Page 16 THE VILLADOM TIMES IV • June 23, 2010 My wife, who grew up in a more civilized ambiance – the bomb-cratered, burned-out ruins of Tokyo – once asked Gary whether he had been scared while he was serving with the Marines in Vietnam. “For the first 11 months in-country, I figured I was as good as dead and I wasn’t scared at all,” he said reflectively. “I just had a good time. Then, the last month, I realized that I might actually get out of this mess alive and I started to get scared. The last few days, I was pumping sweat. “I don’t know how many senators’ sons served in Vietnam, but it wasn’t many. I’m over 26 now, and war is good for the economy but I’d never sign up again unless they invaded America. If they did that, I’d bring my own gun. Otherwise they can go.” Ed, another high school buddy who was a door gunner in Army helicopters and earned 14 Air Medals, said the same thing: “The day I got on the plane to go home, some guy tried to rap up to me about what we were doing here. I told him, ‘You don’t get it, man, the war just ended. I’m going home today and I’m still alive! That’s all that counts! But I’ll tell you this. I’ll show up tomorrow if the communists take over Canada or Mexico, but if they try to send me out of this hemisphere again I’ll be on the next plane to Sweden.’” There you have it: patriotism, not from blowhard actors and politicians, but from war heroes who somehow escaped lobotomy by the persistent application of distilled alcohol, actually fought and killed enemy soldiers, and won decorations for valor. Real American heroes aren’t those politicians who send American troops wherever the lobbyists for foreign interests tell the politicians to send them in return for campaign backing and votes. They’re people like Gary who slap a pressure bandage on what’s left of a wounded buddy’s army, wrap him in their own flak vest, and carry him across an airfield being hit by Soviet-made enemy rockets. Maybe some of them are even people like me who volunteered when they could have copped three deferments, and got a small medal and a medical discharge. People who know they and their kids aren’t draft-bait shouldn’t control American foreign policy, but tell that to the money men, the sports nuts, and the racists who don’t realize that Muslims worship the same God as Christians and Jews and recognize Jesus as a major prophet. They don’t tend to read a lot, so they probably won’t read this and I’ll be safe -- but your own kids probably aren’t if you can’t pay for college. Now how does this impact people who aren’t at risk for the war in Iraq because they can pay for college or find a job without enlisting? Here is one answer that has to be taken seriously. Some people accept military service in wars that are none of our business because they don’t think. They also accept the concept that they can’t get through graduation without drunk driving or competitive binge drinking. Killing somebody in a war that is none of America’s business is murder. Killing somebody because you are driving while intoxicated is also murder. You may not have known when you signed up that you would be staring down at a dead guy who just wanted you out of his country so he could mess up his own life without any help from America. You may not have known when you stare down at that dead pedestrian or someone’s pet that you would be ruining another family’s life, and your own life, by turning that key in the ignition when you weren’t sober. But you did it, and it’s too late now. Mom and Pop can’t write a check and make everything better when you’ve killed another human being, kids. If you’re picked up with liquor on your breath and no accident or other breach of the traffic laws, you’ll pay some money and spend some time without driving privileges. With the second offense, which is for morons only, you’ll probably get jail time and you’ll lose the license for two years. But the reality game is that if you kill or seriously injure someone while driving drunk, you’re finished for the rest of your life: morally and legally. Jail time and fines are just the beginning of what you’ll face for the rest of your life – from your conscience, if you have one, and from society whether you do or don’t. Go to the Grad Ball or – here’s a really defiant idea – spend an evening with Mom and Pop before they pack up and move out of town if you’re the youngest kid in the family. Those of us who hope to stay here for the rest of our functional lives have already paid for a big chunk of your education through burdensome taxes we no longer needed to cover out own kids. Don’t add insult to injury by running us over because you’re too zonked to see a stop sign or obey a red light. Gary was in a sweat for his last few weeks in Vietnam. I’ll be in a moderate sweat for the last few years I expect to be driving. I’m not at all afraid to go out of life fast and with no more aches and pains. I’d just rather not let the SUV go to waste in anything as dumb as a collision with a drunk driver. Gary was my buddy in high school, and we kept in touch through college. His freshman year, he partied his way out of a safety college. After flunking out, he joined the Marines due to his love-hate relationship with his father, a World War II Marine veteran. Gary won the Bronze Star with a V for valor in Vietnam, along with a slew of other service medals. He then spent the next three years partying his way through the Marines. (It’s easier than you think if you have combat decorations and a three-digit IQ.) When he returned to civilian life, he attended Rutgers, where he received his undergraduate degree and MBA -- both with honors. “Gary took honors from Rutgers? Rutgers is a pretty serious college. I know your IQ is the same as mine, but you never much cared about studying. However did this anomaly transpire?” “John, it’s easier that you think. When you’ve spent four years in FECOM (Far East Command – the Japanese sometimes ask ‘East of what?’) in the Marines and been decorated for valor in Vietnam and you look some pinko prof right in the eye and tell him, ‘If I don’t ace this course, I’m going to kill you!’ you can achieve a substantial level of plausibility.” One thing about the Marine Corps: It’s a crash course in reality, and entirely admirable compared to the farce of American academia, where people learn what to think and not how to think. Gary knew how to think. Gary was a hero in more ways than one. When we were still in high school, he heard I had booked a punch-out with three guys at the same time right in the school building. (I had a bad temper when I was young.) The Horn, one of Gary’s acolytes, told him what was scheduled. “Gary, did you hear that Koster’s going to fight three guys tomorrow?” “No he isn’t.” “You think he’ll chicken out?” “He won’t chicken out. He goes nuts when he fights and doesn’t feel pain so he’s an okay fighter, but he’s nothing special. No, dig it, Horn. He’s going to fight the toughest guy himself and I’m going go fight the other two.” When The Horn put out the word that the two less impressive contestants would be fighting Gary and I’d be fighting Numero Uno, the whole thing quickly degenerated. Gary had once knocked a guy dead out in a fight and sent him staggering 18 feet backwards with a single punch. He shot pool with three guys who all carried guns and were all killed holding up liquor stores. He was a legend with the girls. He was the real thing – what we all wanted to be. He was in a class by himself. The three would-be contestants took one look at the two of us lurching toward them. I was nowhere near Gary in status, but I was nobody’s candidate for Wimp of the Year either -- and started to beat one another up in sheer panic. We didn’t deign to use our fists on such cowardly trash. We used our shoes and won by default. That was high school in the early 1960s, before the hippies. It was awful, but I learned a lot there. I learned to separate people who are worthwhile from those who aren’t. That was the lesson of a lifetime. The final countdown Preserving the past at Ancestor Day Pictured above: Mikayla shares her family and their history on ancestor day at Ramsey’s Dater School. At right: Daniel displays family mementos from the Armed Forces and the Upper Saddle River Fire Department.