The nation which forgets its defenders will be itself forgotten.
Calvin Coolidge

There are 58,245 names listed on the Vietnam Memorial. Let that thought sink in for a moment. The Wall isn’t just an artistic expression, with names engraved in it for visual effect, these were men and women, mostly young, that had mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, cousins, and friends. I mention this man, to give a glimpse into the flesh and blood, the spirit, and the quality of man he was.
Patrick Lynn Blair.
We met for the first time, on the playground of David Crockett Elementary school. Pat was bigger than me, which made us the two biggest kids in the schoolyard. Being the new kid, he was quickly introduced to me by other schoolmates, and he had been forewarned of my proclivity for losing my temper and going into a rage, while pounding on my opponent. In actuality, that only happened a few times, and I was working on controlling my temper, but I had a ‘rep.’ When we squared off, surrounded by other kids, we exchanged pleasantries, while checking each other out. I could tell from his eyes, he didn’t want any part of me, and I tried to disguise that I felt the same way.
Throughout our years, growing up in Marshall, Texas, we were always friends, yet for such a small town, we never did that much together, and hung out with different people. Pat was even more of a country boy than I was, and he was also more serious, and worked when he wasn’t in school. We played on different baseball teams, in Little League, and Babe Ruth League. While Pat didn’t play football, which is generally expected of young men in East Texas, especially for a big guy like Pat, he truly loved baseball. One day I ran into his older brother, who was more outgoing than Pat, and I mentioned to his brother that Pat’s team, and mine, were playing that night. His brother’s eyes got big, and he said “Ohhh, that explains why Pat was heat treating his new bat over the kitchen stove this morning.” Pat was competitive, in a gentlemanly way.
The last time I saw Pat, was on the occasion of our “All Night Party” after our high school graduation, 1 Jun 68. Pat had actually graduated at mid-term our Senior year, and enlisted in the U.S. Army shortly thereafter. He was one of several young men from Marshall that were serving, and more would soon follow, as events in Vietnam would require more men.
It was good to see Pat that night, and he was still the serious, looming presence he had always been, but he was different. His formerly boyish looks had now transformed into a lean, fit young man, he wore his Class A uniform with pride, and he looked fantastic; an example for his still carefree classmates. As we stood on the earthstone bridge over a creek, and having a cold beer, we talked. Not just about silly, teenage things, but we talked as two men, thoughtfully, seriously, and with emotion. We talked as we never had, and I thought how little I actually knew about Pat, and wished we had talked like this all the years we had known each other. Pat informed me that he was on leave, before shipping out to Vietnam, that he really wanted to be home to receive his diploma, and see his old friends again. He had missed the simple life of a small town, his Momma’s doting love for him, and her home cooking. I remember not knowing what to say about his deployment, I was young, and still didn’t quite understand how deadly serious his job as a mortar man, in a deadly war was. I didn’t have the words, as I didn’t have the understanding. It was at that time, that Pat looked at me, and asked if I remembered the first day we met, and I said that I did. He gulped on his beer, looked out over the creek, and said, “I was really afraid of you, that you would beat me up.” I was shocked, and in the spirit of the moment, I admitted that I had been afraid of him too. We looked at each other in stunned silence, then cracked up laughing. As we finished our beers, and headed back inside to the dance, Pat turned his back to the creek, yelled ‘Geronimo,’ and threw his beer bottle over his head, in a lazy arcing pattern. There was only one spot which wasn’t cement, and was a mudpile, and his beer bottle hit there, without breaking. We cracked up laughing, and went inside, never to visit again. I called his house a few days later, to see if he wanted to go fishing with me, and his sweet Momma answered the phone. She informed me he had already gone back to his base, and she didn’t try and conceal her concern for her baby boy. She did mention that he had told her about the great conversation we had had.
Months went by, and I was attending a local college and working at a local grocery store/deli, and hung out with my friends and girlfriend. Life was still simple, but the news from Vietnam was constant, like a dull headache. Then one day, I received a phone call from a friend, Pat had been killed in action. The information I received, was that he had been part of a twelve man quick reaction mortar team, that they were very good at their jobs, and were called in to assist in a heated battle. As he and his team stepped off of the helicopter, the first six were killed instantly from smalls arm fire, and Pat had been shot up so badly, that his funeral was a closed casket ceremony. I couldn’t go to his funeral.
Oh, I could have rescheduled the dentist appointment, and gotten off of work, but I didn’t try. I couldn’t go because I was afraid. Afraid of how I would feel, afraid to face my own mortality, and the fragility of life, and I was afraid that the fond memory of our last meeting would be replaced with that of a funeral for a childhood friend. A good man, a good son, and a good friend.
It wasn’t long after Pat’s death, and other friends being injured, that in a fit of anger and purpose, I went to the Marine recruiter to join up. Had it not been for a drunken man, that wanted to rejoin the Marines, starting a fight with the impressive Gunny Sgt. recruiter, I would have signed that day. As it turned out, my fate was to take a different path, than the one I tried to plot.
I have not, nor will I ever forget, Pat.
He was my friend. Not just a name on a wall.