Madam Speaker, I would like to take a moment to reflect upon the events of 25 years ago and to remember the tremendous sacrifice a generation of veterans and their families made for our country at that time. 58,256 names are engraved on…
Madam Speaker, I would like to take a moment to reflect upon the events of 25 years ago and to remember the tremendous sacrifice a generation of veterans and their families made for our country at that time.
58,256 names are engraved on the black granite walls of the Vietnam Memorial Wall here in Washington, DC to honor America's war dead of a generation ago. The stories of these individuals and their families make our hearts ache today and will never be forgotten.
Jo-Ann Moriarty, a reporter from The Republican newspaper in Springfield, MA, compiled a series of stories this Memorial Day about Vietnam veterans from Western Massachusetts that touches upon their experience while serving our country. Their stories are remarkably similar to those being told by the brave men and women serving in Iraq and Afghanistan today. Sharing this history is critically important so that we never forget the serious impact of war.
I would like to submit the first two pieces of Jo-Ann Moriarty's series into the Congressional Record today for others to enjoy, and to thank veterans from Massachusetts and across America for their service to our country.
[From the Republican, May 27, 2007]
Raw Emotions Surface at Vietnam Memorial
(By Jo-Ann Moriarty)
At each end of the Vietnam Memorial Wall, the black granite
rises only 8 inches above the earth--ankle high.
But, with each step forward, visitors find themselves
sinking deeper and deeper into a well of names--tens of
thousands of names of America's young men--engraved on a
stone wall that, at its center, towers 10 feet.
For many veterans of the Vietnam War, it feels as if they
are descending into an abyss. It can be suffocating.
All those names etched into the wall take one's breath
away. They find themselves drowning in memories and images of
buddies and brothers they loved and lost.
Marine Corps Capt. Daniel M. Walsh III, now the director of
veteran affairs for the city of Springfield, had his
sergeant, Leonard A. Hultquist, die in his arms during combat
just moments before he, himself, was struck by a bullet.
Under fire, Army Cpl. Heriberto Flores, who is today the
head of the New England Farm Workers Council in Springfield,
was a door gunner aboard a UH-1 Huey helicopter when he saw
his friend from Springfield, Army Spc. Paul E. Bonnette, hit
by enemy fire. He was 21.
This marks the 25th anniversary year of ``the wall,'' a
long, thin line of black granite that stretches 246.9 feet
along the National Mall. Nestled into the landscape below the
lofty monuments that honor George Washington and Abraham
Lincoln, it is the nation's memorial to its war dead in
Vietnam.
It was designed by Maya Lin, an Asian-American, at the age
of 21 while she was still an undergraduate at Yale
University.
It bears 58,256 names.
It took a decade after its building before Walsh, Flores or
Springfield attorney Frederick A. Hurst could make their
visits. Hurst's youngest brother, Army Spc. Ronald C. Hurst,
was killed April 12, 1967, when the Jeep he was driving
struck a landmine in Vietnam.
``It was emotional,'' said Flores, who ultimately first
visited the monument with his wife, Grace.
Hurst stenciled his brother's name during his visit. ``It
was tough,'' he recalled recently.
Walsh only went because he was engineered there by three of
his young sons, one of whom became a Marine and all of whom
wanted to know their father's history.
``I never had any intention of going to see it,'' Walsh
said. ``We lost a lot of people. A lot of people were hurt. A
lot of bad things happened.''
The wall holds the names of guys with whom Walsh shared
foxholes and who were friends from Holy Name School--like
Army Sgt. Walter ``Buddy'' J. Fitzpatrick, of Springfield,
killed in combat in South Vietnam on March 3, 1967, and Army
Lt. Bernard J. Lovett Jr., also of Springfield, whose tour of
duty in Vietnam began on July 22, 1970 and ended when he was
killed in action on Oct. 16, 1970 in Hua Nghia.
Walsh knew and admired another Springfield friend, Marine
Capt. Ralph E. Hines, who was killed in combat on Feb. 19,
1967. He was 28.
Oddly, when Walsh finally made it to the wall, he found the
unexpected.
