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Those in uniform — Don’t call them kids I cringe every time I hear politicians, TV talking heads and even generals and admirals refer to our troops as “kids.” I understand why they say “kids.” One reason is so many of them are so darned young. I was very young myself when I served in the Vietnam War. John Synowsky, who was 25 when I met him in Vietnam, called me on Veterans Day a few years ago. He thinks about me on Veterans Day because amidst all the killing and dying, I was one he was able to save. My daughter Melanie, who was 8 years old then, answered the phone while I stirred spaghetti sauce. She almost whispered with wide-eyed reverence, “Dad, it’s Mr. John!” We know many Johns, but only one is “Mr. John” to Melanie. When I was shot down at 21 years old in 1969, badly hurt and trapped in the wreckage, my life was not worth much. John and 20-year-old Graham Stevens risked their necks to rescue me. I told Melanie the story when she was just 4 years old, just before she met John over dinner. When we were leaving that evening, Melanie gave John a kiss on the cheek and said, with no prompting from me, “Thanks for saving my daddy, Mr. John!” When he called, I picked up the phone with a smile. “John! How the heck are ya’?” “Well,” he said, as I heard stiff leather creaking in the background, “I’ll tell you how I am. I’m sitting on my horse on top of a rise, looking down at some of my cattle. I just lit a five-dollar cigar, I’ve got some whiskey in a tin cup and I’m watching the sun set on the horizon.” I am not making this up. John has a ranch west of Ft. Worth, Texas. “Wish I was there.” “Yeah, me too. It doesn’t get any better than this. Called to say happy Veteran’s Day.” We talked for a minute then John said, “Gotta go. Bye.” My heroes have always been cowboys. John Synowski was the old man when I met him in Vietnam, the wise, experienced 25-year-old platoon leader who taught me a few tricks of staying alive flying Cobra helicopters in combat, like using my sun visor when firing rockets at night to keep my night vision lest I fly into the ground. John taught me to stay steady when enemy .51 anti-aircraft tracers reached up to us at night, because they always looked like they would hit us right between the eyes no matter how far they missed. They glowed so big we called them “basketballs” and they scared the hell out of us. I learned from John to watch for helicopter traps where the enemy used a tempting target to draw us into a triangle with anti-aircraft guns at each corner and one of them would have an easy shot at us no matter which way we turned to pull out of a rocket run. John was the experienced older guy, and he knew about helicopter traps because he was caught in one when a U.S. ground unit was being overrun and John was trying to help them survive. He took .51s through the cockpit and one round penetrated his chicken plate (chest protector) and lodged in his chest, still hot enough to sear the wound and slow the bleeding. His copilot was hit, too, but they held the aircraft and themselves together, continued to attack the enemy and ultimately covered our unit’s withdrawal. The families of those men on the ground never knew their loved one lived that day because John stayed on the job when he needed to be in a hospital, and they never knew John got the Silver Star that day for “gallantry.” Wayne Hedeman was 20-something when he was flying front seat in a Cobra near the Cambodian border and took a round through his neck. Johnny Almer, the aircraft commander in the back seat, was only 19 years old that day, and he flew as fast as it would fly, pulling the guts out of that Cobra to save seconds on the way to the hospital pad at Tay Ninh, but Wayne died on the way. They patched the holes, washed the blood out and scared up another copilot because our brothers needed them near the border and they had to go out again. Don’t call them kids around me. My roommate in Vietnam was Pete Parnell, from Lee’s Summit, Mo. Pete bored us to tears talking about his pregnant wife and the first son he expected to be born soon. Four days after he got a telegram that he had a son named Thad, 21-year-old proud pappa Pete was engaging an enemy anti-aircraft gun position in the Song Be area. He lost the shootout and his aircraft burned high in the triple canopy jungle trees. While anti-war protesters were spitting on our returning troops in California airports, Pete’s family got word of his death on Christmas Eve, 1969. Things are much the same for our troops today. A tiny part of our population is doing the nation’s dirty work while too many Americans focus on themselves, untouched by those doing the fighting and dying, and whose family is paying the price at home. Just like long ago, our men and women are carrying a load of responsibility far beyond what civilians would guess for their age. Some learn to make decisions at a very young age that have life and death consequences. These are not kids. Many of them have been called on to do things that would leave civilians breathless. I realize another reason people call them “kids” is to express kinship and affection. But these men and women, no matter their tender age, have left behind the attitudes and characteristics of youth. More so than some adults twice their age, they have become focused, self-confident and competent, oriented to sacrificing their own self-interest in their dedication to the mission. They are quick to discern the frivolous from the important, and quick to act on the important lest someone else pay the price with their life. I don’t think our troops want paternalistic, condescending affection, like a verbal pat on the head. They want the respect we all owe them. They are the ones prepared to march into hell to face the devil to protect you. They are the ones who salute or stand straight and respectfully silent with their hand over their heart at the parade when the flag passes by, while our neighbors stay comfortably seated and continue their chatter because they never learned what is frivolous and what is important. You might ask the mother of a new Marine, whose son might have been disobedient, surly, unmotivated and without direction before the Marine Corps. I’ll bet a few moms can tell you their son came home barely older, but he came home a man who spoke to his parents with respect, carried himself with proud, calm confidence and had little interest in the things that dominated his youth. So when you see pimple-faced young troops in uniform with a haircut that would make you blush, please think twice before calling them “kids.” Give them the respect they have earned and deserve. Call them men and women. While you’re at it, you could shake their hand, look them straight in the eye and tell them, “Thanks for serving our country!” login to post comments | Terry Garlock's blog
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