Letters: I recall the Chicagoans who lost their lives serving our country

Chicago Tribune

26-05-2025

In the mid-1960s, I vividly remember watching the older guys from our neighborhood receive their draft notices. These were the same guys we'd spent our younger days with, playing softball and fastpitch against the park wall and cooling off in the park pool during the summer. Guys with the nicknames Monk, Rabbi and Slim.
Before heading off to basic training, they'd have one last party, often with a 40-ounce beer in hand. Most of them returned home on leave after basic training only to be deployed to Vietnam. 'Slim' came back before being sent overseas. I remember seeing him by the pool, quietly drinking a beer. To a kid from Back of the Yards, Slim seemed like a towering figure, a true warrior.
I saw him in a photo he sent to his cousin from Vietnam. He was carrying a heavy M60 machine gun and extra ammunition, disappearing into the dense Vietnamese jungle.
Fast-forward to the early 1980s. I was celebrating my graduation from the Army Ranger School, ready to begin my career as an Army infantry officer. I ran into Slim at our old neighborhood bar. He told me he had always dreamed of being a Ranger. Surprised, I asked if he hadn't been in the special forces during his time in Vietnam. He explained that no, his job had been laying communication wire in Vietnam.
He offered me his best wishes with a sincere grin as I embarked on my military career. Years later, during one of my deployments to Iraq, my brother shared the sad news that Slim had passed away from stomach cancer. It was believed this was a result of exposure to Agent Orange, the chemical defoliant used in the Vietnamese jungles. I also learned that he had struggled with post-traumatic stress disorder, a burden he carried long after returning from the war.
This Memorial Day, as we honor those who made the ultimate sacrifice, please take a moment to raise a 40-ouncer in remembrance of all the brave warriors from Back of the Yards who never made it home and for those who did return but continued to fight their own battles with the invisible wounds of war.The Vietnam Veterans Memorial is inscribed with more than 58,000 names — representing stories of loss and heartache. Esau's story follows. Forgotten by others? Perhaps. But not by me.
On March 7, 1968, Alpha Company loaded onto tracked vehicles known as AmTracs for a reconnaissance in force to Phu Tai, a village on the Cua Viet River. North Vietnam regulars, or NVAs, were observed there. Our job: Deny access.
Artillery missions had been plotted the night before. That morning, my radio operator — R.O. — confirmed he had solid communications. However, with turbo-charged AmTracs announcing our arrival, it was unlikely there would be NVA stragglers. I was alert, not anxious. That changed.
Nearing Phu Tai's western edge, things spiraled downhill when a rocket-propelled grenade tore into the lead AmTrac. The volume and intensity of incoming fire indicated a sizeable NVA force, a counterattack likely. As we regrouped, I fired several batteries simultaneously to hold them off. Regardless, the R.O. and I were soon surrounded by casualties — the handiwork of a sniper spotted by others in the loft of a nearby abandoned church.
From his elevated perch, the shooter had inflicted undetected damage. Shrubs to our rear hid us but wouldn't forever. Then my 'new guy' showed up.
Phu Tai was his introduction to the fight. However, despite our dire circumstances, he sucked up the fear we all had known. His first words were: 'What can I do?'
When he was asked to put rounds on the sniper while an artillery mission was redirected, he took a firing position at my back. Six rounds ended the sniper's career. But not quickly enough. The deadly marksman killed my new guy. However, reflecting on his sacrifice wasn't an option as the engagement at Phu Tai still had plenty of mayhem remaining.
Close-quarters fighting routed the NVA. Then the night's work began: Following triage protocols, our 94 wounded were helicoptered out. It wasn't till the following morning that my new guy and his 12 companions were relieved of duty. First stop: Dong Ha's morgue.
Eventually, I identified my new guy: Esau Whitehead Jr.
Forty years later, I visited Esau at his permanent address: Plot 3131A, Section N, in Long Island's 'Pine Lawn Cemetery.' I toasted him and his embodiment of our motto — 'Semper Fidelis' — as I recalled how he protected a fellow Marine he had known for four minutes.
Thank you, Esau.My mother, Louise Kemp Peirce, left her home in Rock Island to enlist in the Marine Corps during World War II and was sent to Camp Pendleton in California, following the example of her older brother, Clement, who had enlisted in the Navy. While stationed there, she met a tall, handsome Marine named Marvin Frost ('Frosty'), and they fell in love. Before he was shipped to the war in Asia, he proposed and gave her money, which would be used to buy an engagement ring when he returned from the war. He also gave her a gold bracelet, inscribed with her name on the front and 'All my love, Frosty' on the back.
Sadly, he was killed at Iwo Jima while leaving his position to help another Marine who had fallen in the battle, earning the Silver Star posthumously.
My mother contacted his family in Oregon and intended to return the money to them, but they told her to keep it. She went alone to a jeweler and bought the engagement ring they had dreamed of. She wore that ring every day of her life, even after she married my father.Since 1775, more than 1 million American patriots have died serving our nation. Our war dead are literally our country's DNA. Every single thing we have and will have is because of their sacrifice. The freedoms we enjoy and the opportunities we sometimes take for granted clearly demonstrate that the price of freedom was not free.
Where would we as a nation be without them? On this sacred day, a grateful country turns its eyes toward our beloved patriots to whom we owe so much. 'Pro deo et patria' ('For God and country').When I was 14, I wrote this poem, deeply affected by this soldier's bravery. He was just a few years older than me. After his death, he was the first African American to be honored with the Medal of Honor for his service in Vietnam.
At 73, I am still in awe of this hero and all of our service members who served in Vietnam. They deserve our nation's deepest gratitude and recognition.
Pfc. Milton Olive was a good man at his best.
He was ready to lay down his life for men
And that's just what he did.
His platoon was pinned down in the jungle,
under constant combatant fire,
When the enemy threw a live grenade.
The 18-year-old soldier, so unafraid,
Yelled, 'I've got it!'
He tucked the bomb under his chest.
You can imagine the rest.
He saved four men that day,
In a sweaty foxhole far from home,
Where he won the Purple Heart
Pfc. Milton Olive did a Hero's work of art.