The New Generation:

My brother and I had some appointments at Veterans Hospital in Ann Arbor, Michigan today. They were early appointments so we left our houses at about 5:30 A.M. so we could get a good parking place and get checked in early. That all went well. My brother went to his appointments and I went to mine. While I was sitting in the waiting area I began to notice young guys coming in, very young guys, and sitting in various areas. Some looked like kids to me.

These young guys just sat there, looking around, sometimes at each other, sometimes at us old timers, sitting in our various areas. Then I saw one of these young guys get up and walk over to the drinking fountain. He walked with a very noticeable forward gate and a quite pronounced limp. I sat there and observed him a bit closer and saw several scars on his face, neck, forehead, and, when he turned around, I saw more scars on the back of his neck. He sat down, put his arms on his legs, interlocked his fingers and rested his shaved head on his clasped hands, as if in deep thought.

I looked to another waiting area and saw another young guy sitting in a chair. He was sort of laid back with his right foot pulled up and laid over his left knee. He had a magazine in his right hand and, occasionally, glanced at it, turned his head, as though looking around the waiting areas and sort of confused. Then I noticed his right arm, kind of laid down on his stomach in a resting position, but there was no hand or wrist, just a kind of an ace wrap on it.

My name was called and I went in with the nurse for the preliminary stuff … vitals and such. When she was finished she told me to have a seat in a treatment room. As she took me to it I noticed that the first young guy that I had seen in the waiting area occupied the room next to mine. He was sitting there and looking out the door as I went by. He nodded his head to me and I nodded back. I was dead curious to talk to him and find out which Gulf war he had been in, I just didn't know how to approach him. Imagine, me, Dan Toro, at a loss for words!

Finally, I got fed up waiting on the Doctor and wheeled myself out of my treatment room and over to the entrance of his room. I started the conversation by saying, "how's it going, dude"?

He responded, " I'm still trying to figure it out".

That opened up a dialogue and we began to feel a bit freer about what the conversation was coming to.  I told him I am a Nam Vet and asked which Gulf war he had been in?

"The first one", he said, "and if we had been allowed to go on into Baghdad we wouldn't be fighting this one".

I agreed with him and we talked a bit more. He said that he had fought for 10 years to get his service-connected disability and finally got a 60% rating. I told him not to stop there and to talk to some VVA officers and they might be able to give him some good pointers. "We've been fighting for disability rights for over 35 years and might be of some help.”

He thanked me and then our Doc's came to our respective rooms and the conversation ended. But, what happened next I wasn't prepared for.

I was sent to Physical Therapy where I ran into the same guy again. He was doing his therapy and I was doing mine. We were at opposite sides of the room. Next to me I saw another young guy lying on a huge matted table. I was taken back by what I saw and had all I could do to keep from bursting into tears.

His left leg was gone. There was only a short, a very short, stump where probably just several months ago there was a strong leg. They were putting a prosthetic on it and he just lay there, motionless and quiet. His right leg was missing below the knee and had a prosthetic on it as well, along with a brace. My therapist took me over to a machine for me to work on which was right close to him. His face was turned away from me at the time but I just felt that I had to say something to him.

I mustered up the nerve and said, "Hey man, welcome home and thank you for all you have done for me".

He slowly turned his face toward me and just stared. I thought he was going to curse me out, but instead he said, as best he could, " Thanks, man.  It helps".

He couldn't have been more than 20 years old. His face, nearly blown completely away:  no eyes, no nose to speak of, no teeth, his mouth torn almost beyond recognition, and yet the young man had spunk, class and spirit. He slowly extended his hand in the direction of my voice, and I held what was left of it. "Suicide bomber in Baghdad", he struggled to say.

I told him I was sorry and he said, " I don't need that, just your thanks". I told him that he has my thanks and the thanks of the entire nation.

He said, "not all of them, but most." Then he surprised me even more when he said, "I voted for Bush and I'm glad."

I told him I did too and asked what branch service he was in? He replied, "I'm a Marine."

I left that room with tears in my eyes and went back to the other young guys I had seen earlier and thanked them for their bravery and welcomed them home.

I never had a doubt that we were doing the right thing by prosecuting this war, and now, more than ever, I know we are just. 

To hell with the naysayers.  

Dan Toro  M/3/3 1966-67

3/3 RVN Vol I Issue 3   05/01/2005                                                                      Remember Colorado Springs 2006   Page 8

This 3/3 RVN Newsletter is assembled for the alumni of 3/3 RVN Ass’n (all 3/3 Nam vets).   It is currently edited by Doc Hoppy, who also is handling the printing and mailing.  Idea’s and columns appreciated anytime!  Would like to see someone from each Co. do a column per issue.

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