By Ed Lowery

Births, deaths, weddings and reunions mark the clock of life, and we seem to need them just to see where we are. But reunions celebrate the other family with improvised ritual, or none at all. There, Joy and Sadness jostle each other like gassed miners trying to catch the last car out. And you gladly let them.

Basic School Class 7-68 had gathered for the second time in three years. I had missed the first one; this time I could not be kept away. Then it was over. And in an emotional state I didn’t understand, I followed the grey ribbon back home to Las Vegas, San Diego fading from sight while it clung stubbornly to the bumper of my consciousness.

I had wondered how I would feel at the gathering, and would those feelings tell me what to say. I was not used to wearing my emotions. Would I show the right amount of empathy at the right moment? Would the telling of a story be delivered with such stoicism that I would fail to grasp its impact? After all, these are some of the toughest guys I have ever known. I suspected it would be just as difficult for them to express their feelings. But we did it anyway. We’re just not good at it.

The sun set in a graying sky, and the sparkling points of light on Mission Bay yielded to a darkness broken by the yellow beams of passing craft and the light of dwellings on an unseen shore. Nervously, I walked to the hotel patio and saw a crowd of guys with name tags who seemed about my age. They didn’t look familiar, but their demeanor did. It was all I needed. I pressed into their ranks.
Then the clock lost all meaning.

Names flew about, yells of recognition echoed across the space, and I was suddenly back in the fold of something I had thought could never be again. The stories rolled, blanks were filled in, forgotten moments came back to life, and laughter rose and waned around tales of humor and heartbreak. The word reunion meant something.

William Stanley Smoyer, July 28, 1968.

Las Vegas hadn’t changed over the weekend, but it seemed different. For the moment it was less where I lived than the terminal of a journey. I went into work that Monday with the aftertaste of images and feelings I could not express, but bursting to do so, like a desperate tourist who can’t say bathroom in the local language. I tried to reduce the distance from my work, but I could still see the graduation ceremony at MCRD, where we were honored guests. Thirty-eight years before, I, too, had marched out in front of the same stand, and now it was my turn to see it from the other side. And when 475 pairs of boots came together in one resounding thump, it all made sense. Then came the marching, the Hymn, the martial call to duty. Oneness was the sound. Oneness was the tradition. Oneness was what united us all in a long, unbroken legacy. It was as if a cosmic D.I. had reached down and slapped the realization into me. The cool grey sky and the chilly breeze, I was thinking, gave me goose bumps. Or maybe not.

Wayne William Gross, August 19, 1968.

The phone rang. “Joint Air And Space Tactics Center. Ed Lowery speaking.”

“This is Mr. Johnson, Nick’s teacher. I need to talk to you about your son…”

If anything could jar me out of a preoccupation, it would be trouble with my children. My youngest, it seemed, was sitting idle in class, not doing his schoolwork, failing to complete assignments, and hiding his homework. My emotion gauge already on empty. How was I to deal with this? His ability to excel was just a decision away, but somehow it wasn’t there. Something told me anger wouldn’t work. Maybe there was a better way.

William Edward Wark III, September 11, 1968.

At the yacht club, we dined and drank with a warmth and camaraderie that defied the coolness of the evening. The words we said to each other were gifts no one can buy, and the meal, I decided, as good as it was, could not match the occasion. The conversation flowed, and the lives we had chosen since, were of every sort, and yet we were all united by this one thing, and however we do what we do, for the rest of our lives, it will have an element of the Corps. Mood and experience, I was reminded, is not always a private affair.
Thomas John Evans, November 7, 1968.

The sun was retiring over Mt. Charleston when I left the building for home. I was not to have the luxury of being silent beyond my car (the modern man’s thinking room). It was a busy room this night, too. I would have to choose a course of action by the time I got home. I drove on with thoughts of the reunion and what to do about my son competing for my attention…or were they?
James Tucker Stovall, November 11, 1968.

