendum for my parents, allowing them the choice on whether or not they would share it with their sheltered, middle class eleven-year-old. I know that this killing, whether it was in self defense
or not, is something that he is going to have to carry around with him for the entirety of his life. It almost doesn’t seem fair that he is going to shoulder this burden, the burden of survival, to protect and take care of a general public that has no idea of who he is and what he has been through for their sake. Communicating with him and making this connection, though, even if it has fizzled out over the years, opened my eyes to the harsh reality of the world that we live in. People don’t just go overseas, do their time in the military, come home and suddenly blend right back into the lives that they left behind. They’re different, they’re changed. My soldier won’t be the same after his time over there fighting for us, no matter how hard he would try or how badly he would wish he could be. As I remember this period of my life, though, I feel good that my family and I were able to offer him something, whether it was the powdered Gatorade mix, the cookies, or just the nonjudgmental ear (or eyes) of a stranger.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Twenty-year-old Adrian Rivera, the co-founder of Warrior Writers Fort Wayne,
is an English writing major with a professional writing minor at IPFW. The Fort Wayne native enjoys karate and Pokemon.
I was a fifth grader at a private Catholic school when the September 11 terrorist attacks happened. I can remember both fifth grade classes being called into the social studies classroom so we could watch the footage of the attack and subsequent aftermath play out right before our very eyes. We didn’t have class that day; I suppose that reading about history was taking a backseat to actually watching history play out on that primitive television in the center of the room. Being an eleven year old kid, I was pretty much oblivious to the whole thing, as shallow as it was, I can still remember wanting to get home and watch Dragonball Z on Cartoon Network. The reality of the situation really did not penetrate the childhood bubble that I was living in,
and I guess I can be grateful for that. I was lucky that way.
Later on that year, the fifth grade class began a pen pal program. We would write to local soldiers stationed overseas, likely with the hope that we would be bringing a piece of normalcy and home to them. I can remember writing my first letter to my soldier and it was the coolest thing in the world to get a letter
back. I was really excited to share the letter with my mom and family. Even after the pen pal program officially ended, and I think we only really had one required back and forth communication, I continued writing to him. I can’t remember what I was writing about, probably the kind of arbitrary, childish things that eleven year old boys write about or want to talk about with someone they have never met but idealized. I remember, though, that in one of his letters he mentioned that he was missing something. Something like Gatorade, cookies, or just the food from home that we have so readily available here. Whatever it was, after we received this letter, my mom and I packed a box of food, Gatorade mix, and goods from home for him, promptly sending it out. I don’t think he was expecting this, but he wrote back saying that he was genuinely grateful for it. He mentioned how he shared it with the other guys, who were kind of jealous of the extra attention that he was getting. We ended up sending another box with more of these items, in an effort to make sharing easier. This really was the coolest thing in the world.
I can recall that, in one of my many childish letters, like the eleven year old boy that I was, I asked him if he had killed anyone. I’m sure I didn’t think anything of this; I was genuinely interested in whether or not my soldier had killed any of the scary bad guys during his time over there. There was something different about his reply letter. Inside of it there was a letter for me and a letter for my parents, a distinction that had never been made before. I remember reading my letter, which was similar to all the rest that I had received from him, but I was curious to know what he was writing to my parents. It piqued my curiosity: it was almost like a game, a secret that I wasn’t privy to but one that I desperately wanted in on. I don’t remember if I received my answer then or if this revelation waited until I was older, but I would eventually get it.
The letter to my parents essentially answered my eleven-year-old-boy question: it turned
out that my soldier had killed someone during his time overseas. If I recall correctly, he stated one night that he was shocked while on duty. Someone attacked him, and in this situation where it was either him or the other guy, it ended up being the other guy. I believe he felt justified in doing it, and in the heat of the moment, he knew he had to make a choice. But this act and this realization did not make him feel good, though. In fact, he regretted it. Deeply. He hadn’t been able to talk about it yet, but he said at the end of the letter that writing about it was almost therapeutic for him. He felt better about sharing his experience with someone else, and I can see that this would have been the first step for him in the recovery process. Writing out his account offered him a kind of expression that spoken word failed to provide. I feel like this speaks to the power that writing can have when it comes to getting over a traumatic event, further validating the work and benefits of the Warrior Writers project.
Looking back, I see that my soldier did the responsible thing by not answering my question straight out. He included it in an addendum for my parents, allowing them the choice on whether or not they would share it with their sheltered, middle class eleven-year-old. I know that this killing, whether it was in self defense
or not, is something that he is going to have to carry around with him for the entirety of his life. It almost doesn’t seem fair that he is going to shoulder this burden, the burden of survival, to protect and take care of a general public that has no idea of who he is and what he has been through for their sake. Communicating with him and making this connection, though, even if it has fizzled out over the years, opened my eyes to the harsh reality of the world that we live in. People don’t just go overseas, do their time in the military, come home and suddenly blend right back into the lives that they left behind. They’re different, they’re changed. My soldier won’t be the same after his time over there fighting for us, no matter how hard he would try or how badly he would wish he could be. As I remember this period of my life, though, I feel good that my family and I were able to offer him something, whether it was the powdered Gatorade mix, the cookies, or just the nonjudgmental ear (or eyes) of a stranger.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Twenty-year-old Adrian Rivera, the co-founder of Warrior Writers Fort Wayne,
is an English writing major with a professional writing minor at IPFW. The Fort Wayne native enjoys karate and Pokemon.
Son Thanks Local Veterans and Bids ‘Anchors Aweigh’ to his Late Father
The following column was originally published in The Bloomington Herald- Times on March 9. It is being reprinted with permission.
