My neighbor is a genuine war hero. As a teenage helicopter pilot in Vietnam, he was shot down and crash-landed a half-dozen times while bringing troops in and out of hot combat zones. He doesn't talk about it much.I'm no hero, but I have war stories too, and I'm happy to talk. Drafted into the U.S. Army on 7/7/70 at age 23, I was soon garrisoned with the Headquarters and Headquarters Company, 13th Support Brigade, Fort Hood, Texas. I spent my entire military career there, always with the dread possibility of an immediate transfer to Vietnam jungles hanging like the sword of Damocles.
With a degree in journalism, I was assigned to the Public Information Office, where, for 18 months, I wrote glowing press accounts of the activities and achievements of the brigade, all the while not having a clue as to its actual mission.
We wrote in the Armored Sentinel newspaper about fancy data processing machines, a radical concept called the volunteer army, new coke dispensers in the mess halls, the virtues of reenlistment, and the missions of mercy our transport company made to save thirsty Texas towns with broken-down water systems.
Always mentioned in my lead paragraph was the name of our commander, Col. Paul F. Roberts, a kindly warrior in the twilight of his career, leading this sleepy brigade. It was my job to make the old man look relevant and exciting. Nobody actually told me to do this, but doing so may have been what kept me in Texas, something I will never know.
Near as I could tell, the brigade was a warehouse, holding soldiers coming and going to other spheres of duty. While in Texas, many received promotions. Thousands of promotions are made every week on a big Army post. But when you were being promoted to First Lieutenant or Captain while in the 13th Spt Bde, it was a big deal. Col. Roberts made it so, and this is my war story.The ritual went something like this: A call would come to the public information office (PIO) from headquarters that there was to be a promotion in the headshed and to have a reporter there at 1350 hours. A similar order went to the Signals Company, which ran a photo section near us. They mostly made 8x10 glossy black and white prints of officers for official use and chain of command displays. They had a refrigerator for keeping film fresh. We used it for keeping Spam snacks, which is not an official use.
The photographer and I would share a ride to the headquarters building, walk upstairs and wait in the orderly room outside the colonel's office. The door would eventually open, we'd walk in and post ourselves to the rear of the empty office, trying to blend with the furniture. Then a few members of the promotee's unit were ushered in, perhaps his unit commander and others, shined and polished for the occasion. Sometimes a young wife would come to witness her husband's promotion to a higher pay grade. She would create a bright spot among the tans and drabs, all teased up in a colorful 70's mini-skirt and big hair.Then the adjutant and the chief of staff would stride in, followed by the old man, and we'd jump to attention while he took his place behind the desk, between the American flag and the Brigade campaign colors. He'd quietly tell us to stand at ease. The young lieutenant would salute and report. The adjutant would bark, "Attention to Orders" and we'd all come to attention again and the adjutant would read the orders in a loud military monotone.
When it came time to pin on the new bars, the photographer beside me would spring to action, the old man and the new captain would freeze in the traditional pose, and two flash bulbs would pop, one for the actual photo and the other just in case somebody blinked.
Mission accomplished, the honorees relaxed and informally chatted with the old man. Meanwhile, the photographer and I did a left-face and walked briskly out of the room, he with his camera, me with my clipboard. Clipboard? What ever had I written on the clipboard? Well, absolutely nothing. It was a prop. Sometimes, if the chief of staff were in the room during the ceremony, I might pretend to scribble important words on it, but there certainly weren't any notes taken. No need for that. A form had already been filled out by the company clerk. It would eventually be married to the photograph and sent to a hometown newspaper. In addition, the Armored Sentinel automatically got a copy of the orders and published a small paragraph among many others under the 24 point heading: "Promotions." I had nothing to do with any of that.
So what was I doing again and again at these promotion ceremonies, standing in the back of the room in my cleanest uniform and shiny boots, faking it? At first I thought it was a sorry waste of time, but eventually I caught on. The old man and the chief knew what they were doing. They wanted to honor and encourage these young leaders in any way they could. It was a very difficult time for officers, charged with leading many unwilling men during an unpopular war. So they made these promotions as impressive and memorable as they could.
All these young men had mothers. After they got their promotions or awards at the 13th Support Brigade, each could truthfully say, "Yeah, Mom, it was a pretty big deal. The press was there to cover it and everything."
Yes, honor and celebrate the true heros. But don't forget, we also served who only stood and faked it.
