Veterans: Great Stories Need to be Told
Lieutenant Colonel Benjamin J. Van Meter, U.S. Army
Another Veterans Day is upon us to appreciate our veterans that served honorably in the U.S. Armed Forces. It is a tradition that began with the end of major hostilities during World War I declared on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. Over the past 18 years that I have served in the U.S. Army, it has always been interesting to hear stories from veterans from past generations. Stories about the people they served with, aspects of service they miss, and common grievances shared among all generations of veterans such as the quality of field rations. The military offers clear structure, a sense of common purpose, and opportunities to forge unbreakable bonds with fellow service members during difficult missions. These are the aspects that veterans miss when they leave the service and they find it difficult to connect within the communities they find themselves in. The stories veterans carry with them are unique and only those who served seem to truly understand. Some of those stories are dark and difficult. So, oftentimes veterans choose to bottle up these stories and feelings not easily forgotten while focusing on other aspects of life.
It took a long time for my father to open up to me about his combat experiences in Vietnam. If I asked him about it, he would refuse and become visibly upset. However, after my first deployment to Iraq in 2005, he suddenly seemed far more willing to open up to me – but I was also capable of understanding his experiences in ways that I could not before. Some of his stories were funny, some fascinating, and some horrifying. No matter the stories he told, I was very thankful to connect with my father in this way. Years later, his experiences and stories would end up serving a greater purpose that neither he nor I would have imagined.
During the summer of 2019, I was nearing the end of my assignment to Italy and had recently returned from another combat deployment to Iraq. It was a busy time preparing to leave, but I invited my then 73 year old father to come visit me since he had always dreamed of seeing the “Old World” of Europe and it was probably now or never given his age. Despite all the preparations and goings-on, I had an epiphany about the nearby U.S. Navy hospital. Since my father served as a U.S. Navy Corpsman (field medic) with the 2nd Battalion, 9th Marine Regiment, I recognized this as a fitting opportunity for him to share some of his experiences with the many young Corpsman that staff the hospital since many of them could go on from Italy to an assignment with the Marines. I spoke with the hospital leadership and made arrangements for this speaking engagement the next day (Friday) and only three days before my official departure from Italy. I was definitely cutting things close, but this was an important opportunity to take advantage of – so I thought.
As we were winding down that Thursday evening, I told my father about the speaking engagement with the young Corpsman at the U.S. Navy hospital the next day. To my surprise, my dad became very upset and exclaimed, “You know I don’t like talking about that stuff, why would you put me up in front of a bunch of people like that?” I responded, “Because many of these young Corpsman working in that hospital haven’t been to combat and could eventually receive an assignment to a Marine Corps unit – just like you were. This is your opportunity to give them perspective as an experienced, combat Corpsman. To tell them everything you wish someone would have told you at some point.” He glanced down and thought about it for a moment. “Ok. But, I don’t want to do anything like this again.” His reluctance was understandable since he had never done something like this before and it was natural for him to be defensive after all these years of keeping his experiences private and mostly bottled inside himself.
The next day was a mad dash. I had some final items to turn in and paperwork to sign at various offices across the base before departing the upcoming Sunday. As I finished up paperwork at the final office, I looked down at my watch and realized I was late for the speaking engagement. I beat feet to the hospital in the mid-summer Italian heat. I had told my father to meet me at the hospital and a sense of dread overcame me as thinking about all the confusion that could be ensuing. I also wondered how many sailors would voluntarily stay to hear my father speak or would use the opportunity to leave early for the day to start their weekend. Once I got to the hospital, I burst into the room, and was shocked to see 30-40 sailors in the room with my father at the front of the room already. In that moment all eyes glanced to me having made quite in inglorious entrance. Without skipping a beat, my father said “You’re late Major! You owe me some pushups.” A look of glee came across all of the Navy sailors when as I began to move into the pushup position. They never imagined they would witness an old junior Sailor make an Army Officer do pushups, but the unthinkable was happening before their very eyes.
After achieving atonement with a sufficient number of pushups, I explained to the young U.S. Navy Corpsman in the room that I had invited my father to provide them with perspective from his time in combat in the hopes it would better prepare them for a Marine Corps assignment in the future. My dad hadn’t stood up in front of a large group to share his story like this before, so I began to ask him questions to help guide the discussion and encourage the young sailors to ask their own questions. As my father began to tell his stories and engage with the audience of young sailors, he seemed to change. He didn’t sound like a polished motivational speaker. He spoke with candor and uncanny detail as if decades had fallen away and we were hearing from my father as a 20-year-old Hospital Corpsman that had just returned from combat recently. The speaking session became very raw and real in a refreshing way for the young sailors in the audience.
