Honoring Veterans – Old & Young/Past & Present

by Crystal Laramore

Veteran’s day; a time for reflection and gratitude for many. And boy, do we have a lot to be grateful for! Just in my family and circle of friends alone I spent a few hours today (Tuesday) making phone calls and sending emails, thanking them for serving our country. I even received a few “thank-you’s” myself, which humbled my heart beyond measure.

One of my friends, CW 4 Luke Sweeney, flew an apache helicopter in the downtown parade in Houston on Veterans Day last year. His co-pilot was CW2 Darrick McGill. The lead Apache was expertly piloted by CW3 Roka (Rock) Wolgamott and co-piloted by CW2 Dusty Davis and they were followed by CW2 Ross Hovey and his front-seater was CW2 Jonathan Johnson.

Apparently this was a death-defying act! We were in Baghdad together and he said the flight that day was more frightening than most of the flying he did over there! The buildings downtown were only 75 feet apart and his span on the helo is about 50 feet! Warrant Officer Sweeney, aka Coco, lives here in Coldspring with his children, Brooke & Lucas Sweeney and his sister Sue Sweeney. If you live in Conroe, you may see him flying overhead a lot. He is based out of Lone Star Executive Airport. He belongs to the 7/6 Calvary Regiment. So, those guys you see practicing are doing it for a reason. And when you do see them, take a moment to say a silent “thank you” or heck, yell it till your throat hurts!

Until you’ve been in a war or a war zone you cannot begin to understand the level of commitment the men and women serving your country have embraced. Almost every day people ask me what it was like “over there”. Being Veteran’s Day today and having a chopper fly over my restaurant today made me remember this article and want to re-run it…

The military hospital is called the CASH (combat support hospital; incidentally, they used to be called M*A*S*H hospitals so says Col. Uncle Bill). When I first arrived I was sick with flu-like symptoms for the first three months. The doctors and civilians called it the Baghdad bug and many people were sick with it. So, I was in the CASH a lot. Then my neck stiffened up on me and I could not turn my head so I was in physical therapy for about six-8 weeks every day.

While I was hanging out at the hospital I would visit soldiers who were wounded and find out about their injuries and their lives at home and where they came from. Most of the soldiers had their purple hearts or their silver stars sitting right by their bedside. I caught a few of them watching Oprah, but as soon as I’d walk in and said “Hey, how’s it going?” they’d change the channel to WWF or something. (Not really WWF since we didn’t get that channel, but you get the idea!) And I never once called ‘em out on it. It was a secret among friends.

Other times, when I was coming in for treatment, I’d see a Chinook in the parking lot with a big red cross on it or a Blackhawk with blades running. Sometimes the medics would be taking soldiers off and carrying them in the CASH right in front of me. People screaming, men running, blood dripping. ER in a war zone. No commercials. No actors. No do-overs. Other times the only noise in all the area would be the deep, heavy thudding of the chopper blades. Either scenario was a grave situation. Those young men were in that chopper, on that gurney, in those bandages, bleeding red-for me. (And not all of them were Americans. This is a coalition of forces.) And I would always say a little prayer before walking through those ominous glass sliding doors, because of what awaited me on the other side; a soldier or a marine would often be lying on a gurney with his buddies standing around him in prayer. And I always knew (or thought I did) if the young man would make it or not. Sometimes I couldn’t even get through my physical therapy session b/c I was crying so hard. Probably what pulled at my heart more than anything is that I always expected to see a man; a grown man; an older man; a man who had lived most of his life; a man ready to die;. What I saw were men all right; it’s just that they were men at young boy’s ages; they hadn’t lived their lives; they just graduated from high school; they weren’t ready to die. But they were ready to fight for their country. Their faces were so young and so innocent, and yet so very brave.

At night, when we would all be sitting around winding down, we’d hear the choppers coming in; always, two-by-two. First one, then the other. If I was on the phone with a family member or friend I’d have to say, “Hold on, a chopper’s coming in” and after the chopper passed the person would start talking again and I’d have to say “Hold on, there’s another one coming in about 30 seconds”.

After being over there for a few months you could determine if an Apache, a Blackhawk or a Chinook was coming in. If it was a Chinook, chances were, the second one always had a big red cross painted on the side indicating there were wounded or fallen soldiers on board. The mood always fell to a heavy silence. Sometimes people would cry. It makes my heart beat fast just writing about it. We could hear the war in the background and we could always drown it out with laughter and chit chat and a few Coronas-naked not dressed-who had limes and salt? But, we could not drown out the sound of Chinooks coming in; two-by-two; first one, then the other. It was a heavy, thudding noise that cut through and drowned out our laughter as if demanding attention and prayer; respect and thought. It was ominous, surreal and sad.

And sometimes hearing the choppers coming in, feeling them come in, well, it felt patriotic, brave and warrior-like. I miss the sounds of the choppers flying over-head at night, rocking my hooch (where we lived-term brought back from the Vietnam War). I miss the feeling that I am well protected and loved by those who know me not. I miss feeling protected by the best armed forces in the world simply because I was blessed enough, by God, to be born an American.

So this veteran’s day, when I flew my flag I flew it out of respect for veterans of wars past, but especially for the young men and women who are fighting now. The one’s I’ve met and the one’s I know not. God bless them and God bless America!

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