Memorial Day: Our Nation's Time to Remember

MEMORIAL DAY OUR NATION’S TIME TO REMEMBER REFLECTIONS ON WAR, SACRIFICE AND VALOR

JAM E S M ARTIN DAVIS

MEMORIAL DAY OUR NATION’S TIME TO REMEMBER REFLECTIONS ON WAR, SACRIFICE AND VALOR JAMES MARTIN DAVIS

6 Foreword A passionate patriot

By Bob Kerrey 8 Prologue May we never forget

By James Martin Davis 12 November 8, 1981 A soldier remembered 24 May 30, 1982 The soldiers of twilight 30 November 7, 1982 Soldiers of yesterday 38 May 29, 1983 Graveyard in the clouds 48 August 28, 1983 The invasion that might have failed 56 May 27, 1984 Memory fades, but this name lives on in glory 66 October 21, 1984 America rescues a nation 72 May 26, 1985 Remembrances of a soldier 80 December 21, 1986 Christmas in a bunker 86 November 1, 1987 An invasion not found in history books 94 February 28, 1988 A returning hero is not forgotten

112 May 28, 1989 The Moving Wall 114 May 27, 1990 Vietnam War ideals so very far away 118 November 11, 1993 A soldier’s farewell 122 May 30, 1994 A quiet tribute to precious lives 126 May 29, 1995 The covenant of a soldier 134 August 22, 1998 Families and Omaha remember 140 May 31, 1999 Remember me? Wilco, soldier 146 May 29, 2000 Courage takes many forms 152 May 28, 2001 Soldiers ask only this: Remember 156 May 27, 2002 The ultimate bequest 162 May 26, 2003 This enduring sacrifice deserves the nation’s salute 166 May 31, 2004 Memorial Day sharpens focus on honored dead 172 May 27, 2001 At long last, mom knows

By Mike Kelly

100 January, 1989 Vietnam: What it was really like

174 May 30, 2005 Requiems for our fallen soldiers

108 May 28, 1989 Remembering at The Wall

178 May 29, 2006 Generations gave lives to preserve liberty

Copyright 2021 James Martin Davis and Omaha World-Herald. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior consent of the author and Omaha World-Herald.

Omaha World-Herald, 1314 Douglas St., Omaha, NE 68102-1811 omaha.com | owhstore.com First Edition ISBN: 978-1-7345923-5-1 Printed by Walsworth Publishing Co.

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May 28, 2007 The true character of a nation

188

May 26, 2008 The cost soldiers pay

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December 25, 2008 Peace on earth, goodwill to men

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May 25, 2009 Giving something back to honor our infantrymen

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May 31, 2010 Shrines to selfless sacrifice

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May 30, 2011 Remember families along with war veterans

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May 28, 2012 A salute to America’s fallen

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May 27, 2013 This Memorial Day is extra-special

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May 26, 2014 America’s solemn duty: Keep this day holy

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May 25, 2015 Pride in America is two-way street

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May 30, 2016 Visit to The Wall stirs many memories

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November 12, 2017 The Baby Boomer generation grapples with war

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May 26, 2019 America’s day of obligation

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May 24, 2020 America’s great equalizer

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July 5, 2020 Bravery knows no color

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November 11, 2020 Why veterans prefer to be silent

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May 30, 2021 It hurts when your heroes die

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Epilogue

By James Martin Davis

THE CODE OF A SOLDIER James Martin Davis, Esq.

4

High on that wall of fame there is a young man’s name.

No one to accept the blame — for the brief life of this soldier.

Searching the hill down below was a chopper that flew fast and flew low desperately hoping to scatter the foe to rescue a last soldier.

Visitors, they come and they go even in the heat and the snow, but no one would ever know — the story of this soldier.

No tracers, no smoke, and no flare, no panel, no gestures, no glare, no signal that came from down there — from a now-missing soldier.

A face from the distant past, a memory that will forever last.