The stories my father told were powerful and poignant. He started out telling them that “At Corpsman School, they taught us emergency medical treatment and procedures, which is why the Marines often refer to any Corpsman as “Doc’ [short for doctor]. But the school didn’t tell or prepare us for everything else we would have to do like burning the shit!” The young sailors laughed in response. On this lighthearted note, my father proceeded to tell a story from Vietnam about a fellow Corpsman that, as he put it, “…Wasn’t the brightest penny in the pocket.” According to my father’s recollection, this fellow “dull-penny” Corpsman really wanted to get his hands on a miniature parachute that deploys as part of an illumination flare the Marines fired into the air during night operations for visibility of the battlefield. The fellow Corpsman found a flare and began picking at the casing to see if he could pull the parachute out. However, he accidentally discharged the flare, which sounded just like an incoming rocket to everyone else on the camp. The sound caused everyone in the nearby command post to flee into a muddy trench for protection from the perceived incoming barrage. After everyone realized what happened, it seemed like the whole camp gave chase to the dull-penny Corpsman for causing pandemonium.
After the laughter subsided, the storytelling took a more somber tone. In my father’s words, Marines had such a strong regard for a Corpsman because they served in many unofficial roles within a Platoon. “I ended up volunteering for mail call” my father said. “Mail usually got everyone excited but sometimes we’d have guys that would receive the dreaded ‘Dear John’ breakup letters from girlfriends.” He explained that to lift the spirits of the Dear John recipients, he would gather them all together as a group to share their experiences. Often, the discussions would turn to dark humor in the form of a competition to determine who had the lamest excuse for breaking up or laugh at the stark similarities that many letters shared as if the girls had simply signed pre-printed letters. These group sessions reduced the emotional trauma and sense of abandonment experienced by Marines in difficult circumstances while strengthening the bonds among the platoon. My father continued saying that, “As the Corpsman, you’re naturally someone they trust to talk things out or shed some tears with. You end up being a counselor because you naturally want to help treat their broken heart.”
There was a brief pause as my father thought of the many men that he had been a pillar of strength for during dark and difficult times. He then moved on to talk about his combat experiences. “I never imagined playing the role of ‘defender’ but during the Tet Offensive, we had so many wounded Marines in the company that the Corpsman had to pick up rifles and help lay down suppressive fire as all of us worked to evacuate all of our casualties.” Many of the young sailors raised their eyebrows in surprise and awe. They had not considered that their call to duty may include saving their patients with more than IV bags and bandages.
As my father continued to reflect on his memories, he became visibly emotional and said, “The hardest moments I ever experienced, were the final moments with a Marine that lay dying. In some foreign, faraway place I was the last person they would see before passing. All I could do was hold their hand, comfort them as best I could, promise I would pass a message for a loved one, and help them feel at peace with God or life. In these moments, the line blurs between Corpsman and Chaplain. But, that’s your Marine and you won’t let any of them suffer or die alone.” A solemn look came across everyone in the room, considering that my dad experienced these extraordinarily human moments at only 20 years old – a similar age to most everyone in the audience. They also started to really understand that to Marines, their Corpsman is someone who is willing to go above and beyond in service to them.
After nearly two hours, we reached a natural point to conclude the session. In a touching display of honor, every single U.S. Navy sailor voluntarily formed a long line to shake my father’s hand and thank him for speaking to them. The last person in line was the hospital’s Command Master Chief, the senior-most enlisted leader. He said “I know it was hard to share those stories, but you made a difference in preparing these Corpsman for their future and their success will be part of your legacy.” He then presented my father with the command’s challenge coin out of appreciation. My father proceeded to shake the Master Chief’s hand and beamed with a genuine sense of joy on his face.
The telling of stories has been a fundamental part of human social interaction since the dawn of time. Exchanging stories builds a sense of connection, relatability, and even helps us think about our experiences as we speak about them out loud. Thanking veterans for their service is certainly kind, but the simple act of listening to stories about their service can help a veteran feel a sense of connection and relevance – and that their stories matter. In this way, veterans can achieve the full value of their experiences by sharing them with a new generation and providing perspective to the communities we are part of.
With that, thank you for reading this story about my father and I hope it gives you a sense of the great veterans that walk among us and the stories they carry with them. I recently spoke to my father about this memory from the U.S. Navy Hospital. I asked him, “Are you still upset at me for being late and you getting put on the spot?” “No.” he said. “But I should have made you do some more pushups!”
Lieutenant Colonel Benjamin J. Van Meter, U.S. Army, currently serves as the Army Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC) Professor of Military Science at Eastern Washington University.