27-05-2025
- General
- San Francisco Chronicle
I served as a Marine in Vietnam, but one of my toughest assignments was when I came home
In October 1968, I came home from Vietnam. With six months remaining of my four-year enlistment, I was assigned to the Marine Corps Supply Depot, Philadelphia. In late December, my sergeant told me to report to the first sergeant.
He said, 'You got orders.'
'Orders for what?'
'Body escort. The first sergeant will give you the details. Why don't you get down there and see him.'
It wasn't a suggestion.
Five Marines had been summoned, all of us recently returned from Vietnam. The first sergeant explained the detail, then handed us our orders. Each of us was to escort a Marine killed in Vietnam to his place of burial.
A captain who had never been to Vietnam briefed us on procedure and protocol. He passed out pay vouchers and airplane tickets. Grateful to be finished, he shook our hands and wished us luck.
The next morning, New Year's Day, a Navy van dropped me off at the airport. As I walked, the cold concrete squeezed up through my shoes.
In a small office, a man in overalls sat at a desk. Telephone wedged between his head and shoulder, he smoked a cigar and shuffled papers. I knocked. He swiveled in his chair, saw me and motioned me in.
I said, 'I'm here to pick up …'
'Oh, sure,' he interrupted. 'Come on.'
I followed him across the freight warehouse to a coffin zipped in heavy gray plastic. 'Paperwork's there,' he said.
I unzipped the plastic window and took out the manifest. Lance Cpl. John Michaels and I would be flying together.
When the time came, I stood beneath the airplane and waited. I stamped my feet to keep warm, but felt disrespectful. It's his last ride, I told myself, stand still and take the cold.
Lance Cpl. Michaels came out on the baggage train like cargo. The men handled the coffin carefully. After he was lifted into the plane's belly, I took my seat. I stared out the window and tried to think what I would say to his family. If our positions were reversed, what might he have said to mine? It could have been me in the coffin. Better him than me. No. Yes. I left it alone.
It was dark when we landed. Outside the terminal, a small crowd waited to greet the passengers on our flight. A pleasant, red-cheeked man in a black hat and overcoat stepped forward. He said, 'You're the escort for the Michaels boy?'
'Yes, sir.'
He introduced himself as the funeral director. We shook hands. He said, 'We'll be taking the car out to the airplane as soon as the passengers are off.'
I nodded. He shivered and rubbed his gloved hands. 'Why don't we wait inside?'
We headed for the terminal. I asked, 'Is the family here?'
'No, they decided it would be better if they came in the morning.'
After several minutes, the funeral director said, 'I think we can take the car out now.'
Lance Cpl. Michaels was loaded into the hearse, and I helped remove the plastic case. I unfolded the flag and draped it over the steel coffin. I watched the hearse drive across the tarmac until I could no longer see it.
The director and I left the airport in a silver-gray Lincoln Continental. He assured me that Lance Cpl. Michaels would be safe and well taken care of.
I said, 'What about the family?'
'They're good people. The father works for the post office, the mother works in a dress factory. There's a brother, but he's too young to understand. … Naturally, they're very upset; but they're good people.'
The Lincoln was smooth and quiet, and I treasured the heat. The director said, 'The father — he and the boy weren't getting along. Nothing major, father and son quarrels, that sort of thing, but he blames himself for all this.'
I said nothing.
The next morning, the director picked me up from the local inn and drove me to the funeral home. Alone in a room with the coffin, I met Lance Cpl. Michaels. Viewable from the chest up, he was young and handsome in dress blues.
Later that morning, the Michaels family arrived. Grief played with the introductions. It muted conversations and turned up the crying. I was lost. I wanted to be anywhere else. Vietnam would have been just fine. I assumed the position of parade rest and stood my watch.
The young Marine was viewed and prayed over for three days. Friends and family came and went. They cried, coughed and whispered. They stared at me.
That night, some of Lance Cpl. Michaels's cousins and his girlfriend took me out for pizza. I listened to boyhood stories about John Michaels as the walls of the pizzeria closed in. I picked at the pizza, had a couple of beers and avoided their eyes. I told them I had to get back to the hotel. They insisted on one more round. They toasted John Michaels, and his girlfriend started to cry. I drank the beer and waited for it to be over.
Lance Cpl. Michaels was buried on a freezing morning with snow on the ground. The Marine honor guard rifle volleys punched holes in the frozen air. The bugler played 'Taps,' and it was over. No press, no television coverage, no talk of heroes.
Back at the funeral home, Mrs. Michaels hugged me hard. Her eyes were red. Mr. Michaels, his face gray, shook my hand and thanked me. I don't remember flying back home.
Several weeks later, I received a letter. It was the Michaels family thanking me for all I had done. Alone in the barracks, I read the letter for a second time and punched my wall locker. And then I punched it again.