On Sunday morning, we had gathered for a farewell in the hotel meeting room. Lynn Whittles, now a minister living on the Oregon coast, delivered his words on the passing of our comrades and what it means. My heart sank with the calling out of every name, and then he pulled out a key of sorts, a word that put it all in the light. He spoke of sacrifice and how a savior is someone willing to sacrifice himself for something true and good. He reminded us that we had all sacrificed something, and some had given their last breath. I don’t think anything ever touched me like that, and I left possessed by something that can only be called a spirit. Perhaps I am better for it. I don’t know.

John Biglow Moore, December 12, 1968.

The evening settled in with the gathering shadows, and I stalked the kitchen, looking for the right moment to confront my young son. At the table, he sat busily working on something that looked like homework and glancing at me like a Down East lobster man at an approaching gale. He didn’t know what I was going to do. But I did.

Larry Monroe Beck, January 1, 1969.

“Hey, bud. Let’s go in the living room. We need to talk.”

I gave him space, his own sofa, while I took another for myself, and gathered the words I hoped would guide him to the right conclusion. He looked at me in a way that said he knew this was serious. That made it a little easier. Same wavelength and all.
Lawrence P. O’Toole, February 2, 1969.

I hesitated, tried to draw the right words. Then Lin Whittle’s message came flooding back to me.

“I talked to your teacher today. He says you’re not doing your schoolwork, and you know what I mean.”

His face flushed.

“What I’m trying to tell is that school and everything else is about sacrifice.”

Nick looked at me with as furrowed a brow as a ten year-old can.

Richard Lane Cotter, February 10. 1969.

“Those guys I just spent the weekend with have worked hard and given life everything they have. They’re very successful guys. They’re judges, lawyers, manufacturers, developers, architects, and all sorts of professions. But they all share a common trait. They give it their all. My…our friends who died in Vietnam and after were just like you once upon a time. They had hopes and dreams just as you do. They wanted the same things you want. But they had something special. They had a sense of duty. We all sacrificed a lot, but they gave their lives. That’s how far their sense of responsibility, their desire to do their best went. That is why we hold them higher than anyone else.”

His eyes began to water.

“You see, when you sit in class and waste time, you do yourself no favors. No one respects you for it, and you don’t make yourself happy. It’s those who try the hardest that everyone admires. It’s those who do this who get the most out of life. They’re the happiest of people. Your mother and I are preparing you for life as a man, and we hope, as a successful man with a full life. But you will be burdened with heavy responsibilities. All we ask is that you do your best. That’s the only way you’ll be up to the challenge.”

He adjusted his glasses, subtly hiding a tear.

Drew James Barrett III, March 3, 1969.

“Those who do their best can look back on their lives with more pleasure than anyone else. In the end, all you’ve got is your memories, so you want to make them the best you can. When you go to school, it’s not about how much money you’re going to get one day. It’s how willing you are to stand up and make a sacrifice for something bigger than yourself, for a future you may not even live to see. Those are the greatest of men, and everyone knows it. Rich or poor, they humble everyone else.”

John Morris Joyce, April 4, 1969.

“My brothers who gave up their lives will be forgotten except in the hearts of those who knew and cared about them. But as long as there are such men, the world may just have a chance. Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you? Do you think it might be worth making the effort? Can you just try to do your best?”

He took a long breath. “I think so, Dad. I’ll try.”

I sighed. “That’s my boy. Now go on and get that homework done.”

He was out of the chair and moving with a step that looked like earnest. A good sign.

So we had our talk. I had put in front of him the finest examples of the finest men I had ever known and tied that to him and his performance, and I thought he got it.

And then I got it.

These heroes, these brothers, these Americans and marines who gave their lives were not gone. They were right there beside me. They were there to push my boy up over that obstacle, even after they were supposed to be gone. They were still giving of themselves.
I’m glad nobody saw my eyes at that moment. I’m funny about that.

Outside in the back yard, in the cool night air, I held a drink for a while and raised it in a toast no one saw. A private moment: just me and the sky. The cool liquid went down like communion wine, and there I was, alone with my epiphany. Some of the finest moments bear no witness. Perhaps it’s better that way.

Oh. And Nick’s schoolwork? So far so good.