By Susan DeVaney
In this season of appreciation for the patriotism and sacrifice of our troops, there are many stories told of war and service, some dramatic, others less so. In World War II my husband’s father, Lt. John Kaczmarek, flew bombers over Germany. One day, poised to unfurl a load of missiles, he received a message. The war was over; his orders were to return to base. For the rest of his life Kaczmarek wondered how many lives were saved by that single communiqué. In the same war, Dr. Hugh Hill examined and pulled Hugh Morton from a line of doughboys awaiting amputation of a limb, thus saving Morton’s badly wounded arm from the knife.
It’s not easy to summarize the experiences of the many veterans now living ordinary lives as members of First Presbyterian Church. Their historical circumstances, reasons for entering service, training, work, memories, attitudes, and insights are as different as one human from another.
Ford Little, once a staff sergeant and tank commander, now resides at Well-Spring, but in 1943 he had arrived in England carrying the pocket Bible given him by Dr. Charles Myers, minister of First Presbyterian. In the aftermath of D-Day, Little’s brigade entered heavy fighting whereupon he found himself lying in a Rouen hospital with a wounded leg. As soon as he could walk, he left and on his own and thumbed across France in search of his unit. He caught up with them in Germany where he saw heavy battle and ultimately earned a sheaf of medals for meritorious achievement in the European-African-and Middle Eastern theatre of operations.
On May 6, 1945, at the very end of the war, the16th Armored Division of Patton’s Third Army liberated the Czech city of Pilsen from the Germans. It was Ford’s proudest moment as his tanks paraded through the streets with happy citizens waving and shouting in celebration. Fifty years later, on the anniversary of D-Day he returned to Pilsen to participate in another liberation celebration, this one held for an entire week, in appreciation of the Americans’ courage and sacrifice.
For Steve Joyce, experience in the armed forces was more mundane. As a Mayodan boy growing up in desperate circumstances, Steve won a basketball scholarship to Oak Ridge College, now Oak Ridge Military Institute. In 1954, after two years, he enlisted and trained at Fort Jackson as a radio operator.
Torn from the only region he had ever known, Steve lost 13 pounds in the 13 days it took his ship to reach Yokohama. In Japan he began learning the language, admired the lush beauty of the mountains, and traveled awestruck through the devastation of Hiroshima. Within six months he had shipped to Seoul, South Korea, with the 315th Signal Corps where each day he kept in radio contact with American bases poised to prevent the North from invasion.
Officially, the Korean War was over, but tensions, especially near the DMZ, were high, and devastation swathed the countryside. The roads were rivers of potholes. The populace lived in shacks with little thought of rebuilding their villages. Troops lived in Quonset huts, each holding 20 men, some of which were Korean. Steve found these soldiers appreciative of American assistance and, despite language and cultural differences, came away with the understanding that people are pretty much the same everywhere.
It would be several more years before Steve grew to become a spiritual man. At the time he found it easier to sleep than to attend chapel. Eating and reading voraciously, he waited long stretches by the radio. Fortunately, Steve saw no armed action. In his only close call, a group of 100 Korean demonstrators tried to enter a base where Steve and six others had temporarily moved radio equipment. The Koreans charged the hill, but the corporal in charge met them and talked them down. Steve remembers the awe he felt at this man’s bravery.
In 1966, in the throes of the Vietnam conflict, Tom Hamlin saw the writing on the wall. Wanting to escape the draft, he enlisted in the Army where he first became a clerk-typist, then entered Artillery Candidate School. His first assignment took him to Germany, where he and his buddies stayed in Dachau, the notorious prison camp, in the sleeping quarters once reserved for German soldiers.
A year later, Hamlin found himself stationed near the Air Force base in Tuy Hoa, Vietnam, close to beautiful but dangerous beaches, strung with barbed wire. As a first lieutenant in the Sixth Battalion 32nd Artillery Unit, he served as the battalion ammunition officer, resupplying the three outlying batteries protecting the base. During the monsoon season helicopters flew in the ammo. At other times they used the single passable road, known as U.S. 1—actually a glorified cart path—to truck in anti-aircraft guns, 40mm Dusters and Quad 50s firing shells distances between seven and 15 miles, leaving holes eight feet wide and 12 feet deep. Sometimes they moved and shot the guns simply for scare effect; it was important to let the Cong know the Americans were on their toes.
Forward Observers (F.O.s) would call for firing missions when they observed the Viet Cong coming. At times when the enemy was upon them, their radio voices were barely above a whisper. It was a tense time. The enemy might be in the next bush or as near as the cleaning woman gathering information to pass to the VC.
On the home front war anti-war protests raged, but Hamlin understood that he had a job to do for his country. Although several conscientious objectors worked in the unit (without benefit of arms), the others considered them cowards. Nevertheless, living in a combat zone drew the men into supportive personal relationships. Boys stationed half way around the world missed their families and sweethearts, their familiar surroundings, iced tea and Saturday night football. Care packages from Tom’s home church – First Presbyterian in Durham – took the edge off, but although the Army provided first-rate food and books, Thanksgiving and Christmas were lonely times.
Going home was not always easy either. In Seattle, a group of hippies accosted Hamlin in the airport and spat in his face. The anger, hurt, and confusion of that incident stuck with him. Years later, on a family trip to Washington, upon reaching the Vietnam Memorial he dropped to his knees and cried like a baby. Today whenever he sees military in an airport or on the street, he makes a point to thank them for their service.
In retrospect, all the men mentioned here believe their military service brought them maturity, confidence, and understanding of America’s place in the world. As Tom Hamlin iterated, “A lot of people who haven’t served don’t get the Pledge of Allegiance.”
And so it goes. Generation upon generation living with new conflicts, different wars, but also with renewed hopes of peace. To prove the point, in Ford Little’s room hangs a framed letter from his father, dated December 25, 1941, when Ford was a freshman at Davidson.
To my eldest son,
For you and your generation hard days approach. From me and my generation you have a poor heritage, but I believe you fellows can take it and work something out of it.