By Lynn Houser, Sportswriter for The Bloomington Herald-Times
Dad would have been so pleased.
On March 5, my father, Ray Houser, was given a proper military funeral in Fort Wayne.
Although Fort Wayne was his lifelong home, Dad’s heart was always on the high seas. He served 35 years in the Navy, including World War II, where he sailed on a minesweeper. To the very end of his 93-year run on this Earth, his military career was the thing he was most proud of – outside of family.
He was never prouder of me than when I was in the Navy from 1972 to ’76. Now he has a grandson, Raymond, named after him, who has risen to the rank of master chief petty officer. Dad ascended to the highest rank possible for an enlisted man, chief warrant officer.
I’m sure Dad was beaming from above when Chief Raymond DeMarco showed up in full dress blues for the funeral Saturday. I also dressed for the occasion with a navy blue suit and a star-spangled red, white and blue tie.
Dad had expressed a strong desire for a military funeral, including a three volley salute, but with the country still deeply involved in war, there is a shortage of available military personnel for such occasions.
However, friends of the family made phone call after phone call until arriving at a viable alternative, the American Legion. Specifically,American Legion Post 241 in Waynedale. Members from posts around the Fort Wayne area volunteered to accord Dad full military honors. Also stepping up to the plate were the Patriot Guard Riders, the motorcycle “gang” that goes all over the country to see that veterans are not forgotten.
The Patriot Guard planted American flags at the entrance to the funeral home, the church and the cemetery. A group of them stood at attention during the entire Mass said prior to Dad’s burial.
Greeting us at the cemetery were two representatives of the local Navy Reserve unit. They saw to the playing of taps and the proper folding of the flag that had draped the casket. When they had finished folding the flag, the senior officer inspected it for military precision, and then approached. He dropped to one knee and said, “On behalf of a grateful nation …”
As the sole surviving son, I was the rightful recipient. And also as a veteran myself, I was allowed to return salute. I must admit now that I often casually saluted when I was on active duty, but this was one time I wanted to get it right. I stood at attention, cocked my right hand crisply against my brow, and then slowly lowered the hand in synch with the Navy representative.
Unbeknownst to me, other members in the congregation behind me were doing the same thing.
I was so moved when I turned around that I could barely choke out a final request, the singing of “America the Beautiful.” Right on cue, everyone joined in, including the color guard.
Never in my life was I more proud to be an American, and it gave me a deeper appreciation of those who paid the ultimate price. Ray Houser was no war hero, but he did devote his life to his country. The military funeral he received Saturday was all he ever wanted in return.
Anchors aweigh, my boys.
Lynn Houser, a sportswriter for The Bloomington Herald- Times, wrote this thank you letter to local veterans who assisted with his father’s funeral in March 2011. The Fort Wayne native served in the U.S. Navy from
1972 to 1976 in public affairs and personnel, with his most recent rank being Petty Officer, Second Class. His home port was Brunswick, Maine,, where he was in Patrol Squadron 11. He also served deployments in Bermuda and Rota, Spain. His recently-deceased father, Ray Houser, was a lifelong resident of Fort Wayne and a Chief Warrant Officer IV with the U.S. Navy.
By Lynn Houser, Sportswriter for The Bloomington Herald-Times
Dad would have been so pleased.
On March 5, my father, Ray Houser, was given a proper military funeral in Fort Wayne.
Although Fort Wayne was his lifelong home, Dad’s heart was always on the high seas. He served 35 years in the Navy, including World War II, where he sailed on a minesweeper. To the very end of his 93-year run on this Earth, his military career was the thing he was most proud of – outside of family.
He was never prouder of me than when I was in the Navy from 1972 to ’76. Now he has a grandson, Raymond, named after him, who has risen to the rank of master chief petty officer. Dad ascended to the highest rank possible for an enlisted man, chief warrant officer.
I’m sure Dad was beaming from above when Chief Raymond DeMarco showed up in full dress blues for the funeral Saturday. I also dressed for the occasion with a navy blue suit and a star-spangled red, white and blue tie.
Dad had expressed a strong desire for a military funeral, including a three volley salute, but with the country still deeply involved in war, there is a shortage of available military personnel for such occasions.
However, friends of the family made phone call after phone call until arriving at a viable alternative, the American Legion. Specifically,American Legion Post 241 in Waynedale. Members from posts around the Fort Wayne area volunteered to accord Dad full military honors. Also stepping up to the plate were the Patriot Guard Riders, the motorcycle “gang” that goes all over the country to see that veterans are not forgotten.
The Patriot Guard planted American flags at the entrance to the funeral home, the church and the cemetery. A group of them stood at attention during the entire Mass said prior to Dad’s burial.
Greeting us at the cemetery were two representatives of the local Navy Reserve unit. They saw to the playing of taps and the proper folding of the flag that had draped the casket. When they had finished folding the flag, the senior officer inspected it for military precision, and then approached. He dropped to one knee and said, “On behalf of a grateful nation …”
As the sole surviving son, I was the rightful recipient. And also as a veteran myself, I was allowed to return salute. I must admit now that I often casually saluted when I was on active duty, but this was one time I wanted to get it right. I stood at attention, cocked my right hand crisply against my brow, and then slowly lowered the hand in synch with the Navy representative.
Unbeknownst to me, other members in the congregation behind me were doing the same thing.
I was so moved when I turned around that I could barely choke out a final request, the singing of “America the Beautiful.” Right on cue, everyone joined in, including the color guard.