Carved into the wall is cast the name of that soldier.

But now with each pass it was clear that because of the deed he did here no soldier would ever appear; It was the sacrifice of a soldier.

How can I tell it right regarding that bloody fight when Rangers engaged in flight — except this one soldier.

The price he paid was so dear, so the wounded could get to the rear, in spite of the rockets, the rounds and the fear, he showed the heart of a soldier.

Standing there duty bound holding that crucial ground, he motioned without a sound to withdraw like a soldier.

About to be overrun by rocket and mortar and gun now all of them gone except one — except this one soldier.

A single man staying behind in a plan he quickly designed, so all that the enemy would find was this fierce, fighting soldier.

Rattled by blood and by fear, the wounded move quick to the rear a full company of the enemy so near held back by one soldier.

A Vietnam vet salutes the flag during the singing of the national anthem during the Aug. 8, 2018, dedication of the Korea-Vietnam Peace Memorial at Memorial Park in Omaha.

They heard the rounds fall and explode as the enemy began to unload on this Ranger who adhered to his code — the code of a soldier.

Reverently standing at the monument today are the men with a debt to repay; here to honor, to cry and to pray — and to remember a soldier.

As the medevac touched down and arrived and loaded the five who survived, this recon team was deprived — deprived of one soldier.

They each had a story to tell concerning a man they knew well, who unselfishly saved them from hell simply because he was a soldier.

On the ground as the battle grew still, the enemy now on top of the hill prevented in finding the others until they had moved past this soldier.

Now, as they quietly kneel, unable to say what they feel, they hope only to bind and to seal their love for this soldier.

The troops now safe in the air removed from this terrible affair yet all of them filled with despair — despair for this soldier.

All the tears on the cheeks and the faces tell the message of this special place, that our nation can never replace — the precious life of a soldier.

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FOREWORD

By Bob Kerrey

A PASSIONATE PATRIOT

J

ames Martin Davis does not glorify war. Quite the contrary. This decorated Vietnam combat veteran writes with firsthand knowledge of the hell of war and the sacrifice of those called to serve and protect our great nation and world.

Jim’s essays, written over four decades and published by the Omaha World-Herald, are reminders of why we must never forget or take that sacrifice for granted.

And why Memorial Day is our nation’s “holy day of obligation” — not to those who came home, but to those who did not.

While times and perspectives may change, one constant is that every American who serves must surrender much of their freedom on our behalf. Sometimes they are asked to risk their lives. Too often they go to war and are themselves altered permanently. None emerges as they were before.

Rare is the veteran of any war who does not occasionally question, “Was it worth it? Should I have resisted the call to duty?” In the closing scene of the movie of the same name, Private Ryan visits the grave of the man who saved his life, kneels to pray and then says to his wife, “Tell me I am a good man.” All of us — civilian and military alike — need validation from time to time that we are good men and women.

Rare, too, is the veteran of any war who does not understand the pain that cannot be shared. It is invisible to all but the men and women who feel it when they least expect it.

My good friend James Martin Davis puts it all into perspective and also helps us cross the divide that separates those who served from those who, for whatever reason, did not.

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May 27, 1991: U.S. Sen. Bob Kerrey obtains a rubbing of a comrade’s name at the Vietnam Memorial.

Heroes, Jim reminds us, exist wherever a man or woman chooses to sacrifice for others. A hero can be a mother, father or friend who is there when you need them most, when the confusion of ordinary life becomes overwhelming, when life turns hard on account of a painful loss.

It is my fondest wish that Jim’s reflections on Memorial Day, war, sacrifice and valor will help us all be better Americans and bring us closer together in shared gratitude for those who gave us so much.

Bob Kerrey Bob Kerrey, a long-time friend of the author, served in the Vietnam War as a United States Navy SEAL officer and was awarded the Medal of Honor for heroism in combat.

He served as governor of Nebraska from 1983 to 1987 and as a U.S. senator from Nebraska from 1989 to 2001.

