Freddie, Me and Sam Stone

Every year at this time I think of what has happened in my life as well as what didn’t happen for 58,000 other Americans and 2,000,000 Vietnamese because of the Vietnam war. Politics aside, over 2,000,000 people perished in that war and never got to enjoy the long life I have been blessed with. This post, an annual remembrance, calls attention to one young man I knew well. This year I will be adding some additional thoughts at the end—thoughts about the price the average folk pay for the sins of the folks who foment illegal, immoral and unethical wars—folks like Sam Stone.

 On the May 1, 1995, I wrote:

April 30, 1995 marked the twentieth anniversary of the United States’ withdrawal from Vietnam. It is a date that seems to have become destined for routine remembrance and recall by those of us who lived through the era—one that can seldom be re-visited without tears.

As I sat at home yesterday watching the commemorative programs, I could not help but think about the story of the Two Freds. Fred Crans and Fred Fedder graduated from Haverling Central School in Bath New York—Crans in 1963 and Fedder a year before, in 1962. After high school, both attended Corning Community College for two years. Fred Crans was an unfocused young man who distinguished himself by flunking out, while Fred Fedder, more confident and focused, completed his studies and went on. Both eventually joined the military—Crans becoming a hospital corpsman serving with the Marines, and Fedder a warrant Officer helicopter pilot with the Army.

Fred Crans came back on a MedEvac flight after finishing his tour. Fred Fedder came back differently. His name is inscribed on The Wall. Fred Crans is approaching fifty. Fred Fedder is forever twenty-three.

Whenever I think about Vietnam these days, it is seldom about what was “right or wrong”, but about the horrendous and senseless waste of lives. Also, it is often about how so many of us go through this life cursing our fate, never once taking a moment to appreciate the good that is present in every moment we are afforded.

Fred Fedder never got a chance to carve out a life. Fred Crans got the chance to start over. He went to the University of Miami, where he graduated with honors. He got married, started a family, got divorced, picked up a Masters Degree, got married and divorced a second time, and still had the blessings of another chance. Many would look at Fred Crans’ life and say that he was a failure, considering all the opportunities he had been given. Others might think that his was representative of live among the Baby Boomers—a constant series of actions, effects, rebounds, and so on, ad mortis.

From an outsider’s perspective, any of those observations would be correct. Fred Crans currently lives in a two-bedroom apartment in Waterloo, Iowa. His children live in Canton, Ohio with his first wife. He is starting over one more time. Like so many others who have encountered the downside of life, he has experienced depression first-hand. At times he has thought about running away to live a hermit’s life in Mexico.

Or worse.

But whenever he has been faced with that gloom and possible doom, two things have always brought him back: the thought of the terrible price his children would have to pay for such a stupid and capricious act, and the thought of his high school and college friend, Fred Fedder, who never got the second, third, fourth and fifth chances at life that he was given.

Maybe on every April 30th, the best use any of us Vietnam-era human beings can make of the time is this: Think of the 58,000 plus people whose names inscribed on The Wall represent lives never fully lived. We cannot bring them back. We can make a pledge not to let future generations suffer death in such a cavalier and meaningless fashion. And we can decide to find meaning and value in both the successes and failures that are part of the everyday lives that those 58,000 plus human souls were denied.

Take care, Freddy, I miss you.

When I first wrote this post twenty-two years ago, I was mourning the death of a guy who did nothing wrong—one of 58,000+ Americans and millions of Vietnamese who paid with their lives for the greed and misguided motives of the politicians.

In a sense, Fred Fedder was lucky. He didn’t have to live out a life of mental and physical pain such as the one described by John Prine in his haunting song “Sam Stone”. The song tells the tale of a war veteran who was so traumatized from combat and the memories it brought that he led a life fighting those memories with drugs (There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm where all the money goes). Finally, Sam Stone dies of an overdose.

The Sam Stones of the world are to be thought of with care and empathy just as strongly as the Fred Fedders. In a very real sense, they gave their lives as well.

It just took them longer to die.

On Memorial Day we are called to remember those folks who gave their lives in the service of their country. Sadly, those folks often surrendered their lives to  trumped-up transgressions and the folks who trumped them up (most of whom either never served in the military or served in very safe places) experienced great monetary benefit because of their treachery.

Maybe we should remember that, too on Monday.