The Drums of War....

The year was 1964 and I recall it as if it were yesterday. The winter of 63-64 was a pretty harsh one in Northern New Jersey with more snow than I could recall for many previous years. Between my job at the Post Office and work at The Rescue Squad, I kept pretty busy day and night, save for the occasional nights of dating, and time to gather with friends to have a cold refreshment and a sandwich at a local establishment run by a couple of great Irishmen.

I had graduated high school a year earlier and dabbled in several jobs, including selling electronic parts and delivering automotive parts, which, honestly, was a job I really loved, but there was no future in it. I took the civil service test for, and went to work for the post office, where I was promptly placed on Tour 3, which comprised nights from 6PM to 2:30 AM five to 7 days a week, depending on the volume of mail. The one bright spot was a transfer to the Parcel Post Annex for about a month during Christmas, as I had a car, and several people who wanted to go were much closer to the boss than I...thus I got to work days and go because they needed someone to be the driver. No matter the reason; it was days and it was Christmas.

That year was a good one because I got to buy my mother a lightweight stick vacuum cleaner so she wouldn't have to sweep the floors of sand at the shore, and bought my dad a custom spinning rod and reel with his name on it from Bernie's Sport Shop. I received a loden green suede car coat from my parents, that was the most comfortable warm coat I'd ever had.

On New Years Eve, on the way to a party, we came across a severe traffic collision that sombered the mood for the night. Without going into detail, it was in large part of what changed the direction of my life into the safety and law enforcement fields, in seeing what happens in a split second when a drunk driver is at the wheel, and a beautiful human being is not beautiful any more. On New years Day 1964, only several hours after that accident occurred, a severe ice storm hit the area, and all of us at the Rescue Squad responded continually to accidents; it was a non-stop fiasco for 24 hours as we exchanged supplies, gurneys and rigs simply to keep moving from one response to another.

As winter wore on, I spent more time with my buddies, more duty hours at the Rescue Squad, and played hooky away from work when I could, having already signed the papers to join the military, and looking forward to May when I would enter and go to boot camp. One benefit would be that my government job would be waiting when I returned, and this was peacetime, so there wasn't much to be concerned about anyway. Four years of duty in the Coast Guard, a sea service I had always dreamed of joining, something I had almost been born with in my soul and bones, having come from a heritage of seafarers and ship builders, was close to becoming a reality.

I entered the US Coast Guard Receiving Station Boot Camp in Cape May, NJ on May 4, 1964 and spent the next 13 weeks in rigorous training for what was to be quite an adventure over the next four years. Although we were primarily a lifesaving service, every "Coastie" was as well prepared as any other military combatant and proficient in the use of weaponry and tactics. Our boot camp was longer than most, due to requirements in swimming and lifesaving as well as small boat handling, first aid, seamanship, weaponry, and of course the obligatory galley week.

Less than a week before graduation in August, 1964, on the radio in the Mess Hall, came the news of the Gulf of Tonkin incident, which would be the precursor to the Vietnam War. Little did any of us know it at the time, but the music playing on that radio later on was simply the harbinger to the drums of war, but none of us heard it in those tunes. It was just music, not the sound of the methodical drums that would be sounding as many left en route to Southeast Asia for Operation Market Time and other operations in the months ahead. The Drums of War were sounding, but falling on deaf ears.

Worshipping the Wrong Heroes?

Somehow, we've placed sports and Hollywood figures at the pinnacle of achievement and idolatry in this world, and found them to be worthy of every second of media coverage available. No matter how convoluted their lives are, kids long to emulate them as they grab the spotlight on Monday night, making the long run for the winning touchdown, hitting the game winning home run, or walking the red carpet at the Oscars.

Yet, the real heroes of this world are not playing sports. They don't make millions in salary and don't endorse designer clothes. They have to fight to get a decent raise in salary, fight for medical coverage following injuries sustained in the line of duty, work twenty or more years for a retirement persion, are often disabled and can't work within the first few years of their career.

These are the real hereoes of our society. Our armed forces, law enforcement, firefighters, EMS and first responders. They work for low pay in many cases and lay their lives on the line every day. The media doesn't arrive in time, nor take time to show them rushing into burning buildings to rescue a child or an elderly or handicapped person, nor are they there to see the split second decisions made by a police officer under fire. Yet they will second guess that officer over and over again, about whether he made the right decision to fire his weapon, even though they were never there.

Our military stands between us and oppression, tyranny and a world that would take away our freedom. Those of us who served to keep America free know firsthand what lies on the other side of that thin line of defense. Unfortunately, most don't have a clue, nor do they take the time to acknowledge the selfless acts of the men and women, who defend them and their way of living each and every day.

Sports are an important part of society and it's certainly not wrong to look up to a quality, clean living sports figure. But remember who the real heroes are. Running down the field against a group of men on Sunday afternoon in Chicago doesn't make you near the hero as running across a road with your men under fire in Baghdad to save a life of a fellow Marine or soldier, or maybe just to get to the other side to save all your lives.