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PROLOGUE

By James Martin Davis

MAY WE NEVER FORGET

W

hen I wrote my first Memorial Day article for the Omaha World-Herald in 1981, I never dreamed I would go on to write them for so long. Nor did I have any thought that four decades of writings might find their way into a book.

My first article was about my uncle, SSgt. Jim Laferla, who was killed in the last few weeks of World War II. My family never knew how or where or even when he had been killed. After several weeks of investigation, I was able to solve the mystery and share my uncle’s story.

My editor was the legendary journalist Hollis Limprecht, who had served heroically in North Africa, Italy and Germany. He encouraged me to write more articles — but suggested they be about my war. “It will be therapeutic,” he said. He was right.

What encouraged me most was hearing from other veterans.

They would thank me for putting into words what they could never express. I realized there were more stories that I needed to tell. Stories I had lived, or heard about, or read.

These were Memorial Day stories that America needed to know.

8

James Martin Davis in 1982.

After the Vietnam War, James Martin Davis became a Special Agent in the United States Secret Service.

In this August 1971 photo, he’s to the right rear of President Richard M. Nixon.

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Memorial Day is America’s holy day of obligation. It is a special day set aside to honor and remember all those who died wearing the uniform of their country.

I wanted to remind our nation that we had made a promise to them to always keep holy this day. We had pledged to never forget the suffering and sacrifice they endured for us.

This book is about Memorial Day; it is not about me. I was never a hero, but I served with those who are. I was a reluctant soldier when I was drafted after my first year of law school. Then my country sent me to war.

I was lucky to survive that war, but I have never been able to forget the tens of thousands who did not. I lost friends from every school I attended, every team I played on, and every parish I was in. Sadly, I knew their families as well.

The author, a defense attorney in Omaha, Nebraska, served as a combat infantryman in Vietnam from 1969 to 1970. His writings reflect an intense desire to honor the memory of those who served selflessly for freedom’s sake.

Overseas it was the same.

We had casualties in every division, brigade, battalion and company in which I served.

Some who died I knew well and some I hardly knew it all.

Regardless, we shared a common bond. When we heard that one of our own had been killed, a part of us died with him.

So many combat veterans suffer from survivors’ guilt. How could they not?

There is no human explanation for why some of us lived and others had to die.

That is the thought that forever troubles a combat veteran. There are no unwounded soldiers in combat.

War is not something we choose to remember. It is something that is impossible to forget. As are the names and faces of those with whom we served.

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James Martin Davis, far left, walks with Terry Veylupek, U.S. Sen. Bob Kerrey and Doug Gleason in a parade honoring veterans of all wars in Omaha on July 3, 1991.

The purpose of this book is to remind us that we, as a nation, intentionally send young people to war knowing that some are going to die. These young people serve willingly, knowing that they might never come back. That kind of courage needs to be remembered.

Abraham Lincoln once said, “A nation that does not honor its heroes will not long endure.”

Veterans Day is for those who came home.

Memorial Day is for those who did not. May it always be our nation’s time to remember.

James Martin Davis

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M AY 2 6 , 1 9 8 5 Sunday World-Herald Magazine of the Midlands

REMEMBRANCES OF A SOLDIER

S

ome things about war can never be put into words. They can only be felt.

Some things about war can never be described; they can only be shared.

Such an indescribable feeling, more in the nature of a powerful force, compelled me to visit the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. As I stood there, silent and alone, in front of that monument, the feelings that stirred inside me were the same feelings I shared with other Vietnam veterans.

The feelings we shared were ones we had shared with all the men whose names were on that wall.

Those 58,000 names represent young, decent American men who gave their lives in the service of their country, men who gave all they had in a place called Vietnam.

Though I recognized more than two dozen of the names on the wall, most were unfamiliar. Still, I felt a special closeness to them all: We had served in the same war, at different times and in different places perhaps, but we had shared a common and unforgettable experience. We had shared fears and frustrations, terrors and anxieties, hardships and adversities.