Never in my life was I more proud to be an American, and it gave me a deeper appreciation of those who paid the ultimate price. Ray Houser was no war hero, but he did devote his life to his country. The military funeral he received Saturday was all he ever wanted in return.
Anchors aweigh, my boys.
Lynn Houser, a sportswriter for The Bloomington Herald- Times, wrote this thank you letter to local veterans who assisted with his father’s funeral in March 2011. The Fort Wayne native served in the U.S. Navy from
1972 to 1976 in public affairs and personnel, with his most recent rank being Petty Officer, Second Class. His home port was Brunswick, Maine,, where he was in Patrol Squadron 11. He also served deployments in Bermuda and Rota, Spain. His recently-deceased father, Ray Houser, was a lifelong resident of Fort Wayne and a Chief Warrant Officer IV with the U.S. Navy.
‘Home is Where the Heart Is’
About the Author
Carlos R. Diaz is a Technical Sergeant with the United States Air Force, where he works in public affairs and has served two tours of duty in Iraq. He currently is based at the Armed Forces Network (AFN). He resides in
LaPlace, Louisiana, and is a college student.
I’m sure most people are familiar with the popular adage “Home is Where the Heart Is,” right? Good. I am, too. I’m going to tell you a quick anecdote. There was a song playing in the background speakers of the Joe’s Crab Shack seafood restaurant in the Alamo Quarry Market in San Antonio on an idle Saturday afternoon in September 2008. My girlfriend and I frequented the eatery that day because I had a huge craving for seafood. The hostess sat us down at a booth and handed us a pair of menus. Within a few minutes, a powerful song with scorching lyrics resonated not only through my ears, but it penetrated my mind, body and soul. Whenever music is capable of doing that — I consider that power. I said to her, “Gosh, I remember this song. I really like it, too.” She asked me, “You wanna get outta here then? Is that it?” I looked at her, and — deep inside — I really think both of us knew the answer to that subtle inquiry.
The song in question is “LA Song (Out of This Town).” This song is performed by Beth Hart and it was released in 2000 from her second studio album Screamin’ for My Supper. It was a modest hit single in the U.S. charts peaking at No. 88 on the Billboard Hot 100; however, it reached No. 5 on the Adult Contemporary Charts and climbed the zenith of musical popularity in New Zealand as a No. 1 smash hit. Hart makes specific references to the actual location that she loves/hates. Ultimately, this song is about homesickness, a deep feeling associated with missing home.
I’ve definitely been there, and I’m sure you have, too. We all get depressed or melancholy at being away from home and family. I remember my four, six-month deployments performing our nation’s bidding by fighting in two unnecessary wars. I longed to be home. No, scratch that. I yearned, longed, hankered and pined to be home. We long to venture out into the real world, but — eventually, sooner or later — home comes calling us back. We get nostalgic and those old vestigial feelings come back again, too. Our only hope is that we are a better person on the way back home than the lost soul who left in the first place. In her song, Hart starts off by writing this powerful line: “She hangs around the boulevard / She’s a local girl with local scars.” We all carry emotional and physical scars. They are a constant reminder of what we’ve endured and experienced throughout the harsh realities of life. Sometimes we feel a need to escape from them. I know I did. I now prefer to embrace them. I’m a stronger person for the “souvenirs” I carry with me.
Midway through the song, Hart says: “And she cried and she cried and she cried and she cried / She cried so long her tears ran dry.” I’ve definitely been there, too. It’s a sad place. It’s that “Woe is Me” party and you’re the only invited guest. I specifically remember what I said the day I left San Antonio to finally return back home: “These have not been the best years of my life, but they’ve produced the best tears of my life.” Tear. Kleenex. Repeat.
Toward the end, Hart finishes off her song by singing: “I’m outta my pain / So I’m going back to L.A.” Now, I’ve never set foot in LA. I’ve never lost anything there, so I have no reason to be there. But I fully understand what she meant with that painfully beautiful line. Home, arguably and for all intended purposes, is really where the heart is. Make no mistake about it. I missed my family, friends, church and home. This is where my heart belongs.
Carlos R. Diaz is a Technical Sergeant with the United States Air Force, where he works in public affairs and has served two tours of duty in Iraq. He currently is based at the Armed Forces Network (AFN). He resides in
LaPlace, Louisiana, and is a college student.
I’m sure most people are familiar with the popular adage “Home is Where the Heart Is,” right? Good. I am, too. I’m going to tell you a quick anecdote. There was a song playing in the background speakers of the Joe’s Crab Shack seafood restaurant in the Alamo Quarry Market in San Antonio on an idle Saturday afternoon in September 2008. My girlfriend and I frequented the eatery that day because I had a huge craving for seafood. The hostess sat us down at a booth and handed us a pair of menus. Within a few minutes, a powerful song with scorching lyrics resonated not only through my ears, but it penetrated my mind, body and soul. Whenever music is capable of doing that — I consider that power. I said to her, “Gosh, I remember this song. I really like it, too.” She asked me, “You wanna get outta here then? Is that it?” I looked at her, and — deep inside — I really think both of us knew the answer to that subtle inquiry.
The song in question is “LA Song (Out of This Town).” This song is performed by Beth Hart and it was released in 2000 from her second studio album Screamin’ for My Supper. It was a modest hit single in the U.S. charts peaking at No. 88 on the Billboard Hot 100; however, it reached No. 5 on the Adult Contemporary Charts and climbed the zenith of musical popularity in New Zealand as a No. 1 smash hit. Hart makes specific references to the actual location that she loves/hates. Ultimately, this song is about homesickness, a deep feeling associated with missing home.
