 |
 |
 |
 |
|
||||||||||||||
| Your account |  |
Today's news index | |
Weather | |
Traffic | |
Movies | |
Restaurants | |
Today's events | ||
|
||||||||||||||
|
|
|
|
Monday, May 31, 2004 - Page updated at 01:26 A.M. Pride and sorrow familiar mix for families of fallen By Erik Lacitis
The memories of those who died more recently, in the Gulf War in 1991 or just this past year in Baghdad, still sear the emotions of those who knew them. One father who lost his son keeps just two photos of him, one in his wallet, the other at home. "I don't want memorabilia that reminds me," said Ron Fleming of North Bend, whose son, Joshua John Fleming, 19, was killed July 23, 1991, in an ammunitions explosion in Kuwait. Behind every gravestone for a fallen soldier, there is a story of a promising future ended, of a family not made, of a camping trip with children not taken, of birthdays not celebrated. Behind every gravestone, there are those left behind. Thomas Combs, 55, of Monroe, a former Air Force sergeant, cannot forget the aircrew of a Spectre AC-130A gunship shot down over Laos on March 29, 1972. "I was the crew chief assigned to this aircraft and perhaps the last person to see these men alive as I sent them off to battle," Combs said. "They are always on my mind, and their sacrifice will never be forgotten."
The numbers can be numbing. Driving by the white headstones of a military cemetery, it's easy to ignore why they are there. But on this day, passages from "The Young Dead Soldiers," written by the late poet and writer Archibald MacLeish, are telling. He wrote, in part: "The young dead soldiers do not speak. "Nevertheless they are heard in the still houses ... "They say, We were young. We had died. Remember us ... "They say, We leave you our deaths, Give them their meaning." Here are the stories of a few of those from this state who served, and gave their lives. Pfc. Joshua John Fleming
Josh Fleming, a graduate of Kent-Meridian High School, was killed at age 19 in Kuwait on July 23, 1991.
Instead, he saw two uniformed officers, who asked him to sit down. "I couldn't comprehend what was going on," Fleming recalled. "Then they started reading from this form, you know, 'We regret to inform you ... ' I went out of it at that point. It was hard to function for a year after that. It's like having a severe pain in your heart. It takes a long time for the pain not to die, but recede a little bit." He's the one who keeps just two pictures of his son. "It's my way of avoiding it," he said. His son wasn't the best student in high school, nor the most motivated, said the dad. In his senior year in high school, Fleming shared an apartment with some buddies and bought his own car. "He didn't use drugs or drink. He was a real good kid but maybe kind of immature. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do," said his father. "I actually recommended he go into the service. It helps you grow up and learn discipline. Of course, there is that chance of something bad happening." Fleming's sister, Sabrie Evans of Lynnwood, remembers her brother coming home for Thanksgiving after joining the Army. "I definitely noticed maturity. He was like a man," she said. After the 1991 Iraq war, a lot of unexploded ammunition lay about. The young soldier was part of a team sent to retrieve it. While unloading ammo at an Army base outside Kuwait City, he and two other soldiers were killed. Sometimes, his father says, he can't help but ask himself whether his son would have joined the Army if he hadn't recommended it. The elder Fleming says he took up backpacking as a salve. "It kind of soothed me a little bit," he said. When Evans, who has a 2-½ year-old daughter, thinks about her brother, she wonders what could have been. "I think, what a great uncle he would have been," she said. Sgt. Robin L. Varney Robin Varney, of the Army's 101st Airborne Division, died at age 20 in Vietnam on Sept. 27, 1967.
