Remembering the fallen of the Vietnam War, one name at a time

John Lazarczyk pauses at the panel bearing the name of James D. Williamson Thursday night at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C.


Remembering the fallen of the Vietnam War, one name at a time
By Joe Gromelski, Stars and Stripes
Online edition, November 9, 2007


WASHINGTON — John Lazarczyk was waiting to hear a name.

He knew he might have to stand in the chilly November darkness for a couple of hours, but that wasn't important. He was there to honor a man he had never even met.

As volunteers lined up in front of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial and took turns reading the names of some of the 58,256 Vietnam War dead Thursday night, Lazarczyk spoke about James Daniel Williamson, an Army Spec. 4 who was a gunner on a UH1D helicopter that was shot down over Laos on January 5, 1968.

Rescue and recovery crews were unable to reach the scene, so Williamson and the four other soldiers on the copter were thereafter listed as missing in action.

When MIA bracelets were introduced, Lazarczyk got one. It bore the name of James Williamson.

"I kept the home fires burning over all those years" by wearing the bracelet, said Lazarczyk, a semi-retired chief financial officer now living in Shepherdstown, W.V. "Then, miraculously, last year the remains of those five men were found in Laos."


Rest of article at: http://stripes.com/article.asp?section=104&article=50163

died 1969, went to school with me

these folks reading the 58,256 names. thank you, friends. i was in basic and ait with soldiers who went to vietnam. me, i get ordures for korea instead of a spot on that wall.

"sedano," the company clerk tells me as i'm walking back from chow. i've made a move to remain stateside as permanent party at ft. ord and have been so for two weeks. i'm scheduled for riot training next week and i'm laughing thinking i'll be pointing my bayonet at my wife & friends across the line from me at future protests. "report tomorrow for orders to vietnam." my heart sinks. i've lost the gamble. my wife pleads with me to head to mexico--nope, extradition. canada--no way, too cold. i want to take my chances, i tell her, if not me, who? "you might get killed!" i tell her, "i won't know so i won't care." it's a restless night.

the quonset hut at ft.ord where you get your orders is a long, dark tunnel. at the entry, we are told to strip to our skivvies and given a yellow shot record. lean to the left, get inoculated. lean to the right, another air gun pumps crap into that arm. the guys who flinch walk the line with blood dripping down the arm when the air blasts apart the skin. "move along" the medics say, stamping the record with that station's disease and handing it back. "move along." thud. yellow fever. "move along" stamp. bubonic plague. "move along" thunk. halitosis.

injection stations offer pools of light that we shuffle toward. the man in front of me, and the guy in front of him, and in front of him, all down the line their heads are glowing skeleton faces staring back at me. i look behind me. skulls glow in the dark. we are already all of us dead. i take a deep breath, hold it. lean to the left. "move on."

at the final station i'm ordered to dress and exit into the light, the bright rectangle of door.

"move away from the window before you open your orders" a voice outside is screaming repeatedly, "move away from the fuckin' window before you open those orders, troop!" i step into the light into another line. the orders window. off to one side, men like me stand stunned. their brown envelopes flapping in the gentle monterrey bay july breeze. "I'm going to vietnam" "I'm going to vietnam" "vietnam". they look at no one in particular and echo their destination with empty voices.

"private sedano reports for orders" i say. the clerk turns to a pile. not there. turns to another pile. not there. he looks into the room and calls my name. a clerk whom i recognize from my basic training company makes eye contact with me, smiles as he hands the orders to the windowman. "step away from the window before you open that envelope" the sergeant barks. i about face and step away from the window. i slip a finger under the flap and flip open the envelope. the orders blither for a few paragraphs then my heart stops...
121 replacement company. ascom city, korea. "i'm going to korea," i say. the guys look at me with a mixture of envy and happiness. i know some of their names are on that wall today. not mine.

mid-january 1969. i start basic training. A-3-1, the best damn company on the hill, sir!

what a lot we are. draftees like me are called "US" for our serial number. enlisted are "RA", regular army. these are fresh out of high school kids for the most part. there are "ER" and "NG", the enlisted reserve and national guard, older guys. i'm the old man, i can vote. i've been drafted out of graduate school in that empty period between the involuntary draft and the lottery draft. there are no rules for a few months, so the selective service reaches out to me (and other registered democrats), a newlywed, with a thanksgiving gift, a letter from richard nixon. so i'm the old guy among the kids. kids indeed. one kid is a puny guy who quickly becomes the target of a trio of bullies.

we've just double-timed up a long, steep incline at whose summit a laughing asshole in a tree drops CS gas on us that burns our sweaty skin. armpits, neck, balls, our assess have worked up a sweat. it is the captain's favorite trick, to gas us as we run up that hill. so i am already pissed off when we fall out along the roadside. the bullies have surrounded the mama's boy as he is called. something inside me snaps. i drop my pack and stand up. in three steps i'm standing between the kid and the bullies. "from now on, if you want to fuck with him," i say, "you'll have to go through me, first." the bullies are angry but cowed. typical asshole bullies remain cowed throughout basic and mama's boy has only the army to torment him for the remainder of basic combat training.

it is he i make eye contact with that day. mama's boy has gone to clerk school and i to radio school. he hands that envelope to the window guy.

the real power in the army rests with its clerks. i imagine the day i report for orders for overseas movement the clerks are told, "send everyone to vietnam. we need one guy in korea." the clerks process the jackets--personnel files--easily, typing out the standard orders. mama's boy recognizes my name and remembers, one guy has to go to korea. he types out the orders i hold in my hand.

of course, i never see the kid again and no longer remember his name. i hope his name is not on that wall. i do not want to know.

happy veteran's day.

mvs

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