Veterans Day November 2017

Veterans Day November 2017

Jules Bosch

In November 2017, I was starting my third year of volunteering at the Lyons Veterans Administration Medical Center in northern New Jersey. While my primary assignment was to interview and write brief biographies for veterans in a hospice unit, I was heading to the Veterans Day Parade in New York City on this particular early Saturday morning. Along with other volunteers and nurses, we accompanied a group of six soldiers from a nursing home at the VA. All the vets were in wheelchairs, and once we had secured them in our bus, we headed for the city, sharing coffee and pastries on the way. I have always been excited to venture into NYC, and now I was on my way to participate in yet another memorable experience there.

The staging and opening ceremonies occurred at Madison Square Park, East 26th St. This was the 99th annual ceremony; the Grand Marshal was astronaut Buzz Aldrin, of Apollo 11 fame and a veteran of the Korean War. The New York celebration is well-attended—it is the largest of its kind in the country—and is meant to both recognize veterans and keep alive the memories of those who never came home.

It was a sunny but frigid morning—temperatures were in the low twenties, and the wind whipping across a cloudless sky stung our faces. We would obviously wait a while before starting the procession—many groups, including military organizations, marching bands, and floats, including one for Gold Star Mothers, were assembling to join the cavalcade. In the meantime, we exited in and out of the bus to keep moving while our noses ran profusely in the chilly shadows of the looming skyscrapers. And in every direction, Stars and Stripes were snapping in the wind. (A post-parade news story ran the headline “Tens of Thousands Brave Cold to Honor Nation’s Heroes.”)

While we waited, I studied small groups of soldiers, civilians, and many young people. The soldiers, many of whom presented a cheerful and wholesome appearance, were smartly dressed in their uniforms. I watched a group of veterans linking arms and clapping each other on the back, smiling and laughing loudly in a spirit of camaraderie, unmindful of those around them as they strolled toward the ceremony and their special day. Having never been in the army, the closest I ever came to such fellowship was as a football player during college—a far second to the shared human experiences of military service.

As much joy as I derived observing these fortunate young men, I was equally troubled by the few anguished warriors I noticed who could not share their good cheer. A hapless man, looking confused and alone; a middle-aged vet, disarrayed in his uniform, passing by without purpose or direction, avoiding eye contact, diverting my attention from the convivial soldiers. They all seemed to be lost souls suffering with unimaginable memories.

I wondered what military experiences they must have encountered. I pondered how I might have come home had I been drafted into the Vietnam War. In what physical or mental condition, if I had come home at all? Might I have been one of them—a woeful veteran, unable to truly enjoy a day with a celebration being held to honor his service? I was thankful that I was unaffected by war and grateful for the opportunity to assist veterans who had served, having been deeply moved by their experiences, which alleviated some of my perceived discomfort about not having served.

I asked one of the GIs, who was wearing a Vietnam Veteran hat, where he had been stationed during the war. He explained, “I volunteered as a paratrooper and was assigned to the Headquarters Company 101st Airborne Hawk Team No. 1 at the Phan Rang Air Base. As infantrymen, we were never really based at a permanent location. Instead, we roamed the jungles on ‘search and destroy’ missions, most of them in hardcore North Vietnamese Army territory. Our base, ’Camp Eagle,’ was portable, and we were always on the move. Once we established the campsite, if we didn’t make contact with the enemy within a few days, we moved on to a new area of operation until we made contact. This drill was repeated for most of my one-year tour in Vietnam. As an infantryman, I was wounded in combat with the NVA and received two Purple Hearts. My Purple Hearts carry much pride—they are the combat award that is most respected but least desired.”

Finally, at around noon, we joined the procession and proceeded up historic Fifth Avenue. Our wheelchair-bound warhorses of long service were covered with striking red, white, and blue blankets to fend off the chilly wind. Their reception was a rousing welcome, with thousands of delighted observers lining both sides of the route, dressed in hats, scarves, and heavy jackets. It quickly became apparent how much our troupers were enjoying the day. We began to zigzag back and forth across the avenue, pausing to allow spectators to take photos, briefly converse, or shake hands. It was hard to tell who derived the most pleasure from these brief interludes, the vets or the parade’s patrons. I soon understood why we had waited nearly three hours to get started: The cavalcade was not a race but a moment in time for the old guard to bask in the sun and the adulation from the onlookers, whose exuberance manifested in continued loud cheering, the waving of Old Glory, outstretched glove-covered hands with thumbs up, and yelling resoundingly, “Thank you for your service!”

A broad-shouldered old-timer in our charge, wearing a black baseball hat embroidered with colorful military ribbons and gold lettering reading “Korean War Veteran,” frequently responded to the onlookers with a booming, “Thank you for coming out in this cold weather!” followed by a salute. The crowd roared.

Along the way, the Vietnam veteran I was wheeling turned and looked up at me, beaming with a wide-eyed grin, and said, “Ain’t this awesome?”

And it was.

I was quietly pleased to see how much this day meant to him and was gratified by my small part in it. ♦