He was a quiet kid, my little brother. A loner, who preferred reading books to sports, and helping Mom cook, over more manly chores. Mostly, he tried to stay out of the way in our unhappy household. He was a tenderhearted, gentle giant of boy who only had one passion: he wanted to be a Soldier when he grew up.
He tried to enlist at the first opportunity. They turned him down due to weight and elevated blood pressure, and it nearly destroyed him for awhile. Then it motivated him, and within six months of a grueling fitness program, he passed the physical. Off to boot camp he went, happier than I'd ever seen him.
He came home on pass before shipping out to Nam, looking so tall and proud in his beloved uniform. He was finally a man, even in his fathers harsh judgment: he'd finally done his Dad proud, for the first time, after years of being ridiculed and belittled by this hard, unyielding man he loved so much, and so much wanted to emulate.
The day he left, I was hanging clothes in the back yard, my two little girls playing nearby. He spend some time with each of them, he loved them so much, and they loved him just as much. I can still see him with one riding on his back, the other in his strong arms, both little ones giggling, Jerry smiling from ear to ear.
Then he held out his arms to me, enfolding me in a great big bear hug, and in that moment, I knew. I just knew I would never see him again.
Less than a month later, he was dead. They said he died of jungle fever after collapsing while on a combat mission, and they couldn't save him. They told us the casket would be covered with glass, because of the contagion factor, and it would take awhile to send him home.
He'd had time to write one letter. It arrived at my home after he died. He didn't want me to share it with Mom, and I never did. It was a letter filled with abject horror and heartbreak at what he saw there, and what he was expected to do. His heart and his spirit were broken, even before his body fell down.
He was wearing a Purple Heart and the Bronze Star on his uniform, when they finally sent him home. It also looked like they had been some injury to the side of his head that was covered with makeup. For years, my Mom and I all but moved heaven and earth to get the government to tell us why a soldier who simply died of jungle fever came back with a Bronze Star, all to no avail.
There aren't many left to remember Jerry on Memorial Day, besides me, so Little Brother, please know you have never been forgotten, and that you are still so loved. I am so sorry for whatever hell you had to go through, and for the pain it caused to your heart and soul. Sometimes I think that's what really took your life: the sheer unadulterated horror of war itself. I can't see how you could have lived with what that did to you.
You did your best, Little Brother. You followed your own heart and your deep and abiding love of your country all the way. I am so very proud of you, and all the others who truly believed they were fighting to protect all of us and for our country: those who did not come home, and those who did, but who still suffer the deep wounds of war. I salute you, Jerry Ray, I salute you all.
My heart is also with all of the families and friends of those lost, and those so badly harmed, whose lives have also been forever altered by wars violent outcome.
May we find a better way, someday.