His sister, Barbara Sawyer, of Maple Valley, remembered her surprise when her older brother, a 1965 Rainier Beach High School graduate, turned down a football scholarship from a junior college and announced he was joining the Army. "I told him Mom and Dad would kill him, and he said there wasn't a thing they could do about it," Sawyer said. When he was on leave and at home, Sawyer said, "I started to enjoy my brother's company." The two would sit at the kitchen table and talk. She would tell him about a guy at school she had a crush on. Varney and his buddies would take her to the old Sicks' Stadium parking lot in Southeast Seattle and teach her how to drive. He even bought her a Simon & Garfunkel album, which she still has. In Vietnam, Varney was part of the 101st Airborne "Screaming Eagles." Before he left, he fixed up his sister on a double date with a friend. "This may not seem like unusual behavior to most people, but to me it was almost unbelievable," she said. The two corresponded. . "I wrote him a lot. He was the one who heard all about my frustrations at home, the unfairness I had to deal with. ... How silly my problems must have seemed when compared to life in the middle of war." Then, on a September morning, she was asked to meet her dad in the vice principal's office of her school. "Bad news, sweetie," her father said. Varney was awarded a Silver Star for heroic action on a search-and-destroy mission, in which, "with complete disregard for his wounds," he "unhesitatingly pulled himself up and assaulted the insurgents." At the funeral, seeing her brother in the coffin, she noticed his hair had been combed with a wave in front. "Never, no way, how could someone do this?" Sawyer remembered. "It wasn't that he looked horrible; it was that just he didn't look like the person I had known my whole life, and I know he would have hated anyone to see him with his hair combed that way!" At the gravesite, an Army bugler played "Taps." It was, Sawyer said, "the saddest sound in all the world." Sgt. Takaaki Okazaki
His parents had immigrated to Seattle from Japan, says his brother, Frank Okazaki, 77. There were five girls and two boys in the family. Takaaki Okazaki, the first son, was being readied to take over the family furniture business. He was sent to the University of Washington to study foreign trade, rather unusual in those days, said his brother. Then the war came and the family was first sent to an interment camp in Idaho, and then relocated to Salt Lake City. Being relocated didn't stop Takaaki from being drafted. In a meticulously kept family scrapbook, his younger brother has pasted the photos his brother sent. They show a young man proudly wearing his uniform. Frank Okazaki, who was in high school, remembers when the telegram arrived: Killed in action. He recalls what the news did to the family: His mother, Tatsu. "I don't know how to describe it. She was hysterical for 10 years after. She took it very hard." His father, Kazuo. "My dad, he got elderly all of a sudden." Frank Okazaki was later drafted, although by then it was peacetime, and he was part of the occupation of Italy. He is not an individual given to introspective talk. But, 60 years later, he wanted his brother remembered. "He served, didn't he?" Spc. Justin Hebert
"This is going to be a whole different Memorial Day from years past," said his father, Bill Hebert, of Silvana, Snohomish County. "We used to take the family and go camping and stuff. It's different now, because it hit home. I'm sure the rest of the families who've lost loved ones feel the same way." Bill and Robin Hebert will honor their son today by attending memorial services. They will also visit his grave, which sits in a small church cemetery that has overlooked the village for more than a century. They wanted their son buried there because it was close and because he had a friend buried there. Hebert's father has visited the grave weekly since his son's death. "I just basically talk to him, tell him about the weather and what's going on day to day." Bill Hebert, 47, has had other relatives serve in war, including his own father and father-in-law. "But all made it back," he said. Cheerful and burning with energy, Justin Hebert was so intent on leaving the small town that he committed to joining the Army when he was 17. He was still a junior at Arlington High School and needed his parents' signature to enlist. He spent his senior year running and lifting weights, getting ready for the Army by adding muscle to his thin frame. Five days after graduation, he left the trailer park his father manages and started boot camp. "He knew he wanted to see the world and go to college," said his uncle, Dan Hebert, at the young man's funeral. Hebert thrived in the Army. He met a girlfriend in Germany, partied in nightclubs in Italy and earned 40 college credits taking online courses in business administration. Today, pictures of him from his school years and his military service adorn his parents' home. As the weather warms, the father thinks of what could have been. "I guess this time of year, he'd be playing soccer," he said. "He was in the summer leagues, and we'd all go down and watch him." Maj. Arthur Miles Austin
His brother, Henry Austin, 74, said Arthur may have been 29. Some details from so long ago have faded. He has only one picture of his brother, nothing else. Other family memorabilia were lost after another brother died. The brothers grew up on the small island. Their father owned a farm, where he raised chickens and milk cows, and had a truck route. Henry Austin eventually became a school-maintenance man. But his brother decided his career would be in the Air Force. He lived in Riverside, Calif., where he assigned flight crews to various planes. When the Korean War began, Arthur was sent into action. "The last we ever heard, he was taking pictures on reconnaissance," says his brother. "I'm sure they took him prisoner. When the hostilities ended, his name was on a list of those being held. But they wouldn't let him go. I'm very bitter about this."
"The Korean War was a horrible thing," he said. These days, Austin tends his garden. He is philosophical about not having memorabilia from that era. "Medals and glories, it means little to me." Even that one single photo of his brother? "When I die, it'll probably go in the dump," he said. Seattle Times staff reporter Ray Rivera contributed to this story. Erik Lacitis: 206-464-2237 or elacitis@seattletimes.com
Copyright © 2004 The Seattle Times Company
|
|
|
  |
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
seattletimes.com home
Home delivery
| Contact us
| Search archive
| Site map
| Low-graphic
NWclassifieds
| NWsource
| Advertising info
| The Seattle Times Company
Back to top