OneManGang
Senior Member
- Joined
- Sep 7, 2004
- Messages
- 2,033
- Likes
- 9,654
The Summer of 68
I was a skinny eleven year-old without a care in the world that day in June. Unbeknownst to me, as I rode my bike and cooked up adventures in our fields, two young Marines in dress blues were walking up the steps to my uncles house in North Hills. My aunt was home at the time, and being a highly intelligent woman, she knew precisely what this meant. I doubt she even had to read the telegram that began, I regret to inform you
Bobby was dead, killed in action near Cam Hung village just north of the Cam Lo River in Quang Tri Province, Republic of Vietnam on June 19, 1968.
The news traveled through the family like a blazing arrow. It would be several days before the mortal remains of Corporal Robert A. McLoughlin, Jr. would make their last journey home. That interval was Hell on everyone. Finally though, the word came and we all gathered at Roberts Funeral Home on Magnolia Ave. There was one last duty to be performed. Someone had to positively identify the body. As we were led in my aunt gazed into the coffin and said softly, Thats my Bobby. It was the first time I had ever seen grown men openly weep. My uncle, Bobbys dad, who had served in the Army Air Force in WWII and remained in the reserves afterward, was a picture of stunned grief. My own dad had already buried two of his brothers since wed moved to Knoxville and my mother had lost one of her brothers and her mother and I had been to all those funerals but I had never seen emotions like this before.
The next few days were something of blur. I remember more images than specifics: the precision of the Marine honor guards; a funny story from the Marine assigned to be liaison with family; a write up in the News-Sentinel that noted that Bobby was the 40th some-odd Knox Countian to die in Vietnam; a flag-draped coffin being carried to the grave; three volleys and taps. For years afterward, one of my prized possessions was a spent blank cartridge fired to honor my cousins passing.
I was a senior in high school in April 1975 when Saigon fell. For obvious reasons I felt that loss more deeply than others at school. In later years I would travel to Washington and visit the Vietnam Memorial and look up his name. The starkness of Maya Lins design perfectly captures the nature of that war. Every Memorial Day I load up my wife and our boys and go to the graves of my family members who served in the armed forces to plant flags. I try to explain to my sons what their cousin Bobby, his dad, my dad and the rest did for us. Vietnam is, to them of course, a subject as obscure and distant as the Peloponnesian War. I dont think they get it but Im still going to try.
At the end of the movie The Outlaw Josey Wales Clint Eastwood utters a line that I think sums up Americas Vietnam experience, I reckon we all died a little in that damned war.
We all die a little every time an American soldier falls in battle or a slow-moving hearse bears the flag-draped coffin of a veteran to the cemetery. However, by their willingness to leave hearth and home to put steel behind Lincoln's notion that "government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth" we are also enriched beyond measure.
So, to my cousin Bobby, to all our living veterans, and to all those who sleep in cemeteries in this country and around the world, I say thank you and Godspeed.
PAT GANG
Knoxville, TN
Author's note: I originally wrote this about ten years ago. This morning (Memorial Day 2012) I was honored to take part in the reading of the names at the East Tennessee Veterans Memorial at World's Fair Park. I participated last year but had not had the time to sign up to do so this year. A good friend of mine who flew helicopters in Vietnam had sent me a message that he would be reading at 9 AM. I went to be there and support him as he honored those he remembers as his brothers. There was an opening in the roster of readers and I stood to the podium. As I read the names of those from Meigs and Monroe Counties who went off to World War II and never saw hearth or family again, I felt my throat tighten as I realized that behind each of their names is a story much like that above.
As we enjoy this Memorial Day let us remember in our hearts that, in the words of the old song, we do indeed, Find the cost of freedom buried in the ground.
- PG
I was a skinny eleven year-old without a care in the world that day in June. Unbeknownst to me, as I rode my bike and cooked up adventures in our fields, two young Marines in dress blues were walking up the steps to my uncles house in North Hills. My aunt was home at the time, and being a highly intelligent woman, she knew precisely what this meant. I doubt she even had to read the telegram that began, I regret to inform you
Bobby was dead, killed in action near Cam Hung village just north of the Cam Lo River in Quang Tri Province, Republic of Vietnam on June 19, 1968.
The news traveled through the family like a blazing arrow. It would be several days before the mortal remains of Corporal Robert A. McLoughlin, Jr. would make their last journey home. That interval was Hell on everyone. Finally though, the word came and we all gathered at Roberts Funeral Home on Magnolia Ave. There was one last duty to be performed. Someone had to positively identify the body. As we were led in my aunt gazed into the coffin and said softly, Thats my Bobby. It was the first time I had ever seen grown men openly weep. My uncle, Bobbys dad, who had served in the Army Air Force in WWII and remained in the reserves afterward, was a picture of stunned grief. My own dad had already buried two of his brothers since wed moved to Knoxville and my mother had lost one of her brothers and her mother and I had been to all those funerals but I had never seen emotions like this before.
The next few days were something of blur. I remember more images than specifics: the precision of the Marine honor guards; a funny story from the Marine assigned to be liaison with family; a write up in the News-Sentinel that noted that Bobby was the 40th some-odd Knox Countian to die in Vietnam; a flag-draped coffin being carried to the grave; three volleys and taps. For years afterward, one of my prized possessions was a spent blank cartridge fired to honor my cousins passing.
I was a senior in high school in April 1975 when Saigon fell. For obvious reasons I felt that loss more deeply than others at school. In later years I would travel to Washington and visit the Vietnam Memorial and look up his name. The starkness of Maya Lins design perfectly captures the nature of that war. Every Memorial Day I load up my wife and our boys and go to the graves of my family members who served in the armed forces to plant flags. I try to explain to my sons what their cousin Bobby, his dad, my dad and the rest did for us. Vietnam is, to them of course, a subject as obscure and distant as the Peloponnesian War. I dont think they get it but Im still going to try.
At the end of the movie The Outlaw Josey Wales Clint Eastwood utters a line that I think sums up Americas Vietnam experience, I reckon we all died a little in that damned war.
We all die a little every time an American soldier falls in battle or a slow-moving hearse bears the flag-draped coffin of a veteran to the cemetery. However, by their willingness to leave hearth and home to put steel behind Lincoln's notion that "government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth" we are also enriched beyond measure.
So, to my cousin Bobby, to all our living veterans, and to all those who sleep in cemeteries in this country and around the world, I say thank you and Godspeed.
PAT GANG
Knoxville, TN
Author's note: I originally wrote this about ten years ago. This morning (Memorial Day 2012) I was honored to take part in the reading of the names at the East Tennessee Veterans Memorial at World's Fair Park. I participated last year but had not had the time to sign up to do so this year. A good friend of mine who flew helicopters in Vietnam had sent me a message that he would be reading at 9 AM. I went to be there and support him as he honored those he remembers as his brothers. There was an opening in the roster of readers and I stood to the podium. As I read the names of those from Meigs and Monroe Counties who went off to World War II and never saw hearth or family again, I felt my throat tighten as I realized that behind each of their names is a story much like that above.
As we enjoy this Memorial Day let us remember in our hearts that, in the words of the old song, we do indeed, Find the cost of freedom buried in the ground.
- PG
Last edited:
