May 2, 2009.   

It happened 41 years ago today.   

You might think you forget, but you don’t.  The emptiness of the day remains forever. 

The pictures are vivid – the closed casket, the Flag, the Marine Pall Bearers, the Honor Guard, the guns firing, and finally TAPS. 

It never leaves you.  As recently as 15 or 20 years ago, I still had dreams of being lost in a dark place hearing Fran calling my name -- maybe if it had not been a closed casket. 

Well, as people sometimes say, “life goes on”.  You get busy with your life, maybe marry, have children, grandchildren, and live perhaps many happy days keeping ever so busy.  You become almost driven to be busy, because in the quiet moments, in the moments where you let down your guard, it creeps in.  The emptiness of that day – the day the Marines came to the door, the day they told you he had fallen, the day they thanked you for his service.  It is a day etched in your memory – a day that you can recall in an instant like an internet page – it is always just a click away. 

When the news came of Fran’s death, I just happened to be at his home with his Mom.  I had stayed overnight, and when the Marines arrived, and the door was opened, and I saw the uniforms, I just collapsed to my knees crying for them to bring him back.  His mom was so much braver with her kind, compassionate demeanor.  With her heart broken into at least a million pieces, she quietly attended to the business at hand, almost wanting to lessen the pain of those strong, courageous Marine visitors carrying such painful news. 

While the Marines were still there, Fran’s dad arrived home from work to see the Marine cars parked in front of the building, and without a word being said to him, he walked into the tragedy, never to be the same.  The Marines were there for only a few minutes, but the memory of them – their clean, strong faces, their crisp, sharp uniforms – remain as a mural in my mind.  I can revisit it at any moment, like a fine work of art. 

The days following the funeral were tortured for me.  Everyone I knew wanted to do something to help me, but there was no help to be found.  Fran and I had planned to be married in the fall that year, and while his Vietnam tour was long and treacherous for us both, it was nearing the end, and we were looking forward to our reunion in the summer. 

After the funeral, during those last empty weeks of Fran’s remaining tour, I wandered the streets of Pittsburgh during my lunch-times, and sometimes even after work.  Somehow, I needed to reach out to Heaven, and anyone else who would listen, to tell them about Fran.  I had been attending a writing class at Pitt, and had a writing assignment.  Even though my personal interest in school, in work, and in everything else had collapsed, I wanted everyone to know about Fran’s bravery, his courage, and his dedication to those for whom he had died. 

So it was that I sat down one evening, and wrote a paper entitled “Fran Won’t be Home”, which somehow appeared as a feature article in a Sunday, June 30, 1968 Pittsburgh Press human interest magazine.  It was the Sunday just before the 4^th of July that year, and the Press published Fran’s story that day.  Fran had left Pittsburgh for Vietnam on July 4^th the previous year so it seemed a timely tribute.  I saved only one copy of that story, and though it is weak and frail, and torn and tattered, it still tells the story of a brave, fallen servant. 

Today, it is 41 years since Fran died, and during that time, I have learned more about Fran’s last moments alive.  Several years ago, I learned that there was a Marine “buddy” of Fran’s who was with him when he died.  Michael had written a moving tribute to Fran on the Virtual Wall -- which is an on-line tribute to our fallen Vietnam Veterans. 

At the end of Michael’s tribute, he had requested that Fran’s girlfriend “Jean” contact him if she ever saw the page.  When I happened across that tribute, I was stunned.  Fran called me Jeannie, and I knew that Michael was speaking to me.  There was someone who was WITH Fran when he died, and could tell me about Fran’s final moments.  I contacted Michael by phone, and he told me what happened to Fran.   

On May 2, 1968, there was an ambush in a grave mound area near the DMZ, and Fran was shot.  Michael was also shot.  Michael was downed near Fran, and heard Fran say, “I’ve been hit”.  Michael told Fran to try to take it easy, and that he would get help.  But then Fran was shot again – three times in all.  Michael told me that, “Fran didn’t say anything else after that”.  Even then, while telling me about that day, Michael’s voice was quivering with pain.  I told him how sorry I was for his pain, and how grateful I was for his sacrifice, and for Fran’s sacrifice.   

After all of these years, this one Marine’s dedication to another Marine’s memory is an amazing tribute, and it exemplifies the honor of the men and women of our armed services.  There are none finer. 

There was one other bit of information that I learned about Fran’s death, when I found out that a book had been written entitled “The Magnificent Bastards”.  It is about the Marines during that time in Vietnam, and there were details about that ambush.  In particular, there is a reference to Fran, by name, as having died in that battle.  These are cherished glimpses into Fran’s last day, and last moments alive on earth, and I will forever hold them dear. 

As I prepare to close, I want to tell you about one other day in Fran’s life.  It was a day when Fran was still alive -- strong, vibrant, and determined.  I want to tell you about a conversation – more like an argument – that Fran and I had on that day, during his last home leave.  We had gone for a walk over to Penn Avenue, near his home, and we were cutting through the parking lot of a funeral home.  Even though I had always expected Fran to come home safe, I suddenly became overwhelmed with grief, and we stopped awhile on some steps, while I cried a bit. 

I remember telling him that I didn’t want him to go.  I told him that everyone was going to Canada, so why did he have to go to fight in a war for any of “them”.  I was totally falling apart, and suddenly, in a split second, Fran stiffened up, and backed up, and became so angry at me, that for a minute, I thought he might grab me and shake me.  He had never been angry with me like that, and I was startled.   

He then began speaking in a way that I remember seeming a bit like a soliloquy.  He was there with me, and speaking to me, but almost not with me.  It was like he was speaking past me.  Maybe he was somehow speaking in some timeless moment to me, to you, and to everyone. 

I paraphrase, but what he said follows: 

“Jeannie, stop it right now!!!  Don’t you understand what is happening?  The world is a dangerous place, and if I don’t go over there, then who will go?  And if no one goes, how will we keep the danger away?  Communism (and I think Fran meant any “isms” that threaten Americanism) is wicked, and it enslaves its people, and then its neighbors, and soon it will come here like a big wave across the ocean.  It will be in our cities, and in our homes, and in our lives, and then when it is here, it will be too big to fight.  No, I will go, and I will find it now, wherever it is, and I will do my part to stamp it out.  And if I don’t return, it will still be worth it.” 

I was so stunned, that I didn’t move for a long time.  I just looked at him staring at some distant-looking invisible point.  For those moments, I felt like he was not there with me.  I felt like I was just one of the many Americans that he wanted to help. 

A few days later he left.  I remember the day he left.  He boarded a plane at Pittsburgh Airport.  It was a hot, hot July day.  He kissed everyone in his family gathered there, and then he kissed me, and he held me for a long time, as if to squeeze the last ounce of love out of me, and then I remember him walking up the airline steps.  He never looked back.  I think he was already on his mission.  He paused briefly at the door.  I remember the shadow of the airplane doorway across his uniform back, and then he disappeared into the plane, and I never saw him again. 

His mission was to serve, and to sacrifice, and if necessary, to die, and he accomplished all of those things.  And now he is buried in a little cemetery in Pittsburgh, and his little plot is hardly even noticeable by random passer-bys.  But even though the memory of him may be forgotten by most, his honor and courage and glory remain FOREVER.  

It is unfortunate that today in America, through our new passive devotion to “Peace at any Cost”, that we DO NOT HONOR Fran, and we DO NOT HONOR all of the others like Fran, who have devoted their lives to our LIBERTY.  Even in Fran’s short lifetime, he knew that freedom is never free, and that the price for freedom must be paid in EVERY generation. 

Long ago, America lost her way, and gave up her honor through the shameless way in which we have chosen to live our lives, but there was always the hope that we would still guard our borders, and keep the evil “isms” away.   

If Fran were here now, I think he would be afraid for all of us.