Remembering a Hero by Matthew Michael Troy (best classic novels TXT) 📖

Remembering a Hero


I was born in a foreign land, four thousand miles due east of the city of New York, across the vast span and the rolling waves of the salty Atlantic Ocean. I remember tasting the gentle spray of the gigantic waves that splashed over the bow of the S.S. Washington, a trans-Atlantic ship. This, at age eleven, was my first big adventure, sailing from the Port of Cobh on the southern shores of Ireland heading westerly toward the city of New York and Ellis Island. We were heading for America and would arrive in six days.

The countryside of my homeland was rich with lush fields of green grass, clover, and the three-leaf shamrock. The purple tint of heather grew wildly throughout the mountains of Wicklow and Howth. As a student at Saint Finbar’s parochial school, the no-nonsense Holy Cross priests used the shamrock as they explained the Trinity, representing the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost.

Dublin, Ireland was my place of birth. Like many others in America, I celebrate my heritage each year on March 17, St. Patrick's Day. Ireland is my birthplace, my heritage, but the United States of America is my home, and most importantly, my country.

My Irish family arrived at Ellis Island on Dec. 19, 1949 as I caught a brief glimpse of the Statue of Liberty standing there proudly holding her beacon symbolizing freedom and welcoming all legal aliens to her shores. From there, we took a two-day ride aboard a Greyhound bus to our destination, the Scholl Farms,
in La Porte County, Indiana. Dr. William Scholl, the inventor of the Scholl specialized footpad, was the gracious gentleman who sponsored our family coming to America.

The trip was highly memorable for me as a young lad. I remember staying awake that first night with my face pressed against the cold glass devouring everything that my eyes could see as the bus moved through the night. The roads were filled with fresh snow, and the multi-colored Christmas lights were everywhere.

Mom died in 1952 from cancer less than two years after we arrived and Dad was faced with a tough decision; return to Ireland with his brood, four daughters and myself, or stay in America. He worked a minimum of two jobs the rest of his life to fulfill his and my mother's dream of bringing the family to the U.S.A. I was my mother's only son, and spoiled at that. I was 13 years old when she passed and had considerable difficulty dealing with the loss. For years after her death, I rebelled against my life without her.

I joined the Marine Corps in December 1955, shortly after turning 17. A special waiver had to be granted and signed by the commandant of the Marine Corps, which allowed me to join as an alien, a citizen of Ireland. I recall being asked by my drill instructor, “If America were at war with Ireland, which side would I fight for?” I became a helicopter mechanic in the air wing division and later served as a rifle range coach and instructor at Cherry Point, N.C. I was discharged from active duty in 1960 and my obligatory time was fulfilled by 1963.

In 1964 I became a citizen of this great country. The swearing in ceremony was held at the Federal District Courthouse in South Bend, Indiana. Former citizens from Japan, England, Korea, Russia, and Ireland were sworn on that day. We answered questions about the Constitution and its many Amendments. We recited the pledge of allegiance and sang the national anthem. It was one of the happiest days of my life!

While I was Christmas shopping in 1967, I ran into an old school pal, Army Master Sgt. Charles W. Lindewald. He was home on Christmas leave and was soon departing for his fifth tour of duty in Vietnam. We spent hours together that evening discussing the memories of our youth. I showed him my scarred knuckles from being rapped on the hand with a ruler by Sister Ramona in the eighth grade at Saint Peters School. He showed me his elongated earlobe from being pulled from the classroom by the same teacher for being an imp. We toasted a Merry Christmas, a long life, good health, and to our childhood memories. Charlie returned to Vietnam and was killed three weeks later by mortar fire and reported as missing-in-action for the next thirty-five years.

In November 2003, Charlie's remains were found in a caved-in-bunker near Lang Vei in Vietnam, along with his photo ID card and dentures with his name engraved. A memorial service was held in a small church in La Porte, Indiana. The brotherly love, respect, and admiration for this 29-year-old Green Beret Special Forces hero was thick in the aura present that day. In February 2005, a funeral was
held at Arlington National Cemetery, where his remains found their final resting place. Master Sgt. Charles Wesley Lindewald, Jr. received three Purple Hearts, a Silver Star, and a Bronze Star. He was my childhood friend and a hero.

I viewed the traveling Vietnam Memorial Wall when it came to La Porte County in 2003. Charlie's name was not there, as he was still listed as MIA. I won an essay contest sponsored by The Wall Gang and won a trip to visit The Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C. This was a great opportunity for me to connect once again with Charlie, his memory, heroism, and legacy, a man who definitely gave all for his country.

The trip began at the V.F.W. in Michigan City, Indiana with a police escort leading over two hundred veterans on motorcycles. My wife and I brought up the rear with the chase vehicles, trailers, etc. Our first stop was the Indiana Soldier’s Home established in 1896 on a scenic 187 acres that overlooks the Wabash River in Lafayette, Indiana. We joined the veterans that reside there. Under a large picnic shelter, we had lunch and took the occasion to thank each veteran for their service during WWII, Korea, Vietnam and Dessert Storm.

My wife and I sat with former army sergeant Ted Bueller. He was 82 years old and had piercing blue Paul Newman eyes and a toothless smile that made him endearing to both of us.
“Are you a brother?” Ted asked.
“Yes Ted,” I answered. “I served in the U.S.M.C. from 1955 to 1963”.
I asked Ted, “How many veterans reside here at the Soldiers Home?”
“About three hundred,” he responded. “But there were four hundred this time a year ago.”
“What happened?” I teased. “Did they all move away?”
With a straight face, he answered, “No silly, they died. We have our own cemetery here ya- know.”

Lunch was over and the distinctive sound of the Harley engines roared, telling all that it was time to go. Many of the veterans saluted as we eased down the driveway. My wife and I agreed to visit my fellow brother, Ted, again soon.

The next five days took us to several high schools where the students greeted us waving small American flags. We presented POW/MIA flags to many principals. Flag raising ceremonies took place, in which the students stood at attention with their hands across their hearts. We visited several V.A. hospitals along the way where our chaplain led prayer services along the veteran’s bedsides.

Over the Memorial weekend my wife sat on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and watched a four-hour parade of over 800,000 motorcycles carrying the American flag and the MIA-POW flag riding through the capital city in a peaceful protest in support of veteran’s care.

President George W. Bush met with the leaders of the march known as “Rolling Thunder” after a mission of the same name in Vietnam.
“I just arrived here on my chopper,” the President joked as he referred to his helicopter. He was presented with a black leather motorcycle jacket with the “Rolling Thunder” patch on the back.

At the wall there were hundreds of grieving wives, mothers, sisters, brothers, fathers, and sons searching out the location of there loved ones. Several park rangers helped us with the master directory of over 51,000 names. It was a solemn time with emotions that climbed and fell as rapidly as a roller coaster ride. My emotions surged the moment I found Charlie’s name on the wall. I made two pencil rubbings of his name, framed both and presented one to Charlie’s sister upon my return.

The two-foot of grass in front the wall reminded me of the grass I had left behind in Ireland some fifty-nine years ago. It was thicker, plusher and greener than the rest of the grass surrounding the wall. I eventually determined that the grass in front of the wall was greener from being watered more often from the tears of all those that have visited the wall.

Semper Fi!
Matthew M. Troy

Publication Date: 12-27-2009

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