A Memorial Day Tribute

When I was five years old, my dad was my hero. He stood tall (6’8”), weighed about 250 pounds and had forearms the size of Popeye’s. A giant of a man, I loved it when he would lift me high enough to see the teller over the bank counter … or let me ride on his shoulders (even though I was – and am – afraid of heights) … or simply hold my hand, walking anywhere. My dad was bigger than life and he had a bigger-than-life job (at least, so I thought): He was a military policeman in the US Air Force.

The details are sketchy in my mind, even though I know I’ve asked him about them several times: He enlisted in the Army in 1954, served for just under four years, then opted out, wanting to establish a life with his new bride and baby daughter in central Pennsylvania. It was the hard work in the silk mills in Pennsylvania that turned his arms into the massive, Popeye-esque “guns” that I remember. The silk mills also turned out to be a turning point in his & his family’s life: Because of the poor working conditions of the mills, he wanted to return to something familiar, so he spoke with an Air Force recruiter and re-enlisted into the military.

Langley AFB in Virginia was where he was first stationed in 1958, along with my mom and sister. Then came the move to RAF Burderop, near Swindon, Wiltshire, England, where I was born in 1963. Then, in 1965, the USAF moved us to San Antonio, Texas, where Dad was an MP at Lackland AFB. When I was five years old, my dad was asked to serve a tour of duty in Vietnam. He served for that year with the 12th Air Police Squadron at Cam Ranh Bay Air Base. I have asked him about that year and he has rarely commented on it; when he has said anything, it has been unremarkable. To think that nothing happened while he was there is unimaginable … It was while he was in South Vietnam that the Tet Offensive occurred.

I remember thinking, after we had watched him fly off, that the lights in the distance seen at night from the highways around San Antonio were where Vietnam was … And I was confused why we couldn’t just drive to them. My mom reminds me that during that Christmas season, the request I had for the Shopping Mall Santa was for my dad to come home. I had no idea what he was doing in Vietnam – My mom did a great job of shielding me from the evening news with its renowned “body count.” All I knew is that I wanted him home.

To my joy, he did come home in 1969, only to be told shortly thereafter that he would need to do another “isolated tour” (without the family), this time at Cigli Air Base in Izmir, Türkiye. Turns out that he was only there for about a half-year, because the base was turned over to the Turkish Air Force in July 1970, precipitating the USAF to turn around and have us join him to complete his 3rd overseas tour, this time in Zaragoza, Spain.

Looking back, it was while we lived in Zaragoza (Summer of ’70 through January 1972) that I started noticing my dad was “human.” My mom may have done too good a job shielding me from what my dad went through in his “day job”; all I knew was he and I were spending less and less time together.

I’m writing this with tears now, because I am now the dad away from home, with a son who wants me home in the worst way, and a daughter who is about the same age I was when I started noticing my dad’s “warts.”

My dad finished his 20-year military career being stationed in north-central North Dakota. As a late elementary-school-aged kid, I was thrilled when I got to tour where he worked: In the missile silos, literally in the middle of nowhere, or in the control center of the base’s military police operations … But, I was rapidly becoming “my own person”, not thinking anything of the career (and significance? identity?) of my father coming to an end.

Fast-forward over 30 years later … I’m thinking a lot about the sacrifices my dad made. And I’m grateful for them … And I’m thankful for him … And I’m thinking, he’s still my hero.