It was spring of eighty-five; I was twenty-eight, thousands of miles away from home, a leader of men, a warrior, someone who grew up way too fast.
Married at nine-teen, a hardened combat soldier by twenty-four, I knew more about war, than I knew about a lot of other things.
It seems I had something to prove, both to myself and to my father who’s voice often echoed in my mind, “You’re weak boy, you need to get mean, you need to get tough because the world doesn’t give a shit about you and only the strong survive!” It still gives me chills.
I remember the first time, when I was ten, after I came home from school blooded and crying, the victim of a bully’s fury. I can still see the anger in my father’s face mixed with shame and then came ’the talk.’ Ironically, he cried the day I left for Army basic training. I did want so very much to make him proud.
Back to the spring of nineteen eighty-five, I was a squad leader in an Infantry unit in Korea, cut like one of those male models in the ’Bow-flex’ commercials kicking ass and taking names with no mercy. My family back home in the states was the furthest thing from my mind, I had something to prove, and I was hell-bent.
It was May the tenth, about 1300 hours (1:00pm in civilian time) and I was training soldiers on the rifle range, doing my best to hone their marksmanship skills when I got the notification from Red Cross.
My father had experienced a near fatal heart attack and my family was requesting my presence as soon as possible; it didn’t look good. So, I packed my bags and hopped the next thing with wings smoking back to America.
When I walked into his room at that Veteran’s Hospital in Boise Idaho a few days later in my dress greens, sporting shiny badges and a ribbon board that would choke a horse, dad did not look strong, not at all mean and I cried.
I didn’t give a dam who saw me in tears! He was my dad and I prayed he would survive to see me and tell me he was proud of me. After a triple bypass, heart valve replacement and two weeks recovery, he did tell me that he was proud of me but then, I was off again back to the Army, convinced that all was well but I could not help feeling that I had so much more to say.
Waving goodbye that rainy day from my taxi, I left my father under an awning promising him that I would write soon.
Two weeks later I had yet to write a letter to dad, too busy it would seem or perhaps I figured I would see him in a few months as I was due to rotate back to the states.
Then, one rainy morning in June, another one of those Red Cross messages came.
We buried my father on a hill overlooking a serene valley in Idaho, in a small town called ‘Horseshoe Bend.’
Michael Glenn Donnelly, beloved husband and father of 9, June 25th 1938 to June 25th 1985, God rest his soul.
Adding your comment:
You have every right to be proud of yourself.
Yes, tell him you are proud.