Standing there, observing my own reflection in the wall, it was difficult not to reflect on the past. It was impossible not to be haunted by the echoes of Vietnam.

The sights and sounds came rushing back. My mind was filled with the images of war, the M-16s, the tanks, the armored personnel carriers and the machine guns, the grenade launchers and the claymore mines. I could see rows of helicopters filling the sky, the wet, green mosaic of the rice paddies, the red flash of tracer bullets, and the iridescent glow of yellow smoke marking landing zones below.

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Ling, a Kit Carson scout, left, was a former NVA soldier who tracked for the unit on several missions.

He was believed to have been executed after the war for aiding Americans.

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I could hear the rush of outgoing artillery fire and the terrifying impact of incoming mortar rounds. I could hear the sounds of machetes hacking away at the underbrush, and I could hear the muffled voices of young soldiers in the heat, muttering under their breath. I could hear the thunder of the F-4s passing overhead, and I could feel the concussion of their exploding ordnance.

Most of all, my mind was filled with images of the soldiers with whom I had served, with the youthful faces of the men who had caused this monument to be.

The wounds that I thought were closed were now reopened, and I ached all over.

My sense of obligation to these men made me hurt inside and out. I owed these men so much more than I had ever given. Vietnam had been only a detour in my life, these men’s lives had ended there.

I felt guilty, and at first I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps I felt guilty because I had survived, but it seemed more than that. It seemed to have something to do with our obligation to each other as soldiers.

Our experiences had been so similar, and we had shared so many things. Vietnam was only a part of it. Our mutual experiences had not begun in Vietnam; they had only ended there.

Our common experience began the first day that we entered the service. Like Vietnam would be, it was a painful experience. The first days in the military are always hell. From the beginning, we were forced to wear olive-green clothes that refused to fit. We were subjected to harassment at every turn, and we were herded from place to place like steers. Most of it made no sense: spit-polished boots, immaculately made bunks, and drill sergeants swearing at us nose-to-nose.

Even though we were assembled in formation, we were made to feel naked and alone. Layer by layer we were stripped of our individuality, our identities and pride — peeled off in large chunks. We were all still civilians then, and to us this was the world turned upside-down.

We were taught how to use the rifle, the pistol and the bayonet. We fired our rifles at human silhouettes, and we learned that the “spirit of the bayonet” was to “kill.”

It all seemed so foreign to us. It seemed almost unholy to learn how to kill.

Somehow because of the shock, we failed to hear the words of our instructors telling us that by learning these skills we were being taught how to stay alive, just as much as we were being taught how to kill.

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Duffel bag award ceremony.

The close-order drills, the weekends without a pass, the fire watches, the KP duty, the forced marches and the mile runs never seemed to let up. Before long we were crawling under live machine gun fire, throwing live grenades, and being ordered to take off our masks inside makeshift gas chambers.

Somehow we survived, and we discovered that we had done so because we had done it together. At the end of our basic training there was a pause in the ritual, and only then did we notice the changes. We were stronger now, and slimmer, and we had lost our softness. Ahead of us there was still more training and school, more specialized but just as rugged. Our paths were different now: infantry, artillery, armor and a dozen other branches.

I’m not sure exactly when it happened, or even how, but inexorably we were being turned into soldiers. We had been made stronger, mentally and physically, than we had ever been before, and we knew we were leaner and tougher now, both inside and out.

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Deep inside ourselves, we discovered a confidence we had not known before, and we discovered a pride in each other that we never dreamed could exist.

Strangely and instinctively, this pride in each other and in our units continued to evolve. This new feeling was difficult for us to understand, but we felt strongly a combination of sympathy and devotion and of loyalty and enthusiasm for those around us.

