This afternoon I made a trip to Laurel Cemetery just outside of my hometown of Haven, Ks. It's a beautiful cemetery, quiet and serene, flanked by wheat fields in the summer time and a steady stream of Amish horses and buggies that pass by on the dirt road that runs by its entrance.
I grew up learning how to walk the cemeteries, taught by two of the most wonderful women that I knew, my Mom and my Grandmother Brown. I learned at a very early age that there was nothing to fear by going there and that a whole lot of history lessons could be learned by walking among the rows and reading the gravestones of people you knew and those you had never met. I thank those two women in my life for showing me that you could find a lot of peace by visiting the hallowed ground that was the final resting place for so many people, all gone before us.
Today I had a purpose in going, a reason for finding some peace. And I found "it" in the south eastern corner of Laurel Cemetery. I was looking for the graves of two young men who died 44 years ago in the jungles of Vietnam. Their names were Henry Fisher and Sergio Albert and they were from my hometown--Haven, Kansas.
Vietnam had seemed so very far away from the pastoral setting of small-town life in Haven. Oh yeah, we had read about it and you couldn't miss it on the evening news each night, but to lose two young men within such a short time of one another was so very devastating to their families as well as the entire town of Haven. Their deaths left a lasting impact on me and whenever I visited Laurel Cemetery in the months and years ahead, I always found myself looking for their graves to stop and think about them for a moment.
Year after year, it seemed like the war just kept going on with no end in sight. The draft had been reinstated and our family had said our good-byes to my older brother, Mike Scott, as he went off to Vietnam for a year in late 1967. I can still remember the look in my folks' eyes as Mike's plane lifted off in Wichita that autumn afternoon. They had to be thinking, would they ever see him again?
By the time I had made it to high school in 1969, the effects of the war were seen everywhere in the U.S. Anti-war protests were common place on college campuses as the dissent against being in Vietnam was rising. Draft cards were burned and veterans coming back home again were often met with scorn from people who didn't understand why the United States was involved in the war. It was such a confusing time for kids my age as we watched our country being torn apart by the effects of a war that seemed to have no end.....where could we find some peace? The answer came in the form of a piece of jewelry...known at that time as a "P.O.W." bracelet.
I remember sending off $1 for one to be sent to me from Colorado Springs. I was a sophomore in high school the day that it arrived in the mail and when I put it on my left wrist, I vowed to keep it on until the person whose name was on my bracelet was accounted for. I wore it faithfully for the next 3 years until finally it snapped into two pieces. But I kept it in my jewelry box and refused to throw it away. I am 56 years old now but I have never forgotten the name of my P.O.W. and today I decided it was high time for me to honor his memory. His name was Lee Nordahl and although I never knew him, his life had a profound impact upon mine.
Lee Edward Nordahl was a 26-year old navy pilot from Choteau, Montana. In December of 1965, Lee was the co-pilot for a reconnaissance mission over North Vietnam. Shortly after take off, the plane he was in was shot down by enemy fire and both he and the pilot were considered M.I.A. because there was no proof that they had indeed died in the crash. Years later, the remains of the pilot, Guy D. Johnson, were returned to the U.S. Lee Nordahl's were never returned and no knowledge of his whereabouts were ever confirmed. To this day, he is listed M.I.A.
Today I decided to honor the memory of the man on my bracelet, who, if he were still living today, would be 72 years old. I remembered him today when I received a tattoo on my left leg, as shown below.....
Ok, I can read some of your minds from my dining room table and some of the thoughts are sounding like, "Peggy are you crazy?" Well, friends, I've been told that before many times. I've often said that if I ever did get a tattoo it would be when I was older (hey that fits today) and when I had a real purpose, a real meaning to any permanent marking on my body. Today I feel that I do. The initials L E N stand for his name, U S N is for his branch of service and the date is the official date of loss by the government. The peace symbol, well that speaks for itself.
I hope that people do ask me about it...I want to tell his story and to make people aware of a time so very long ago and so very far away called the "Vietnam War". So many lives lost, so many people injured, so many people still suffering the effects today even years later. May the generations of the future never forget what happened there and the price paid with so many American lives. May you rest in peace, Lee Nordahl and all the others who gave their lives in the jungles of Vietnam.
"Greater love has no one than this, that he lays down his life for his friends." John 15:13
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