Under the Fireworks
We are celebrating our independence today across the United States of America. With patriotic clothing and Barbeques, are people gathering to remember the wars that brought and maintained our freedom throughout the life of our country. “God Bless America '' will be sung from countless stages as families gather to watch Fireworks displayed. This is our Freedom Day.
July Fourth is usually a hot day in the Midwest. I always have the desire to gather my family close to watch the Fireworks. I think of all the locations we have traveled to watch the beautiful colors explode across the sky, but have I stopped to think about the price of freedom?
My father did not go off to war. During the draft for Vietnam, his name was drawn. In fact, from his hometown, most of the boys of the graduating class of 1966 were selected. He would tell you, he was excited to go. He thought he would be bunked with his close friends, after all, they all had been drafted together.
A few weeks ago, as we sat at my parent’s kitchen table together he recollected his experience. On the first night in the camp. He slept in a huge room full of beds. It was a strange night that clings to his memory. In the middle of that night, he could still hear the voices of many young men calling out for their mothers from fitful dreams. He remembered being awakened by a hulky sleepwalker standing over his bed swaying back and forth. At that moment, he wondered.
Would any of these boys survive?
The next morning they were loaded up into buses headed to Boot Camp. He found a seat next to his best friend. The league of buses was loaded with rumbling engines ready to depart when my Dad heard his name over the loudspeakers.
“Steve Tullis report to the Medical station immediately.”
He stood up, grabbed his huge green duffel bag, and walked off the bus. He had a lurking feeling he was found out. He had lied on the white form about the injury. Taking one moment to look back at several of his buddies he waved. The bus lurched forward following the caravan of loaded young men moving off toward boot camp, and soon to the jungle land of South Vietnam.
Sitting in a humid little office next to two other young men with shorn heads he waited.
“Steve Tullis”
Standing quickly, he followed the serious-looking officer into a small room with a whorling fan On a large small desk a large book was spread. A man in spectacles was looking down at what appeared to be a series of names. Thousands upon thousands, but his finger was pointing at one name in particular, halfway down the page.
“Are you Stephen Tullis?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Steve responded sheepishly.
“It says here that you received a massive injury to your right eye from a BB gun accident at thirteen years of age, is this correct?”
Steve looked down at his hands. “Yes.”
The man looked at him for a moment. Maybe he could see the desire my father had to join his friends. In preparation for this adventure, he had split up his last paycheck among his family knowing he would be off to war for a long time. He had given his car to his younger brother. With courage he allowed his long locks to be cut to join the brave young men. But now it was apparent the bus was gone and he would not be hitching a ride to join up with his buddies.
“Because of this eye injury, you are not eligible to fight. You must call someone to fetch you immediately.”
Walking out of the office a storm of thoughts flooded his mind. His plan to slip through the tests had failed. The accident occurred six years earlier in the woods at the end of the block. When a neighborhood boy missed the target with his shot, the steal-covered BB ricocheted off a rock hitting my Father in the right eye. Covered in blood he ran the two blocks home. Upon opening the door, his mother passed out at the sight of him. Later the doctors retrieved the BB using a high-powered magnet. Miraculously, Steve could see dimly out of his eye, but it wasn’t enough to convince the draft board of his eligibility. Defeated, he stood lofting his enormous bag over his shoulder to head home.
At the table, sipping his coffee, surrounded by his daughter and grandchildren, he shook his head. Recounting the humiliation of going to each of his siblings to ask for his money back, he recalled his annoyance toward his brother for spending four dollars. This was the same brother he had given his car to, so he also asked for the keys to be returned. Soon he would start a job at a factory earning The Big Bucks. In less than a year he bought a fancy Corvette and met my mother. When his friends returned on leave he drove them around, but they weren’t as jolly. He noticed the toll of active duty on their faces.
My father did not go to war, but he is grateful, and so am I.
Freedom came at a cost to every soldier who has stood on the line to fight. Not in charge of the orders given, they fought together for us. Unfortunately, many of them did not return to their homes and families. Today we soberly remember the high cost of freedom. We acknowledge the weighty price. Together countless men and women have labored for our liberty. As a nation, on this hot July night, we celebrate the heroes. Under the canopy of exploding colored fire glittering above us, we remember the busloads of drafted boys heading off to war.
Thank you!
Freedom is not free.
I want to say thank you to all the servicemen and women who have fought for our country. I know you have sacrificed much and I cannot truly repay you for your sacrifice. From my heart, I want to convey my gratitude and respect for you. I pray you feel loved and supported.
God Bless the USA.