Through Sullivan's
Eye
THERE SHOULD'VE BEEN A PIPER
by
J C Sullivan, Ohio, USA
Memorial Day in America, May 30, begins the season of beaches, barbecues and softball. We veterans look back to our service years, remembering different aspects of military life. For some , Memorial Day means remembering someone special in our prayers, perhaps someone who paid the ultimate sacrifice so that we may continue to enjoy life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. On this special day I remember my friend Jim Brock.
Back in '57, as sophomores, we were both newcomer transferees to the halls of Benedictine High School. Other than my grade school friends attending 'Benny', Jim was one of my first new friends there and I was on of his first friends there too. He was first generation Irish-American, his father, James J. Brock, having been born in County Roscommon. After graduation we saw each other on occasion and telephoned to stay in touch. Not long afterwards he enlisted in the Marine Corps and I went into the Army.
During our service years we continued to communicate. His letters followed me to Fort Hood in central Texas, the barren desert of the great Mojave that spanned New Mexico, California and Arizona, to the field outside Kaiserslautern, Germany. My letters were addressed to him at Camp LeJeune, North Carolina, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba and Okinawa. In the Autumn of 1965 his letters bore a new postmark - Vietnam.
Jim was happy that I had somehow missed out on being sent there and had "skated this mess." There was more than just a hint of frustration in the tone of the letters. The enemy was elusive; "you can't tell the cowboys from the indians," he said, a reference to old American movies in which most cowboys we're portrayed as good guys white hats and all indians were bad guys. On December 10 Jim was struck by a Viet Cong rocket while on operations in Que Son. He died instantly - the first Clevelander killed in Vietnam.
Casualties of many wars were buried where they fell or in graves neighboring countries or states. I'd prayed over some in the American Military Cemetery outside Hamm, Luxembourg, Arlington, Gettysburg and Antietam. Jim, however, was brought home where friends gathered at Chambers Funeral Home on Rocky River Drive to comfort his family. Corporal Milton Fredrickson, stationed in San Francisco, accommpanied the casket home. In his marine Dress Blue uniform, he stood ramrod straight next to the flag-draped, closed casket. On his breast was a Purple Heart medal, awarded for wounds he'd received in Vietnam.
December 31, 1965 dawned in typical Cleveland winter fashion - extremely cold with a gusty wind blowing off Lake Erie. After a Requiem Mass at St. Thomas More Church over one hundred cars drove to Calvary Cemetery on the East Side. A Marine firing squad commanded by Staff Sergeant Louis Manter saluted their fallen comrade with a rifle volley that startled most of those present. It was followed by the haunting reverie of taps, from a hidden bugler, then-14 year old James Ginley. Corporal Frederickson presented Corporal Brock's mother with a tri-folded US flag, "on behalf of a grateful country." Clutching the flag, she threw herself over the gray casket and sobbed, "Oh, Jimmy." My heart was wrenched from my chest; I tasted the salt of my own tears.
I've not seen Mrs. Brock since that day. I sometimes think about visiting her but I don't know if I'd know what to say to her. Perhaps I'll finally do it this year; Memorial Day weekend would be a good time. I later heard Jim's younger brother, John, joined the Marine Corps, probably to avenge his brother's death. Surprisingly, he, too, was sent to Vietnam. Knowing of Jim's sacrifice , however, they kept him in Saigon. I'm surprised he got that far.
Some things remain fresh as if they happened yesterday. Today, it's hard for me to believe 31 years will have passed. It still seems like it was very recent. Maybe it's supposed to be that way - to remind us that thirty years isn't a long time after all in the loop that is life.
If you visit America and come to Washington, D.C., stop at
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, known simply as the Wall.
Look on panel 4E6 and visit James Patrick Brock. Say a
prayer for the repose of his souls and the soul of the other
58,131 names listed there. And hate war, not the
warrior.
On that last day of 1965, it was still early in a war
that would eventually claim so many more American lives. I
now realize that most of us were in shock over his death.
However, there should've been a piper.
Sullivan is an internationally-published Irish-American writer residing in Northeastern Ohio. He is an American correspondent for the Mayo News. jcs1@alltel.net
The Nallys of Rockstown in County Mayo, Ireland