I’ve definitely been there, and I’m sure you have, too. We all get depressed or melancholy at being away from home and family. I remember my four, six-month deployments performing our nation’s bidding by fighting in two unnecessary wars. I longed to be home. No, scratch that. I yearned, longed, hankered and pined to be home. We long to venture out into the real world, but — eventually, sooner or later — home comes calling us back. We get nostalgic and those old vestigial feelings come back again, too. Our only hope is that we are a better person on the way back home than the lost soul who left in the first place. In her song, Hart starts off by writing this powerful line: “She hangs around the boulevard / She’s a local girl with local scars.” We all carry emotional and physical scars. They are a constant reminder of what we’ve endured and experienced throughout the harsh realities of life. Sometimes we feel a need to escape from them. I know I did. I now prefer to embrace them. I’m a stronger person for the “souvenirs” I carry with me.
Midway through the song, Hart says: “And she cried and she cried and she cried and she cried / She cried so long her tears ran dry.” I’ve definitely been there, too. It’s a sad place. It’s that “Woe is Me” party and you’re the only invited guest. I specifically remember what I said the day I left San Antonio to finally return back home: “These have not been the best years of my life, but they’ve produced the best tears of my life.” Tear. Kleenex. Repeat.
Toward the end, Hart finishes off her song by singing: “I’m outta my pain / So I’m going back to L.A.” Now, I’ve never set foot in LA. I’ve never lost anything there, so I have no reason to be there. But I fully understand what she meant with that painfully beautiful line. Home, arguably and for all intended purposes, is really where the heart is. Make no mistake about it. I missed my family, friends, church and home. This is where my heart belongs.
IPFW Student Writes Poetry Based on Army Experience
About the Author:
Michael Skeeters resides in Fort Wayne and is a student at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne (IPFW). He served in the U.S. Army’s 1st 28th Infantry, 221st Ordinance, Confidential.
The Spirit
The Chaplain Captain
would often talk to me
He was once gold
and I enlisted green
To go through an NCO
was not a need
and He with the silver cross
wasn’t much likely
to say I’m sinning
when I excelled
at bayonet fighting
Kill Kill Kill
cold as steel
Blood blood blood
makes the green grass grow
The spirit of the bayonet
Hopeful
This canister grenade
of olive drab green
will help the med evac
chopper see me
puffing smoke
if the mine
blew me up
below the knee
These Days
The camo matrix
print or brown
desert tint
in a Battle dress
uniform not like
mine
Before the world
changed I wore or warred
in woodland green
Somalia and Kosovo
matching the trees
Preferences
I would really rather
be shot by an AK-47
than an M-16 A1, A2, or
A3?
It’s been so long
Friendly firing tumbling
round could enter your
thigh
and spin out your neck
naturally in a tumbling
round
Nuclear Holocaust
exposure gives me the order
to plunge a needle in my
heart
so I can squeeze off another
magazine
Cadence
And we sing
glory soldier
Combat soldier
pick up your
weapon and follow
me We
are the infantry
Buddy’s in the Foxhole
a bullet in his head
I went to tell the CO
but he’s already dead
Drill & Ceremony
Throwing our guns
down the line
to each other
right in front
of Drill Sergeant’s
face
like so many ways
to train
You just can’t fuck up
Relationships
She saw me in front
graduating
squad leader
honor platoon
Basic training
my Drill Sergeant
won the cycle
bearing and guarding
the colors
She went to hug me
I pulled away
She broke up with
me on the phone
One parade shined
combat boot evening
She went to Westpoint
I Enlisted and finally
her green became gold
fraternizing a love
that just couldn’t be
With those 101 Eagles
that New Lieutenant
Screams
I’m proud that she once
loved me
Boots
Mine were black as hell
and had a mirror shine
Only on the toe and heel
the leather doesn’t move
They made them kiwi
the green jungle boots
And jump boots look like
teeth
marching in all terrain
These damn things
suck on ice
Fun
Driving along
in a five-ton
truck full
of bombs
Adrenalin rush
“Did you check
that damn Air filter!?!”
Michael Skeeters resides in Fort Wayne and is a student at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne (IPFW). He served in the U.S. Army’s 1st 28th Infantry, 221st Ordinance, Confidential.
The Spirit
The Chaplain Captain
would often talk to me
He was once gold
and I enlisted green
To go through an NCO
was not a need
and He with the silver cross
wasn’t much likely
to say I’m sinning
when I excelled
at bayonet fighting
Kill Kill Kill
cold as steel
Blood blood blood
makes the green grass grow
The spirit of the bayonet
Hopeful
This canister grenade
of olive drab green
will help the med evac
chopper see me
puffing smoke
if the mine
blew me up
below the knee
These Days
The camo matrix
print or brown
desert tint
in a Battle dress
uniform not like
mine
Before the world
changed I wore or warred
in woodland green
Somalia and Kosovo
matching the trees
Preferences
I would really rather
be shot by an AK-47
than an M-16 A1, A2, or
A3?
