Memorial Day

Memorial Day is a day to remember those who gave the ultimate sacrifice to this country. However, as a daughter of a Vietnam Veteran who left his legs behind in a country so far away, I have always viewed Memorial Day as a day to reflect on not only those who gave their entire lives to whatever cause they were fighting for, but those who returned less than whole — physically and emotionally.

The following story is one I wrote for my dad last year in honor of the California Vietnam Veterans Memorial 20th Anniversary event held in Sacramento. Although you may or may not agree with what particular cause we fight for today, always remember the young soldiers who fight for the cause — remember to thank them for their service — and sometimes their ultimate sacrifice.

My Dad -- My Hero

“…metal crutches that sounded like a handful of loose change in a pocket…”

I often wonder what went through his 19-year-old mind in the jungles of Vietnam.

The tiniest of sounds, down to the smallest leaf hitting the moist earth must have sounded like a brick through a window. And the enemy — my god, the thought of that still makes me shudder. Not the enemy itself (although Dad surely thought differently), but never knowing where he lurked — or what he left behind. It was — and still is — more terrifying than any nightmare I could possibly conjure in my head.

And my Dad actually lived — and survived — to tell his tale.

Dad volunteered for the Marine Corps shortly after his eighteenth birthday. Coming from an Irish Catholic family with eight brothers and sisters, I’m sure he was not only filled with piss and vinegar, but ready to explore his next proverbial chapter — one that he didn’t have to share or compete with his siblings — one that was his and his alone.

Careful what you wish for.

His Uncle Jack — my great uncle — had been a marine during World War II. He died during battle, earning a Purple Heart. Dad was always so proud of the uncle he never had the chance to meet, so when the time came for him to volunteer his service to the United States, he became a part of the few and the proud.

In fact, each one of Dad’s brothers and sisters who were of age served during Vietnam, representing four branches of service — Marine Corps, Army, Navy and Air Force — each one determined to give back to a country who had been pretty damn good to them.

After boot camp, Dad flew to Vietnam and was stationed at Quang Tri — just miles away from the DMZ. He was assigned to the Magnificent Bastards, and for the next six months, he learned to patrol, to fight and to dig foxholes — he learned how to survive.

And while people back in the states prepared for the traditional Thanksgiving apple pie, my dad ate peaches out of a can. People gave thanks for the bountiful feasts they were about to receive — my dad gave thanks to be alive.

Maybe it’s because I’m his daughter, but Dad has always been quiet about his experiences in Vietnam. So, I’m not quite sure exactly what happened November 21, 1967. What I do know is he was hit — a grenade or mortar —  he never found out which one it was. But I guess it really doesn’t matter.

When blown to bits, metal is metal — becoming thousands of miniature daggers — callously piercing and tearing through flesh and veins leaving behind with it remnants of what once was — unrecognizable faces, gaping holes and gashes, and severed stumps.

Dad was left with stumps.

And although I became very familiar with the correct term for this destructive metal — “shrapnel” — as a child it meant nothing more to me than long hospital stays, multiple surgeries and agonizing pain. This, after all, was the stuff that ripped Dad’s legs apart.

But through all of this — surgery after surgery and hospital stays, going from a BK single-amputee to an AK double-amputee, the recovery, the pain — everything stayed surprisingly normal. Mom insisted my brother and I would not be affected by this, and while she managed this task beautifully, she also ensured Dad’s spirit remained intact.

And most of the time, Mom’s magic worked. Despite his injuries, despite his prosthetic leg and metal crutches that sounded like a handful of loose change in a pocket when  he walked (which actually served as a very effective warning system for my brother and I on the occasions we might have been doing something we shouldn’t — the wheelchair proved a bit more covert), he was first and foremost my Dad — and a great one at that.

He could — and continues to — accomplish any task handed to him, meeting — and in many cases exceeding — what a “whole” man could do. We went camping, he built elaborate toys for my brother and I, he even did our school projects — intending just to help, but then wanting them perfect, turning a normal display of an atom into a work of art worthy of the Smithsonian.

And as far back as I can remember, my dad has been my hero — I wanted everyone to know. As a child, he was like my permanent show-and-tell piece. Other kids brought collectible stamps or coins to school — I brought my dad.

He instilled in me (and probably several classrooms full of children throughout the years) from a very young age the sacrifice it often takes to live in America. Not with words — but with wounds. And as strange as it sounds, his wounds conveyed more eloquence — and respect — than any hundred-dollar speech I’ve ever heard.

To this day, I continue to try to emulate Dad. Being a double-amputee, the irony does not escape me when I say I hope to become half of what he is. But to me, he stands taller than any seven-foot man with legs ever could, and I find myself standing taller when I walk beside him — his presence alone challenges me to be a better person.

Jim Moore is made of many things — courage, strength, intelligence, humor, determination, kindness and love. He has carried many titles — Marine, Vietnam Veteran, Purple Heart recipient, BK single-amputee, AK double-amputee and chief of prosthetics. He wears many hats — son, brother, husband, father, grandfather and friend.

To me, however, he will always be my hero.

So what does the California Vietnam Veterans Memorial mean to me? It represents everything my Dad fought for. It represents sacrifice, loss, fear and sadness. It means freedom, pride, love of country and heroism. It shows determination, survival, friendship and devotion.

But most important, it serves as a reminder of how incredibly fortunate I am. Many sons and daughter robbed of their fathers trace theirs fingers over a name on a cold wall and whisper, “I love you” — waiting for a response that never comes. That’s all they have.

I was given a great gift — to hear my dad tell me “I love you,” and “I’m proud of you” a thousand times throughout my life — those are the little things people tend to take for granted. Ask a son or daughter left with nothing but a name on a wall what they take for granted. I’m pretty sure what the answer will be.

Thanks, Dad — for more than you’ll ever know.