Same Story Twice

My father was a Marine serving in Vietnam in 1967. I can remember living in Vernon, AL while he was away. I also remember my brother’s birth during that year, and then my Dad’s homecoming a while later. I know no details of his service during the season of his absence from my memories. The stories are simply missing. My only evidence of them is reading his medal citations, touching his 3rd Force Recon patches, and seeing some of the pictures he sent home from that tour. Like most Vietnam Veterans, he is reluctant to speak of his experiences “in country.”

Now on a return home to visit my folks, I happen to run into one of Dad’s friends at the local Sav-more.  I greet him but don’t interrupt his conversation with another gentleman.  He finds me again on the baking aisle. After a quick conversation to catch-up, he asks how Daddy is. “You know, people around here in Lamar County have no idea about who your father is.”

“He’s pretty famous,” I grin. “I know he wrote a chapter in a book about Vietnam.”

“Well, that ain’t all!” He proceeds to tell me a second-hand story relayed to him by a young man who was a high school student in Dad’s history class.  This boy had grown-up in a difficult family situation, and Daddy had shown concern for him, lending guidance as he came of age.  As a young man, he went on to become a Marine himself. Upon his return to Lamar County after completing his service, he told this friend of Dad’s the following story, which was repeated to me with great story-telling effects:

One day young so-and-so and a group of other marines had been standing around in a room on base making a bunch of noise, as rowdy young men sometimes do. When the door swung open, an immediate reverent hush fell across the room. “I looked over there to see who commanded this respect, and low and behold, if it wasn’t Brother Olen standing there! I made my way toward him and when he saw me, he pointed and said, ‘You’re with me the rest of the day.’ So, I followed him around; and do you know, wherever we went on base, people stood at attention when Brother Olen walked by. Even folks across the street!”

I shake Dad’s friend’s hand and thank him for telling me this story. Naturally, when I get back to the house, I want to hear from “Brother Olen” about this chance encounter. During dinner, I tell him the basics of what I’d heard in the store, leaving out the drama with which it was delivered, and ask, “Were you on a Marine base one time and randomly ran into so-and-so?”

“I did.”

“Tell me what happened.” Dad pauses from chewing on his roast beef to explain.

“I had written the first draft of a citation for the Medal of Honor for a Marine named

Terry Graves. My friend Digger rewrote it, and most of what I said didn’t get used, but anyway, years later they decided to name a hall at Quantico after Lt. Graves, and your mother and I were invited to come for the ceremony.  When we got there, Quantico looked a lot different than the last time I had been there, and well. . . I just got lost and couldn’t find the hall.  So, I went into a building to ask directions and sure enough, ran into so-and-so. I asked him to show me the way, and invited him to stay with us.  The higher-ups weren’t too pleased with me bringing a fellow in fatigues to the ceremony. But that was that.”

It's quite a different story than the one originally presented to me. Since it’s Memorial Day, I follow my curiosity about the events from a world away in 1967. On the Congressional Medal of Honor website, I find the completed citation for Terrence Collinson Graves my Dad had drafted and Digger rewrote. What I read about this brave Marine gives me some insight into the stories I’ll never know. Truth be told, now that I’ve added another piece of evidence to the time of Dad’s absence, I realize it’s probably for the best I let them remain missing.

Your Turn:  After reading the citation, let me know if you think I’m right.

https://www.cmohs.org/recipients/terrence-c-graves