``It was peaceful,'' Walsh said. ``The memories kept
flowing back, a lot were good, with the troops.''
In Vietnam, Flores saw duty aboard Huey helicopters,
dropping infantrymen in the field in the morning and
collecting them in the afternoon. He would notice fresh faces
among the troops and pray they would make it back on the
helicopter by the end of the day. Some were waiting in body
bags.
To Flores, the wall is validation.
``I think it is closing the circle,'' Flores said.
``Certain lessons we've learned. The nation has honored us.
For so many years, we were losers. And now, people realize we
were soldiers.''
Those soldiers were in a no-win situation as Vietnam
devolved into a civil war where the enemy and the innocent
were hard to distinguish. Army infantrymen and Marines snaked
through the jungles, going from hilltop to hilltop, moving
constantly while the Navy patrolled seemingly endless rivers
and the Air Force and Army flight crews performed missions
from above. Vietnam was a place of guerilla warfare and
underground tunnels, where everyone--man, woman or child--
could be the enemy, or not.
There was the My Lai massacre, in which American soldiers
killed hundreds of innocents, and back home anti-war
protestors chanted outside of President Lyndon B. Johnson's
White House, ``Hey, hey LBJ, how many kids did you kill
today.''
``Anyone there was a loser,'' said Westfield native
Benjamin Sadowski Jr., the son of a survivor of the famed
World War II Battle of the Bulge, who survived his own combat
tour in Vietnam.
Up north in the tiny Franklin County town of Shelburne
Falls, which had a population of about 2,600 at the time,
families grieved the loss of four of their sons in Vietnam.
Altogether, from the four counties of Western
Massachusetts, the Vietnam War claimed 200 casualties, 50 in
the city of Springfield alone.
``Two of my best buddies, plus my brother,'' said John E.
``Jack'' Palmeri, whose brother James E. ``Jimmy'' Palmeri
died 11 days after being hit by mortar fire on Feb. 26, 1967.
He was 20.
Jack Palmeri, who enlisted in the Army and was sent to
Germany, had advised his younger brother to do the same.
``But Jimmy said, `I can't stand the military for three
years. I'll take my chances.' ''
While others shed their uniforms when returning home from
services, Jack Palmeri wore his home in honor of his brother
and his friends, Army Spc. Ronald E. Wissman, killed at age
20 in action on May 21, 1967, and Marine Capt. Paul T.
Looney, a helicopter pilot shot down on May 10, 1967.
For those who returned home, he said, ``We were not
welcomed. The country was divided and Vietnam divided it.''
In those days, there was sometimes no distinction between
the hatred of the Vietnam War and the U.S. troops who fought
there.
The nation was torn apart by race riots. Anti-war
protesting students were caught up in the homefront violence
seen in the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and
Robert F. Kennedy in 1968.
Kennedy, running a presidential campaign on the promise of
getting out of Vietnam, was shot dead in June. Months after
his killing, the 1968 Democratic Convention in Chicago was
engulfed in violence in the streets--the Chicago cops beating
the long-haired protesters who had gathered to demonstrate
against the war in Vietnam.
There were the killings of four students at Kent State
University as they protested the U.S. invasion of Cambodia in
1970, shot dead by Ohio National Guardsmen.
There was Vietnam veteran and future U.S. senator John F.
Kerry in 1971 in combat fatigues testifying against the war
before the Senate Foreign Relations committee.
And, the U.S. troops, fighting in a divided country half-
way round the world, wound up returning home to another
divided country.
It was a time of tumult and change, verging, at times on
chaos.
Rock star Jimi Hendrix sang to the rage, pain, passion and
confusion of the nation's youth: ``Purple haze all in my
brain. Lately things just don't seem the same.''
In Vietnam, New York banker Henry ``Hank'' Trickey was a
sergeant in ``Alpha'' Company of the Army's 101st Airborne
Division and was steps behind Springfield native Spc. Peter
F. Nolan when Nolan was hit by ambush fire, dead on May 8,
1970, at the age of 21.
