A root beer float with meaning

We met on the afternoon of Sept. 15, 1968. We were both 19-year old Marines who were part of a battalion-size operation in the hills of South Vietnam near the DMZ. I don’t remember why we struck up a conversation that day, but I remember talking about home, how hot it was, and how nice it would be to have an ice cold root beer float.

I also remember you telling me that your nickname was Swampy. We talked for a few minutes and parted ways. Later that night our perimeter was probed by the NVA and you were killed by small-arms fire. For decades our conversation has haunted me.

Why do I remember the trivial things we talked about that fateful day, but not your face? Through the marvels of the Internet and a great deal of detective work, I was finally able to determine your name. I was also able to correspond with a friend of your family, and your sister. Your sister and I emailed back and forth several times, but she said that she couldn’t talk to me on the phone because the pain is still too great.

A year or so ago, I received a phone call from your brother. He told me about you and your family, and how your parents never recovered from the devastation of your death. He sent me a photograph, which was taken in Vietnam shortly before you were killed. Even after seeing it, I don’t remember your face.

I speak to high school students about my experiences in Vietnam and have included your photograph and story as part of my presentation. On this Memorial Day, I honor you and all the brave men and women who have sacrificed their lives for our great nation. My Marine Corps flag is flying in your honor, and I’ll have the root beer float that the young Marine from Louisiana never got to enjoy.

Semper Fidelis

Steve Haisley

Vernon Hills