Bill

We moved to Mt Lebanon, a suburb of Pittsburgh when I was eight years old in 1955. I became friends with many neighborhood kids, in particular, Shaun, Greg, Rich and Bill. We all would meet regularly at the playground to play baseball, shoot hoops, even tackle football at times, or just play on the swings and merry-go-round. We rode our bikes around the playground, stopping off at Edwards Drug Store for a Cherry Coke at the Soda Fountain. On occasion we would hike a mile or so to the woods, where we would catch salamanders in the creek, or play War amidst the trees and brush.

Following our sixth grade year, I spent the summer in Texas with my grandparents, but Bill and I wrote one another almost weekly, he relating his adventures of riding the Three Rivers on the Gateway Clipper, me about catching Crabs in the Bayou, or swimming in the Gulf near Galveston. I had been a Cub Scout in elementary school, and when I became a teenager, I joined the local Boy Scout Troop. Of course I wanted Bill to join as well, but his Mom would not let him; too militaristic, she said. Fast forward to 1966. We both joined the Marine Corps, although not together, and went off to Parris Island for boot camp. I am sure his Mom was not happy about that! Bill would go on to serve a tour in Viet Nam, then volunteered to return for another. I had cushy duty providing nuclear weapons security aboard a submarine tender out of Charleston, South Carolina. I was just a few months shy of my discharge date in 1969 and I was reading the Leatherneck Magazine that had just arrived. In shock I read an article about Bill being killed, and posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor, which would be presented to his Mother at the White House by President Nixon. A few years later I entered a poem I wrote in his honor in a contest which won first prize. I reprint that poem every Memorial Day in his honor.

It was ’69, You had sixteen years in your belly, Bill and I Five more.

We were in the Corps, Semper Fi, do or die, Bill did and still died.

I never did The Viet Nam tour; Bill did his Then one more.

Bill’s Mom got medals, A flag; Me, memories, mostly pain

Of why not me.

We met at ten, Birthdays with model planes

Christmas

With Lionel trains, On summer’s stage

We played our parts, major leaguers In little league shirts, stick-rifle war;

Boys at play Vocal shots shouted, then one day BANG

Bill bled and died.

It was ’69; Remember to thank Bill next time we kiss.

Submitted by Michael Roberts, Estrella resident