``There was no front line,'' Trickey recalled recently.
``Constant movement. You never knew what was in front of you.
You never knew if you would make it through the day.''
Flores flew infantrymen in and out of battle zones every
day. Sometimes the drop was
bad--sending the soldiers off to a set-up by the enemy.
Sometimes, the helicopters were under intense fire, and one
would go down or an American B-52 bomber would appear and
drop napalm.
``It was organized insanity,'' Flores said. ``People you
are defending are shooting at you.''
A lot of the guys, like Flores, were high school drop-outs.
But blacks, whites and Latinos discovered among the rag-tag,
chain-smoking, beer-drinking fearless ranks a brotherhood
free from racism and filled with pure faith, courage and
valor.
``When we see each other, we say, `I love you, brother,'
and we really mean that,'' Flores said. ``I was proud to be
there. We did not choose the war; they sent us.''
The wall which memorializes the dead from a war that once
divided the nation has become a source of comfort, a place
for mending.
``It is a healing thing,'' Palmeri said.
Hurst, who views his brother's death as a waste of a life
that had so much promise, said he has found a peace at the
monument.
``My personal comfort came from the reaction the country
had to the wall,'' Hurst said. ``The wall brought a
resolution to the whole Vietnam thing.''
Oklahoma resident Tommy Kellogg was steps behind
Springfield teenager Army Pfc. James A. Messer when Messer
was caught in an ambush.
Messer, 18, a parachuter, had been recently recruited from
B Company of the 1st 327 Infantry Battalion of the 101st
Airborne to join Tiger Force. It was a fierce band of 45
soldiers on a new assignment with loose orders concerning
search and destroy missions in the jungle.
Kellogg has not seen the wall. Nor has Hank Trickey.
James Austreng, of Wisconsin, also hasn't been able to make
a visit to the wall. Yet, after all these years, he still
holds the memory of a 21-year-old from Westfield, James D.
Zebert.
It was Zebert who provided cover for his squad--including
Austreng--only to be shot dead minutes later in Tay Ninh,
South Vietnam, on June 27, 1979. His tour had begun just 18
days earlier.
The Army private who served under Capt. Steven J. Popkin,
of Springfield, still can visualize the Mohawk helicopter
pilot wearing his hat slightly askew.
``Capt. Popkin was one of the nicest guys all around. He
was a damn fine aviator,'' said Bruce Gaylord, who grew up in
Michigan. ``He didn't lord his rank over anyone. He would
never make a joke about someone else. He had a rich sense of
humor and a wonderful laugh.''
``He was a good officer, the kind of guy you would follow
into hell,'' Gaylord said.
But not to the nation's capital.
``I could never bring myself to it,'' Gaylord said.
[From the Republican, May 28, 2007]
Vietnam Green Beret Made Chicopee Proud
(By Jo-Ann Moriarty)
What can you say about a 24-year-old man whose name is
among 58,256 on the Vietnam War Memorial?
That he was the platoon leader in Bravo Company.
That every day he assigned someone from the squad to watch
over ``Mouse.''
That he and his grunts, strapped with M-16s, trailed a
jungle maze for weeks and fought for their lives as the young
lieutenant tried to pick their battles.
Mark C. Rivest, of Chicopee, was an officer and gentleman.
He was one of the famed ``Green Berets'' in the Army's
Special Forces, and he completed two tours in Vietnam as the
leader of a platoon which, for the most part, was composed
draftees, many of whom were high-school dropouts.
A couple of guys in the band of 30 men should probably have
never been in the Army, let alone assigned into the deadly
terrain around Hue, a battle-scarred city just below the
North Vietnam border.
``He is a very hard person to forget,'' recalled Manhattan
businessman Anthony Loiero, who turned 21 in Vietnam and
served under Rivest between 1969 and 1970.
``One of the things I remember the most about him was that
he tried to keep us out of trouble,'' Loiero said. And, when
they went in for the fight, ``he would make sure that we were
all protected. He was concerned about the guys he was
responsible for. The jobs we were doing, he wanted to make
sure we were there to do them the next day.''