It’s been so long
Friendly firing tumbling
round could enter your
thigh
and spin out your neck
naturally in a tumbling
round
Nuclear Holocaust
exposure gives me the order
to plunge a needle in my
heart
so I can squeeze off another
magazine
Cadence
And we sing
glory soldier
Combat soldier
pick up your
weapon and follow
me We
are the infantry
Buddy’s in the Foxhole
a bullet in his head
I went to tell the CO
but he’s already dead
Drill & Ceremony
Throwing our guns
down the line
to each other
right in front
of Drill Sergeant’s
face
like so many ways
to train
You just can’t fuck up
Relationships
She saw me in front
graduating
squad leader
honor platoon
Basic training
my Drill Sergeant
won the cycle
bearing and guarding
the colors
She went to hug me
I pulled away
She broke up with
me on the phone
One parade shined
combat boot evening
She went to Westpoint
I Enlisted and finally
her green became gold
fraternizing a love
that just couldn’t be
With those 101 Eagles
that New Lieutenant
Screams
I’m proud that she once
loved me
Boots
Mine were black as hell
and had a mirror shine
Only on the toe and heel
the leather doesn’t move
They made them kiwi
the green jungle boots
And jump boots look like
teeth
marching in all terrain
These damn things
suck on ice
Fun
Driving along
in a five-ton
truck full
of bombs
Adrenalin rush
“Did you check
that damn Air filter!?!”
Our Oldest Warrior Writer, Age 98, Served ARC Clubs
Virginia Griffith Hannum Worked for Red Cross During Two Wars
Ninety-eight-year-old Virginia Griffith Hannum, of Fort Wayne, served for what she calls a “quasi-military” organization during World War II and the Korean War. She worked for the ARC Club of the American Red Cross, serving in England from 1942 to 1947, assigned with the Third Division of the Eighth Air Force and from 1947 to 1948 for three ARC Clubs in Germany. Her final ARC Club assignment -- from 1950 to 1952, when she served as a supervisor for the Clubmobile Operation of the Korean ARC Club -- provided the foundation for the poem at right. ARC clubmobiles, like that pictured, carried workers to isolated units, where things like coffee and doughnuts were dispensed. Women ARC Club workers typically assisted during war time by comforting and entertaining sick and injured soldiers and providing recreational opportunities to the men of the U.S. Armed Forces who were serving in those wars, according to Eleanor “Bumpy” Stevenson and Pete Martin in their book, I Knew Your Soldier. An excerpt from the book, which contains the photographs and letters of ARC Club worker Helen Stevenson Meyer when she served in Korea and Japan from 1950 to 1952, provides information about ARC Club activities:
“ ‘Comfort and happiness’ was provided in the form of platonic companionship, coffee, and doughnuts. ‘As many as 8,000 in one day,’ either heading to or returning from the front, ‘invaded the (ARC) Club’ . . . and were greeted by only a handful of Red Cross women. The women answered questions, listened, shared a smoke, and played games with the men, who if only briefly, were permitted simultaneously to forget where they were and remember what they were fighting for.”
Mrs. Hannum, a former teacher, was married to U.S. Army Col. Calvin S. Hannum (now deceased), and they have three grown children, Marisa Hannum, Andrea Warren, and Chris Hannum.
The following poem, although based on the author’s impression of the Korean War experience, has a universal message in the latter stanzas that could be applied to any war or military conflict.
Freedom is Not Free
By Virginia Griffith Hannum
Slowly and reverently we climb
A green, gently-rising slope.
To our right, march nineteen veterans,
South Korea’s realized hope.
Yes, we are walking with American
veterans,
Weighted down with heavy winter gear.
Soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen.
Though July, it seems cold and drear.
Whatever their height in Texas or
Maine,
Here, they’re all about seven-foot-three
As they silently scale the slippery sand
O! those hills, those hills of Korea!
Their ponchos pleat in the winter wind,
Helmets bent to avoid the snow,
They almost seem to move, their faces
shine
They’re so young, so intent, so gung-ho.
They could be nearing the Frozen Chosin
Or the forest of Uijongbu,
Or the rocky sill of Pork Chop Hill,
Or the shore of the river Yalu.
Or, with the change of gear, it is summer,
On the dust-laden streets of Taegu,
As their clothing wet with body sweat,
An incoming charge they drew.
Yes, they stayed the course, as they
pledged to do,
From ninteen-fifty to fifty-three.
Then infantry, armor, air crews -- all
troops
Left South Korea -- a nation free.
We finished our climb, and at the crest
In bold letters, for all to see
Inscribed, high-lighted, four memorable
words,
“Freedom is Not Free.”
Yes, it has a price, but it can’t be bought,
For the tender’s not the paper or metal,
But a Mother’s tears, and a wife’s dark
fears
As she reads to her son, Dad’s letter.
And Dad, as he straddles his gunner’s
post
Thinks of Tess and the twins, just two,
And longs for the day he’ll be home again
With his job, and the guys he knew.
Freedom has a price, but it can’t be
bought.
It is of the spirit, a thing apart,
Like a symphony, or a jewel unique,
It’s enshrined in a nation’s heart.
Yes, Freedom is not free, my friends;
Never doubt those words are true,
For heroes fought, and bled, and died
To buy it for me and you.
May God continue to bless America!
Ninety-eight-year-old Virginia Griffith Hannum, of Fort Wayne, served for what she calls a “quasi-military” organization during World War II and the Korean War. She worked for the ARC Club of the American Red Cross, serving in England from 1942 to 1947, assigned with the Third Division of the Eighth Air Force and from 1947 to 1948 for three ARC Clubs in Germany. Her final ARC Club assignment -- from 1950 to 1952, when she served as a supervisor for the Clubmobile Operation of the Korean ARC Club -- provided the foundation for the poem at right. ARC clubmobiles, like that pictured, carried workers to isolated units, where things like coffee and doughnuts were dispensed. Women ARC Club workers typically assisted during war time by comforting and entertaining sick and injured soldiers and providing recreational opportunities to the men of the U.S. Armed Forces who were serving in those wars, according to Eleanor “Bumpy” Stevenson and Pete Martin in their book, I Knew Your Soldier. An excerpt from the book, which contains the photographs and letters of ARC Club worker Helen Stevenson Meyer when she served in Korea and Japan from 1950 to 1952, provides information about ARC Club activities:
“ ‘Comfort and happiness’ was provided in the form of platonic companionship, coffee, and doughnuts. ‘As many as 8,000 in one day,’ either heading to or returning from the front, ‘invaded the (ARC) Club’ . . . and were greeted by only a handful of Red Cross women. The women answered questions, listened, shared a smoke, and played games with the men, who if only briefly, were permitted simultaneously to forget where they were and remember what they were fighting for.”
