Sometimes when you don’t expect it, you cross paths with extraordinary people. They can seem rather ordinary until you get to know them and hear their story. If you will please indulge me, I’ll tell you about an extraordinary gentleman I met this morning over breakfast.
Waiting for my order, I was seated at the food counter catching up on Ricochet, when a gentleman walked in and sat a couple of seats down from mine. “What branch were you in,” he asked, pointing at my hat. “Air Force,” I said, adding, “20 years.” He introduced himself as Larry. He told me that his daughter is in the Air Force over Iraq right now, on the AWACS. She is an air battle manager, a demanding job. I told him about my limited experiences on AWACS aircraft and how much I respect what those folks do.
Then, in a soft spoken voice, he told me that he did 12 years in the Marine Corps. I asked him when he separated, and he answered 1989. Very soft spoken, and unfailingly polite, he ordered his corned beef and eggs, “…and please ask the cook to make the bacon soft,” he asked the waitress. “What did you do in the Corps,” I asked. A very unassuming fellow, Larry looked me in the eye and answered, “Scout Sniper, Recon.” He loves Air Force bases, he said, recalling how posh Udorn Air Base, in Thailand, used to be.
"What did you do at Udorn?" I asked. Getting information out of him wasn’t very easy, but eventually he opened up. I never got the impression he was embellishing, but rather, he seemed to be reliving some things he would really rather not relive. He asked about the steel POW/MIA bracelet I wear, and then explained that after the Vietnam War’s conclusion, he was sent looking for American POWs. Most of the time he went as an observer, but he did manage to bring a few of our guys back. He battled his superiors, who did not always approve his repatriation efforts. This was during the Carter administration, he reminded me, and those people didn’t want to rock the international boat. And sometimes, he said, the POWs were so far gone that they would never have survived the trip back. Gut-wrenching decisions. Agonizing orders.
Larry told me about his training. He was one of the last scout snipers to train under the direction of “Gunny Hathcock,” a legend in the Marine Corps and in the world of snipers in general. With 93 confirmed kills in Vietnam and hundreds more unconfirmed, he was an exacting and incredible teacher. “The guy had unbelievable eyes,” he said. “He could see stuff at 500 meters that I couldn’t find with my scope! And if he saw me while I was maneuvering in the bush, he’d shoot me with a BB gun or pellet gun.”
Years later, he applied for a federal law enforcement position using his sniper skills. He did fine in the physical tests, but believes he was rejected for psychological reasons. Asked if he would have any remorse for taking out a bad guy, Larry quickly answered, “not at all.” “I think they wanted me to have at least some heart,” he said. But, we both agreed that the time spent doing the Hamlet thing can mean the difference between life or death for an innocent or even for the sniper himself. “I don’t have any remorse over what I had to do” he said, “but I can still see them.” Then Larry made a comment that mirrors what I’ve heard other snipers say. “The first one never leaves you.” “I can see it perfectly,” he continued, “I squeezed the trigger, and his face exploded.” He grew quiet, and I just nodded. What is there to say?
Larry was in Tripoli when President Reagan ordered the bombing. After jumping from 24,000 feet, he helped identify the targets for our bombers. In 1989, he was injured when a parachute malfunctioned. The Corps offered to keep him on active duty, but behind a desk. He declined, as we both agreed on the differences between duty stateside and duty at the pointy end. I had to be on my way, so Larry and I shook hands and thanked each other for his service, and said good-bye.
To most folks, this genteel man was just another truck driver, only more quiet, more courteous, and with impeccable manners that set him apart from many in this profession. But listening to him, watching him tell his story, I couldn’t help but notice the emotional scars and the mental toll his service has bequeathed him. Like so many other vets, like my best friend Bob Lee, he did it for you. And he’d do it again, if asked.
The cliché says that Freedom is not Free. But to those who paid a life-altering price, it isn’t a cliché. It just…is.