| Class Of 1966 By Harvey Arnold - 40 Years Later |
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As I ponder the approaching August 5th reunion for the class of 66, the excitement surrounding the possibility of reuniting with old high-school friends and acquaintances is tempered by the knowledge that many of our classmates who paid the human cost of the Vietnam War won’t be there. At the age of 60, I fully comprehend the entity of a life and the depth of sacrificing one’s life for their country, and that has given me considerable cause for reflection. For the duration of my unit’s flight to Vietnam, the roar of the engines from the C-130 was so deafening that even the most basic, face-to-face communication was impossible. Consequently, we were left alone with our thoughts for much of the four-day flight. The only alternative to staring at my buddies sitting on the other side of the plane was occupying my mind with recent, high-school memories. Since I was only 18 my high-school days and classmates were not that many months removed, so I spent much of the flight time mentally retracing my daily treks to McNeil’s Grocery Store, Langbean’s Bakery, and Peat’s Meats. I even visualized walking the hallways to locate my classrooms as if I were still a junior at Vero Beach High School. I also reviewed the sequence of events that had seemingly catapulted me forward in time to my present, ominous predicament. I wondered if my classmates knew about our truant officer, Tom Williams, catching me skipping school and hauling me into the principal’s office. There, Principal Kirkland glared at me with total disdain and exasperation, and after an uncomfortable period of silence, he pronounced judgment on my future: “Harvey Arnold, if you don’t change your direction in life you’re headed straight for the state penitentiary.” Hearing those words of damnation from the highest authority was tantamount to the unexpected sucker punch that doubles you over. So the next day--skipping school again--I fortuitously passed by the Armed Forces Recruiting Office where Mr. Kirkland’s words of condemnation echoed in my mind. Within minutes I was taking the Armed Forces Entrance Exam, and on January 25, 1965, I did an about face: I heeded my principal’s advice and abruptly changed my direction in life forever by quitting high school and joining the Army. There was much irony in the days and weeks immediately following my life-changing decision. Our class jester, Danny Hazel, showed up at the Tower Restaurant where I was to meet the recruiting sergeant to drive me to Miami for my physical examination. Surely everyone would be surprised to learn that both Danny and I quit school on the same day to join the Army. However, the most ironic event was Kenney Signore being recycled into my unit during the fourth week of basic training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. Kenny had quit high school and joined the Army several weeks before I did, but he had become ill during basic training and missed too much training to graduate with his original unit. As a consequence, he was recycled into my company. Longing for home and friends, Kenny evidently identified with me as a home boy, so my worst tormentor in high school became my best buddy throughout the remainder of basic training. Who would have thought? Mainly, though, my thoughts were of my own fears, ineptitudes, and self doubts about my ability to meet the challenges and unforeseen events that lay ahead. Basic Training was just eighteen months removed and the physical demands had been a daunting challenge to the seventeen-year-old boy who stood all of 5’ 6” and weighed 105 pounds. Indeed, for my first year in the Army I had simply been referred to as “The Kid.” I also reflected on the words my father had written in his only letter to me during basic training. He admonishingly wrote that although he had been opposed to my decision to quit high school and join the Army, it was, nonetheless, my decision. He told me it was time to leave irresponsibility and immaturity behind, and time to become a man. He went on to say that I had stepped into a man’s shoes and to make damn sure that I wore them, because there was no more room in his life for me unless I did. Tough love! Now on the flight, I reflected on the scene at the Greyhound Bus Station that had occurred just days before: My father and I had already said our perfunctory goodbyes before I boarded the bus. As I made my way down the aisle toward an empty seat, my progress was suddenly halted by an unexpected force that spun me around. There, with tears streaming down his cheek was my father who had followed me onto the bus. He clutched me to him, kissed me squarely on the lips, told me that he loved me, and then exited the bus just as quickly as he had entered. I always knew that my father loved me; it’s just that he had never told me so face to face before. Vietnam was hard time; and, just like serving a prison sentence you couldn’t see your future until the day you were released and passed through the gate into the arms of your loved ones. We endured the elements, the separation from our families, the inclement weather, and the lack of amenities. We endured the long nights whether they were spent in the field, on the perimeter, shot-gunning convoys, or in the temporary -- but treasured -- refuge of base camp. We lost the remaining vestiges of our youth and left any youthful misconceptions about war behind as we witnessed and participated in man’s inhumanity towards man. For the majority of our class, the Vietnam War is now in the history books, revisited only when viewed on the History or Military Channel through the intelligent lens of hindsight. For me, however, the Vietnam experience continues to exert a powerful influence on every aspect of my life by serving as a constant reminder of what almost wasn’t. So forgive me if my excitement about the possibility of reconnecting with old classmates at our 40th reunion is tempered by the knowledge that those who paid the human price of the Vietnam won’t be there. Danny Hazel, Tim Spurlock and Kenney Signore all went on to serve in Vietnam where Tim and Kenney were badly wounded. Tragically, Steve Wiggins, Mark Jackson, Louis Laudermilk, and Frankie Clovis all made the ultimate sacrifice. I returned home safely on September 7th, 1967. On their behalf, I would like all of you to know that although we did not walk across the stage to graduate with you, you were always foremost in our thoughts and dreams of home; and, the chorus line of our constant prayers was always for a safe return home to family, friends, and the sleepy little town of Vero Beach. Harvey E. Arnold, Ph. D. |
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