Years ago, on a Memorial Day weekend, my pastor asked all of us to pause for a moment of silence to honor those who gave their life for our country. Somewhat out of character, I began to weep as I reflected on a fellow Marine who made the ultimate sacrifice. I wept because of a measure of guilt, shame, and, yes, remorse.

I can’t tell you exactly when it happened. In war, one day is pretty much like any other day. I was a little over a year into my second tour of duty in Vietnam. It had been a tough year with my twin brother Roger having been grievously wounded and medevaced to the States. At that time, his future was still unknown. I’d like to tell you that I had good and sufficient reasons for copping out that day, but I can’t. I felt an overwhelming sense of weariness, so I decided that I was going to take a break and go into Danang for a few days. I was an artillery Forward Observer with an infantry unit, tasked with a mission in the Pacification Program. We lived in the villages with the Vietnamese people and fought side by side with the militias. In situations like this, I’d tell the infantry people I was with the artillery people, and the artillery people that I was with the infantry people, and then pretty much did what I wanted.

The unit consisted of 10 squads deployed up and down Highway 1 south of Danang, a full-strength squad being 13 Marines, but we rarely were full strength. It wasn’t my job to walk point, but I frequently did. I was a Sergeant (E-5) with almost three years total time “in country” and most of our squad leaders were Corporals (E-4) and occasionally Lance Corporals (E-3). When I offered to walk point for someone, they were thankful for the opportunity to step aside — I never had to pull rank on anyone to do it. There was nothing extraordinary going on that day — just a routine patrol through our AO (Area of Operation). We had a new guy in the squad; I thought his name was Jackie Denny. He had just completed Land Mine Warfare School — a course to teach about the weapons and tactics used in guerrilla warfare. He seemed like a good choice to walk point that day.

I caught a truck ride into Danang and made my way to the Marine Air Wing — those guys always lived high on the hog compared to grunts in “the bush.” A friend of my brother, Bill, would always put me up when I came in to hit the NCO (Non-Commissioned Officers) Club. Before I got to the club, Bill intercepted me and told me that I had a call from my unit. I went to his office, unprepared for what I was about to hear. The new guy had tripped a booby-trapped 105mm howitzer round and was killed instantly. Because I was already in Danang, I was asked to go to Charlie Med and give a positive ID of the body. Words cannot express the emotions I felt. I didn’t really know the man — a kid, really. We had spent maybe 2-3 minutes together as I was preparing to leave for Danang, but there was enough of his face left to confirm his identity to the Graves Registration people. His eyes were still wide open in an expression of surprise and disbelief, and it was as if they were looking into the depth of my soul. I was transfixed by his gaze as thoughts raced through my mind. Might that have been me on that table looking up with lifeless eyes? Was there an accusation there? I felt a mixture of emotions — some relief, some shame, some guilt, and some remorse. I will never forget the look in those eyes.

Many, many years later, Lynne and I were in Washington, DC, and we decided to visit “The Wall,” the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Those who know my twin brother Roger know he had far more intensive combat experiences than I did. By the grace of God, I never lost a man in combat, so my expectation of the visit was more like a tourist than anything else. As soon as I entered the grounds, I was overwhelmed by a sense of sadness, catching me completely off guard. I went to the screens where you can look up the names that are on The Wall and get some details about their lives. I was shocked to discover that there was no Jackie Denny! After all the years that had passed, I thought I knew his name, only to realize that I had been mistaken. I began to weep — it was as if I was experiencing the loss all over again.

It may be that God did not want me to face a family who had lost their son in Vietnam. Too many years had passed — what could I have said to them about the man I barely knew?

Many years have passed, and I am not the same man that I used to be. While age does not necessarily guarantee wisdom, coming to saving faith in Christ has given me a new sense of “duty.” Paul tells us that we, the Church, are “one body” in Christ (I Corinthians 12), and he gives a detailed summary about how every part of the body is interconnected to serve the whole body. I now have many brothers in Christ, especially those of you who are the “Men of Valor,” and it is to you that I am writing on this Memorial Day 2022. I know that the old man has been forgiven and that the new man is alive in Christ, and as a new man in Christ, I want to tell you, my brothers, that I will always be here for you. I will not forsake my duty to stand shoulder to shoulder with you as we fight a different battle against a different enemy.

As Paul once said: “Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 3:13-14, ESV). Let us all press on together! What say ye Man of Valor?