Mrs. Hannum, a former teacher, was married to U.S. Army Col. Calvin S. Hannum (now deceased), and they have three grown children, Marisa Hannum, Andrea Warren, and Chris Hannum.
The following poem, although based on the author’s impression of the Korean War experience, has a universal message in the latter stanzas that could be applied to any war or military conflict.
Freedom is Not Free
By Virginia Griffith Hannum
Slowly and reverently we climb
A green, gently-rising slope.
To our right, march nineteen veterans,
South Korea’s realized hope.
Yes, we are walking with American
veterans,
Weighted down with heavy winter gear.
Soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen.
Though July, it seems cold and drear.
Whatever their height in Texas or
Maine,
Here, they’re all about seven-foot-three
As they silently scale the slippery sand
O! those hills, those hills of Korea!
Their ponchos pleat in the winter wind,
Helmets bent to avoid the snow,
They almost seem to move, their faces
shine
They’re so young, so intent, so gung-ho.
They could be nearing the Frozen Chosin
Or the forest of Uijongbu,
Or the rocky sill of Pork Chop Hill,
Or the shore of the river Yalu.
Or, with the change of gear, it is summer,
On the dust-laden streets of Taegu,
As their clothing wet with body sweat,
An incoming charge they drew.
Yes, they stayed the course, as they
pledged to do,
From ninteen-fifty to fifty-three.
Then infantry, armor, air crews -- all
troops
Left South Korea -- a nation free.
We finished our climb, and at the crest
In bold letters, for all to see
Inscribed, high-lighted, four memorable
words,
“Freedom is Not Free.”
Yes, it has a price, but it can’t be bought,
For the tender’s not the paper or metal,
But a Mother’s tears, and a wife’s dark
fears
As she reads to her son, Dad’s letter.
And Dad, as he straddles his gunner’s
post
Thinks of Tess and the twins, just two,
And longs for the day he’ll be home again
With his job, and the guys he knew.
Freedom has a price, but it can’t be
bought.
It is of the spirit, a thing apart,
Like a symphony, or a jewel unique,
It’s enshrined in a nation’s heart.
Yes, Freedom is not free, my friends;
Never doubt those words are true,
For heroes fought, and bled, and died
To buy it for me and you.
May God continue to bless America!
Our Youngest Warrior Writer: Age 8
Jacob Wunderlich of Fort Wayne Wants to be a Marine
Jacob Wunderlich, of Fort Wayne, holds the distinction of being our youngest Warrior Writer, at 8 years of age. He writes: “I am not in the military, but a lot of my family has been. My grandpa was in the Navy on an aircraft carrier. My Grandpa Wunderlich was in the Air Force. My cousin is in the Marines and did three tours in Iraq. I hope to be a Marine when I grow up.”Jacob wrote the following poem, “In War,”as part of a class assignment at his school:
IN WAR. . . by Jacob Wunderlich
In war you get a gun.
In war you get grenades.
In war you can go above.
In war you face enemies or people
that rebel.
In war there are tanks.
In war you see devastating plans.
In war there are nukes, atom
bombs and atomic bombs.
In war you fight for your country.
In war you fight for your life and
for other people.
Jacob Wunderlich, of Fort Wayne, holds the distinction of being our youngest Warrior Writer, at 8 years of age. He writes: “I am not in the military, but a lot of my family has been. My grandpa was in the Navy on an aircraft carrier. My Grandpa Wunderlich was in the Air Force. My cousin is in the Marines and did three tours in Iraq. I hope to be a Marine when I grow up.”Jacob wrote the following poem, “In War,”as part of a class assignment at his school:
IN WAR. . . by Jacob Wunderlich
In war you get a gun.
In war you get grenades.
In war you can go above.
In war you face enemies or people
that rebel.
In war there are tanks.
In war you see devastating plans.
In war there are nukes, atom
bombs and atomic bombs.
In war you fight for your country.
In war you fight for your life and
for other people.
Better Late than Never: Introducing Warrior Writers of Fort Wayne
By MSgt. Becky Roady, USAF (retired)
Co-Founder of Warrior Writers of Fort Wayne
My seventh great grandfather, Colonel Matthew Patten, emigrated from County Londonderry, Ireland, to Augusta County, Virginia, during the Revolutionary War to help colonists fight a common enemy—the British. My ancestors and I served during every American war (and police action) since then, many of us as
“career” Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen. I was an Eisenhower baby and Kennedy kid who grew up proud to be a Navy brat. I eagerly asked not what my country could do for me, rather, what I could do for it, but by the time I was a teenager, I was an anomaly.
