Thanking my dad

My dad was not supposed to go to Vietnam — or at least until later. Having enlisted in the Navy after graduating from high school, his number had yet to be called for service ashore in Southeast Asia. However, when a friend of his — who had a wife and child at home — was called up, my dad volunteered and took his place.

My dad proudly wears a Vietnam Veteran hat almost everywhere, but he will tell you that war truly is hell, the worst business there is, and should never be glorified. Having experienced the horror of Vietnam first hand, war is something he never wanted my sister and I to experience. The first thing he worried about after the planes struck the World Trade Center on 9/11 was me being drafted.

Though I have always been aware of my dad’s service, I do not think I had ever thanked him for it until this weekend. I am far from being jingoistic, and I dislike our current obsession with mindless militarism, but there is one fact I will not refute: it takes bravery and major balls to put your life on the line and march into a hail of bullets. It was something that was hammered home while reading Nothing But Victory and walking through Shiloh last month. Though I tried, I could not even begin to imagine the conviction of men who stood defiantly with the hornet-like buzz of enemy fire all around them. The thought of it turned my stomach. After that I decided I needed to thank my dad for his bravery. I needed to recognize that.

So on Saturday I gave him a big hug. “I wanted to thank you for your service. I don’t think I’ve ever done that,” I said. “It was a very brave thing for you to do.”

“Thank you,” he said while we embraced. “I was proud to do it. It’s something I hope you never have to do.”