These feelings translated themselves into an almost jealous regard for the excellence and the honor of our buddies and our units. It was at this point that we had recaptured, to some extent, the identities we had lost. But now our individual identities had become wrapped up in the identity of the whole, of which we were only a part.

It would be this new feeling which would keep us going when all else failed.

These were tragic times, so Vietnam was next, and nothing could completely prepare us for that. Once “in-country” we learned first-hand the insanity of war.

As our first contacts erupted, and rockets and mortar rounds burst around us, we learned together about terror and absolute helplessness. We struggled to stay alive as best as we could. While our training did not make the bullets go away or the nausea disappear, it did keep us from running when, months before, we would have run.

Only after witnessing our first casualties did we know we could never be the same again. When we saw the wounded and the dead, the blood and the litters, and we heard men crying in pain, we knew we were now combat soldiers. We had become members together of that god-awful fraternity, a fraternity whose dues were too high, a fraternity that should never be allowed to exist, but one we all knew would never be disbanded except in the mind of dreamers.

The casualties we suffered became a nightly television sideshow back home, and civilians were horrified. They had not been trained, as we had, to accept the casualties as one of the grimmer realities of war.

What we recognized that civilians could not was that an army that can take no casualties cannot fight and cannot win. No one needed to tell us to fight to win, for it was by winning that we would stay alive.

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As the firefights continued and the rounds dug up the dust around our feet, we learned to live with fear. When the bullets stopped, the fear did not go away.

The terror only subsided.

A rawness developed in our humor, language and attitude; we became cynical.

But it was with this growth of cynicism that we learned acceptance. We learned to count on one another.

We depended on each other for life itself. It was an acceptance that transcended race, personality and education.

We also began to accept the idea of death. We knew that sooner or later we, too, might become a casualty. With this recognition, a gradual reconciliation took place inside us. We realized it was no longer a matter of “if.” It was now only a matter of “when” and “how bad.”

While we wanted so very badly to stay alive, we had become a legion of men no longer afraid to die.

Even though we had accepted the possibility, even the eventuality, of our own death, the hardest thought was that it all might end in anonymity. We could accept the recriminations at home, the divisions among our own generation and all of the rest, but to accept anonymity in death was a difficult pill to swallow.

Anonymity has always been a problem for the American soldier who is, was then, and always will be an individual. To learn to live with the loss of identity and personal freedom was one thing. To accept dying unknown and lost in some foreign land with no one knowing the particulars was quite another.

Next to cowardice, this was our greatest fear. To accept knowing that our families might never know, that our bodies might never be found, takes a kind of bravery and acceptance so unspeakable that all of us had to fight hard to avoid even thinking about it.

Somehow, when we could be assured that when death came we could count on others around us to remember the details and relate them to our families, we became comforted in a grotesque sort of way. Our dependence on each other was that strong. We could not only count on our buddies in life, but we could count on them even after we were gone.

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Eventually we had served our apprenticeship. We had evolved into professionals, and being professionals meant staying alive. It meant enduring it all. It meant knowing that we did our jobs well, and that others depended on us. It meant being an expert in our work, no matter how ghastly its nature.

When we reached this plateau, we knew we were as far away from being civilians as anyone could ever be. It meant we were combat soldiers, and that we could never really just be civilians again.

The irony of this whole process was that almost as soon as we reached this highest plateau, our year in Vietnam was almost over. We became short-timers; and soon, at long last, we could go home. But for all the elaborate preparations and techniques the military had for turning us into soldiers, it had no comparable system for turning us back into civilians.

When we came back to “the world” it was up to us to do it on our own. The experience of returning soldiers has always been the same: There is no greater culture shock than to return from war. With no time allowed for re-compression, our transition came much too quickly.

We learned that like the long and painful journey from civilian to soldier, the journey from soldier to civilian can be just as long, and even more painful.

For many of us, the war would be put behind us, though for too many of us the war would never really end. Our readjustments were difficult, but most of us managed.