The year before Rivest and most of his men arrived in
country, the Tet Offensive in 1968 ramped up the carnage and
particularly bloody was the battle for Hue.
When Communist forces seized the city, they held the city
for 25 days ``committing ghastly atrocities during the
initial phase of their occupation,'' wrote Stanley Karnow in
his Pulitzer Prize-winning book: ``Vietnam. A History.''
Back home, America was violent, too. Robert F. Kennedy and
Martin Luther King Jr. were assassinated within months of
each other. America was at war with itself. That summer,
anti-war protesters were beaten by Chicago police as they
stormed the Democratic Convention.
By 1969, when Rivest, who left behind his parents, Paul and
Catherine, two brothers and a sister in the Aldenville
section of Chicopee, and Loiero, an only child, who grew up
in the Italian enclave of West New York, N.J., where he still
lives, got to Vietnam, the death toll of American soldiers
and civilians--both in the North and South--was staggering.
Before they met, Rivest had completed a six-month tour as
platoon leader and, instead of alternating to the rear, ``he
transferred into the field again at his request,'' Loiero
said.
Rivest earned the confidence of the soldiers in his new
platoon almost immediately. Even-tempered, without bluster,
he was approachable and ruled by a shot from his dark eyes.
He was college educated. He smoked Chesterfields, played
the piano and had something about him that Loiero still
associates with Louis Armstrong's song, ``What a Wonderful
World.''
It took Loiero 13 years before he went to ``the wall'' in
Washington, D.C., to take in the full measure of the Vietnam
War's toll and tragedy, his delay mostly attributable to
seeing the actual engraving of his platoon leader's name.
Now, middle-aged, Rivest's covenant to keep the men in his
platoon safe with his good judgment and keen skills is even
more precious to Loiero who came home, got a college degree,
has a successful graphic arts business and is happily married
with two children.
``We were a rag-tag bunch of good guys living every day
hoping that every one of us would live to go home that day.''
Loiero said, adding that he still thinks ``about the way he
treated us. How he protected us. How his main objective was
to watch his gaggle of geese and to make sure we did the
right thing.''
``If we were in harm's way, he would be the first one out
there clearing the path,'' he added.
Rivest made his platoon a band of brothers. And, he did it
in many ways, Loiero said.
There were, for instance, specific orders that someone in
the squad watch over a guy nicknamed ``Mouse,'' and a couple
of other grunts, who Loiero said, ``should never have been in
the Army. Should never had been sent to Vietnam. And never
should have been in the infantry with the rest of us.''
Rivest instilled a discipline for constant movement.
The checklist was drilled into his men: Rifles cleaned.
Gear together. Who's got the gun flares. Teeth brushed. Boots
tied up. Who's watching ``Mouse'' today? Who's sleeping
first.
``Then you'd start all over,'' Loiero said. ``You make a
commitment to the guys next to you and they make it to you.
It is a brotherhood.''
After their tour ended, Loiero went home. And Rivest, from
what Loiero has been able to piece together, returned to
Special Forces duty. The next assignment he accepted took him
into Laos where he was killed in ground combat on June 4,
1970.
These days, Palmer resident Josh R. Morin, who once lived
across from the Rivest home on McKinstry Avenue in Chicopee,
carries the green beret of his boyhood friend to schools in
Western Massachusetts as he talks to students about U.S.
history and the Vietnam War.
As boys, they played Army together with their younger
brothers.
Morin had been to Vietnam and back before Rivest went, and
he warned his buddy against going because the terrain had
gotten so dangerous. Morin's combat buddy had been shot dead
inches from him.
When Rivest was killed, Morin, married at the time but
living on the same street, said he couldn't go to the
funeral.
``I couldn't go to his funeral and face his mother and
father, the idea that I made it and he hadn't. I couldn't
deal with it and now I regret that,'' Morin said. ``I never
saw them again.''
Someone in the family later entrusted Morin with Rivest's
green beret and his medals.