Three brothers; one war

 

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My mind drifts back to a time that almost seems like another life. I lived with my parents and older siblings on a farm in North Carolina, John F. Kennedy was president, and the Vietnam War wrote the headlines in daily newspapers. The military draft had been invoked, and young men from all walks of life were leaving their families and heading off into the unknown to perform patriotic deeds.

    Knowing that Uncle Sam would soon come knocking on his door, my oldest brother Charles signed some papers on his twenty-third birthday and enlisted in the Air Force. A skinny kid with blond hair and blue eyes, he soon boarded a jet that would land at Lackland Air Force Base in Texas. Up until then, he probably had not been much farther away from home than the tobacco fields and cow pastures.

    His first assignment was weeks of basic training, and after completion, he came home on leave. The moment of his arrival holds a special place in my album of childhood memories. When he walked into the house, my brother was not dressed in familiar worn-out jeans or overalls, but full Air Force attire -- a dark blue uniform, including a jacket adorned with bits of gold, a peaked cap and shiny black shoes. In my young life of meager surroundings, I had never seen anyone in such finery, and words fail me in describing the pride I felt for my oldest brother.

     He sat down in a rocking chair in the living room, and I could not believe my eyes at how he had changed. Weeks earlier, when he walked out the door, he was rail thin, but after having plenty to eat amid the rigors of basic training, he had packed on pounds of pure muscle, and his cheeks were plump and rosy. My brother was not a skinny kid anymore but had, as people used to say back then, "filled out."

    I sensed my mother's pride in seeing her firstborn come home from the military, and I venture to say that my brother, in service to our country, created the proudest moment my family had ever experienced. Charles was almost a teenager when I came into the world, and I admired and looked up to him. Somehow, I knew he had been called away to perform a very important job, and I would not have been more awed if President Kennedy himself had been sitting in that rocking chair.

   At the end of his leave, Charles boarded another plane for Amarillo and Jet Engine School. His duties would take him across America from Oakland, California, to Charleston, South Carolina. In between those stints, he was stationed at Takhli Air Base in Thailand where, as a member of the 334th Fighter Squadron and 4th Tactical Fighter Wing, he worked as a mechanic to make sure the F-105 fighters functioned properly on bomb runs to Vietnam.

    But Uncle Sam needed even more help, and before the war ended, he summoned two more of my brothers. James and Robert served in the Army and Air Force, respectively, and while James ended up in the Philippines, Robert landed at Phan Rang. 

    The next few years for our family revolved around tours of duty, handwritten air mail letters, phone calls, and homecomings, but Charles' first visit after basic training will always stand out. The image of him in his dress blues is one I carefully packed away, only to retrieve it every so often and smile.

    I am humbled by the safe return of all three of my brothers during wartime, when thousands came back wounded or in flag-draped coffins. Attempting to make sense of these two scenarios, by those whose stories are starkly different from mine, would prove futile. Only God can explain the disparity.

    When I recently spoke to my brothers about those times of long ago, Charles recalled an overseas flight when an engine failed, James told me about periodically reuniting with his Army buddies in reunion fashion, and Robert found it more enjoyable to talk about the GTO he is restoring. I cannot imagine what their lives were like during that time. While they were working to help protect my country, I was boarding a bus for school.

    My brothers' uniforms, if they still have them, are probably dry rotted by now, and any remembrances from their military days are tucked away in dusty attics. Like most veterans, they live quiet lives and seldom, if ever, speak of their armed forces experiences. But they are still soldiers.

    These three men are only a sampling of many who honorably served our country, all the while wondering if they would make it back home. They are part of a proud bunch who, if I had to guess, would drop everything right now, and, if they were able, put on their camouflage, lace up their boots, and reach for their weapons to defend America again.

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Author's note:

I wrote this article in 2015, and The Richmond Times-Dispatch published it under a different title. We lost our beloved Charles two years ago. 

Charles Long