We needed no public appreciation, for we appreciated each other, nor did we want sympathy.

In time we began to wind down. We noticed the first signs of our de-evolution when the combat numbness wore off and the protective layers of our psychological callouses began to disappear.

The thoughts of our buddies who had been killed and our friends who had been wounded began to sink into our defenseless bodies, in a series of sinister, delayed reactions. With this pain and with this sadness we knew our professionalism was dying. Our souls were beginning to thaw.

When the anesthetic affect of our professionalism was gone, our pain continued to increase, then subside, only to resurface at some vulnerable time in the future. Our old esprit de corps also disappeared. No longer were we surrounded by our buddies.

Those tough, cynical, old-young men with whom we joked and talked were gone.

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Together, we had witnessed brutality, agony and even death. Some of us, out of necessity, had broken an ancient taboo — that of killing another human being.

Even though it was broken in every war since the beginning of time, it was still something that we chose not to confess.

To a civilian all killing is evil, and perhaps it is. But these American soldiers never thought what they did was evil. Neither did the North Vietnamese. Both sides understood.

The rules of war are so different. How could someone who has never played the game for real ever really understand?

So when we returned from Vietnam, we did so in silence. Yet even though we chose to remain silent, we still remembered. We always will.

With the passage of time, we begin to mellow and so do our memories. We forget the bad and only remember the good. Our memories of the war, of our service and of our friends are of a time in the distant past when we were young and proud, and there was bravery, heroism and sacrifice. Our time in uniform was a very special time, with very special people. It was an experience of great intensity, a time of discipline and growth.

Perhaps, looking back, this is why all of us, regardless of the number of years, still retain our uniforms. They represent our last remaining bridge to the past.

Standing there looking into that V-shaped black granite memorial, and seeing those reflections, I knew Vietnam was an experience we would be unable to recapture and yet an experience that no one would ever take away.

During that year, for the first time in our lives, we discovered a commitment beyond ourselves. Our code had been never to think about ourselves, but to think instead about our buddies. Our commandment had been to perish if we must, but to save our buddies first.

The intervening years have failed to extinguish the memory of that brotherhood forged out of common misery, that fraternity developed out of common fear and the comradeship that evolved out of simple respect for each other. That single memory is now so much a part of who and what we are. It is this memory of belonging, of absolute trust and pride in each other, that is perhaps the one decent legacy of Vietnam.

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EDITORS Chris Christen Thad Livingston

MARKETING AND FULFILLMENT Michelle Gullett Sara Brownell

DESIGNER Christine Zueck-Watkins

SPECIAL THANKS Kiley Cruse Kurt A. Keeler

PHOTOGRAPHY James Martin Davis Kurt A. Keeler Omaha World-Herald Archives PRODUCTION COORDINATOR Scott Hoeper

A PRODUCT OF THE OMAHA WORLD-HERALD Julie Bechtel, Publisher Randy Essex, Executive Editor TO PURCHASE Copies of the book are available at www.owhstore.com.

For more information call 402-444-1014.

A new soldier at the beginning — not the old soldier the author was at the end.

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James Martin Davis of Omaha, Nebraska, was a reluctant soldier, drafted into the Army after his first year of law school and sent to Vietnam in 1969.

He emerged a decorated combat veteran, intent on keeping the memory of his fallen comrades alive.

He was here, after all, because of their sacrifice.

The remarkable story of his uncle and namesake, Army SSgt. Jim Laferla, would launch the author on a continuing quest to give testament to the bravery, courage and loyalty of those who died during combat — not just in his war but all wars.

Through this collection of poignant salutes, published over four decades by the Omaha World-Herald, we gain greater understanding of Memorial Day as “America’s holy day of obligation” — a time for honoring and mourning those in the United States Armed Forces who never came home.

ON THE COVER: Combat infantryman James Martin Davis at an advanced firebase in Vietnam in the summer of 1969. $21.95 ISBN 978-1-7345923-5-1

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