When my dad returned from his third tour of duty in Viet Nam, my mother, sister and I watched in horror as he was pelted with tomatoes and expletives disembarking the plane and making his way across the tarmac to us. By the time my generation came home from Desert Storm, Decisive Endeavor, Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom, American civilians—whatever their attitude toward war and/or politicians—had learned to appreciate their military protectors. Better homecomings, however, do not exorcise demons. Whether we are greeted with vitriol or cheers, many of us veterans and active duty military members need help dealing with our memories and internal conflicts. Because writing, art and performance are wonderful forms of therapy
for all manner of trauma, Warrior Writers groups have been formed all over the country. One of my former Defense Information School (OIF) classmates facilitates such a group in Chicago. A classmate at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne and fellow OIF veteran, because there is no local group,
contributes her poetry to an “at large” Warrior Writers blog. With nearly 500 veterans and military members at IPFW and Ivy Tech, along with the Air National Guard on Ferguson Road, the Army National Guard on Cook Road, the USMCR hall in New Haven, five VFW and ten American Legion posts in town, Fort Wayne is long overdue its own Warrior Writers project!
I and two of my classmates from Dr. Mary Ann Cain’s “Creativity and Community” course at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne (IPFW) -- Mary Popovich and Adrian Rivera -- decided to start a Warrior Writers Fort Wayne chapter as a class project. Our mission is to provide a forum for veterans and active-duty military, along with military families and supporters, to share writing, drawing, art, photography and music with the civilian community so that they may better understand our experiences during and after war. Our goal is to have submitted writings and artwork published electronically in a blog at WarWritersFW.blogspot.com, in addition to this anthology. Our hope is that some of these writings, music, photography or artwork also will be exhibited or performed publicly. Please visit our blog site, follow us on Twitter, and like us on Facebook to stay informed about future activities (addresses are on front cover). For more information on Warrior Writers Fort Wayne, please send an email to WarWritersFW@gmail.com.
Co-Founder of Warrior Writers of Fort Wayne
My seventh great grandfather, Colonel Matthew Patten, emigrated from County Londonderry, Ireland, to Augusta County, Virginia, during the Revolutionary War to help colonists fight a common enemy—the British. My ancestors and I served during every American war (and police action) since then, many of us as
“career” Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen. I was an Eisenhower baby and Kennedy kid who grew up proud to be a Navy brat. I eagerly asked not what my country could do for me, rather, what I could do for it, but by the time I was a teenager, I was an anomaly.
When my dad returned from his third tour of duty in Viet Nam, my mother, sister and I watched in horror as he was pelted with tomatoes and expletives disembarking the plane and making his way across the tarmac to us. By the time my generation came home from Desert Storm, Decisive Endeavor, Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom, American civilians—whatever their attitude toward war and/or politicians—had learned to appreciate their military protectors. Better homecomings, however, do not exorcise demons. Whether we are greeted with vitriol or cheers, many of us veterans and active duty military members need help dealing with our memories and internal conflicts. Because writing, art and performance are wonderful forms of therapy
for all manner of trauma, Warrior Writers groups have been formed all over the country. One of my former Defense Information School (OIF) classmates facilitates such a group in Chicago. A classmate at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne and fellow OIF veteran, because there is no local group,
contributes her poetry to an “at large” Warrior Writers blog. With nearly 500 veterans and military members at IPFW and Ivy Tech, along with the Air National Guard on Ferguson Road, the Army National Guard on Cook Road, the USMCR hall in New Haven, five VFW and ten American Legion posts in town, Fort Wayne is long overdue its own Warrior Writers project!
I and two of my classmates from Dr. Mary Ann Cain’s “Creativity and Community” course at Indiana University-Purdue University Fort Wayne (IPFW) -- Mary Popovich and Adrian Rivera -- decided to start a Warrior Writers Fort Wayne chapter as a class project. Our mission is to provide a forum for veterans and active-duty military, along with military families and supporters, to share writing, drawing, art, photography and music with the civilian community so that they may better understand our experiences during and after war. Our goal is to have submitted writings and artwork published electronically in a blog at WarWritersFW.blogspot.com, in addition to this anthology. Our hope is that some of these writings, music, photography or artwork also will be exhibited or performed publicly. Please visit our blog site, follow us on Twitter, and like us on Facebook to stay informed about future activities (addresses are on front cover). For more information on Warrior Writers Fort Wayne, please send an email to WarWritersFW@gmail.com.
Military Art
Local Artist/Contributor Garry McElfresh Focuses on Military & Americana Themes through His Art Business/Hobby
His Art Demonstrates that Beauty Can be Found in the Middle of War
When Northeast Indiana artist Garry McElfresh was a young man during the Vietnam War era, he joined the U.S. Navy with aspirations of serving his country. However, nature had other plans, as he received a medical discharge during basic training when a previously undiagnosed heart murmur was discovered. Since he was unable to fulfill his military aspirations, McElfresh decided to use his artistic talents to develop a collection of images with a military theme that focus on military personnel in the field. These illustrations depicit the many aspects of “A Day in the Life of a Soldier” and demonstrate that beauty can be found in the middle of war.
McElfresh’s images, which are featured above, on the front cover and throughout this Warrior Writers of Fort Wayne anthology, are based on real-life subjects or images. Using his artistic license, he translates these into original artwork by using pencil, ink pen or colored chalk to illustrate them on paper. Through this technique, he preserves scenes from “A Day in the Life of a Soldier” and Americana that rest forever in the viewers’ hearts and minds.
McElfresh grew up in Jay County, Indiana, and is a graduate of Portland High School. After his brief stint with the U.S. Navy, he worked in various blue-collar jobs in east-central and northern Indiana. During this time, he invested more than 30 years in perfecting techniques for his portrait drawings and illustrations.
He moved to Fort Wayne in 1993 and studied art at a local university. For the past decade, McElfresh has focused his efforts on creating his artwork, which is sold through his business, Rainbow Eagle Art, LLC, in the form of greeting cards, calendars and posters. He also does commissioned artwork by request, working from your original photographs.
His Art Demonstrates that Beauty Can be Found in the Middle of War
When Northeast Indiana artist Garry McElfresh was a young man during the Vietnam War era, he joined the U.S. Navy with aspirations of serving his country. However, nature had other plans, as he received a medical discharge during basic training when a previously undiagnosed heart murmur was discovered. Since he was unable to fulfill his military aspirations, McElfresh decided to use his artistic talents to develop a collection of images with a military theme that focus on military personnel in the field. These illustrations depicit the many aspects of “A Day in the Life of a Soldier” and demonstrate that beauty can be found in the middle of war.
McElfresh’s images, which are featured above, on the front cover and throughout this Warrior Writers of Fort Wayne anthology, are based on real-life subjects or images. Using his artistic license, he translates these into original artwork by using pencil, ink pen or colored chalk to illustrate them on paper. Through this technique, he preserves scenes from “A Day in the Life of a Soldier” and Americana that rest forever in the viewers’ hearts and minds.
McElfresh grew up in Jay County, Indiana, and is a graduate of Portland High School. After his brief stint with the U.S. Navy, he worked in various blue-collar jobs in east-central and northern Indiana. During this time, he invested more than 30 years in perfecting techniques for his portrait drawings and illustrations.
He moved to Fort Wayne in 1993 and studied art at a local university. For the past decade, McElfresh has focused his efforts on creating his artwork, which is sold through his business, Rainbow Eagle Art, LLC, in the form of greeting cards, calendars and posters. He also does commissioned artwork by request, working from your original photographs.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Better late than never
My seventh great grandfather, Colonel Matthew Patten, emigrated from County Londonderry, Ireland, to Augusta County, Virginia, during the Revolutionary War to help colonists fight a common enemy—the British. My ancestors and I served during every American war (and police action) since then, many of us as “career” Soldiers, Sailors and Airmen. I was an Eisenhower baby and Kennedy kid who grew up proud to be a Navy brat. I eagerly asked not what my country could do for me, rather, what I could do for it, but by the time I was a teenager, I was an anomaly.
When my dad returned from his third tour of duty in Viet Nam, my mother, sister and I watched in horror as he was pelted with tomatoes and expletives disembarking the plane and making his way across the tarmac to us. By the time my generation came home from Desert Storm, Decisive Endeavor, Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom, American civilians—whatever their attitude toward war and/or politicians—had learned to appreciate their military protectors. Better homecomings, however, do not exorcise demons.
Whether veterans are greeted with vitriol or cheers, many of us need help dealing with our memories and internal conflicts. Because writing, art and performance are wonderful forms of therapy for all manner of trauma, Warrior Writers groups have been formed all over the country. One of my former Defense Information School classmates facilitates such a group in Chicago. An IPFW classmate and fellow OIF veteran, because there is no local group, contributes her poetry to an “at large” Warrior Writers blog. With nearly 500 veterans and military members at IPFW and Ivy Tech, Shepherd’s House just a mile away on Tennessee Avenue, the Air National Guard on Ferguson Road, the Army National Guard on Cook Road, the USMCR hall in New Haven, five VFW and ten American Legion posts in town, Fort Wayne is long overdue its own Warrior Writers project!
A group of upperclassmen and graduate students from Dr. Mary Ann Cain's "Creativity and Community" course will offer a variety of workshops in the coming months for veterans who are (or want to be) writers, artists, actors, singers, or dancers. Some of the works created will be performed or exhibited publicly; others will be published electronically and/or in an anthology. Please revisit this site, follow us on Twitter, and like us on Facebook to stay informed about the schedule. We hope you'll join us as Warrior Writers, support us by attending our exhibits, and/or help underwrite our production costs with donations of venue, supplies, or cold hard cash.
Thanks for stopping by!
When my dad returned from his third tour of duty in Viet Nam, my mother, sister and I watched in horror as he was pelted with tomatoes and expletives disembarking the plane and making his way across the tarmac to us. By the time my generation came home from Desert Storm, Decisive Endeavor, Enduring Freedom and Iraqi Freedom, American civilians—whatever their attitude toward war and/or politicians—had learned to appreciate their military protectors. Better homecomings, however, do not exorcise demons.
Whether veterans are greeted with vitriol or cheers, many of us need help dealing with our memories and internal conflicts. Because writing, art and performance are wonderful forms of therapy for all manner of trauma, Warrior Writers groups have been formed all over the country. One of my former Defense Information School classmates facilitates such a group in Chicago. An IPFW classmate and fellow OIF veteran, because there is no local group, contributes her poetry to an “at large” Warrior Writers blog. With nearly 500 veterans and military members at IPFW and Ivy Tech, Shepherd’s House just a mile away on Tennessee Avenue, the Air National Guard on Ferguson Road, the Army National Guard on Cook Road, the USMCR hall in New Haven, five VFW and ten American Legion posts in town, Fort Wayne is long overdue its own Warrior Writers project!
A group of upperclassmen and graduate students from Dr. Mary Ann Cain's "Creativity and Community" course will offer a variety of workshops in the coming months for veterans who are (or want to be) writers, artists, actors, singers, or dancers. Some of the works created will be performed or exhibited publicly; others will be published electronically and/or in an anthology. Please revisit this site, follow us on Twitter, and like us on Facebook to stay informed about the schedule. We hope you'll join us as Warrior Writers, support us by attending our exhibits, and/or help underwrite our production costs with donations of venue, supplies, or cold hard cash.
Thanks for stopping by!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)