MY HERO

MY HERO
Written by Marilyn Duncan – Buck
February 2003

In a matter of a few months I would see the spirit of a devoted soldier fight his last battle. Being raised in a military family I often took my father’s courage, strength, commitment, and devotion to his family and country for granted. My father protected us from any fears or concerns he may have been feeling, but I was about to witness it firsthand.

At the early age of 17, my father entered the Marine Corp. He enlisted so that he could help his divorced mother during the depression. He sent most of his small checks home to her to help feed and clothe his younger brothers and sisters. His service in the Marine Corp took him to the China Sea at the end of W.W. II where they fought the Japanese. He was part of what has come to be called a “China Marine”. After his Marine Corp stay was completed he joined the United States Army, going to OCS (Officer Candidate School) and was commissioned into the United States Army as a Second Lieutenant. His first duty station after OCS was in the Nevada desert. Some might think that would be a great station, but not so. He was in charge of a group of soldiers who would be located one mile from ground zero during the testing of the atomic bomb. Little did he know that this was one battle be would fight much later. My father was what some in the military called “a soldier’s soldier” or a “mustang” working his way up the ranks. His thirty year career took him too many places and into two more conflicts, the Korean War and Vietnam. His love of his country was such a humbling experience to witness. It gave me a pure in-depth respect for our country and those who proudly serve and defend it. I proudly wear the name “army brat”, as it has given me an education that can never be replaced.

On a cold mid-Missouri evening in February 1996, my life changed forever. I received a telephone call from my father. This was unusual, as he preferred face to face conversation. This stemmed from his days spent as a Commanding Officer in the Army. But tonight he used the telephone. “Sis,” he said. “I have some bad news.” My heart stopped, as I thought it was something about my mother. She had been critically ill the year before and we almost lost her. I was about to find out, it was not my mom but my father.

As I leaned up against the wall, as to hold myself up, he continued. He said that the next morning he would be entering the hospital for surgery and that I should be there. Before I could ask why, he said, “I have colon cancer.” I must have gone silent, my mind remembering this big strong solider, because I heard him say, “Are you there?” My heart was pounding so hard. We continued to talk for some time, as if it was our last. I told him I would be there. I sensed his fear for being alone.

The next day came too soon, I had to be there at 5:30 a.m. and it was 4:00 a.m. I seemed to be in a daze as I prepared myself. When I arrived at the hospital, many members of my extended family were entering the hospital. We all made our way to the waiting room, where family seemed to take over. This man who was about to have surgery was somewhat of a mentor to us all. He was respected and loved by all.

Before surgery, we all gathered around his bed, talking and praying. Although my father believed in God, I did not see how much he depended on God until his illness. As we finished praying, he was kissed and hugged by each person there. As they prepared to wheel him out of the room, he looked at each of us and said, “I will be fine, you all take care of each other, this is just another battle I will fight and win.” Somehow we believed him. His voice had a lot of authority in it when he spoke. Time seemed to creep by, and then we received the news we were not anticipating. It was not good. The cancer had spread very fast since diagnosis and there was little hope. His cancer spread from his colon to his liver and was attacking his brain.

During the next few months, my father tried everything, chemotherapy to radiation. He was fighting his “enemy” every step of the way. He was treating his cancer like the enemies he fought in W.W. II, Korean War and Vietnam, never retreating. It was during this time that we were to find out that the doctors felt my father’s cancer was caused by his direct exposure during the testing of the atomic bomb. Yes that was many many years before, but studies were done on those soldiers that witnessed that event and it was shown that many of those soldier’s that witnessed that event had developed these fast spreading cancers and died from them.

From February to September of that year his fight continued, until his enemy decided to really fight dirty. In September, his brain was completely taken over by the cancer and he began to have seizures. As the ambulance took him to the hospital, I took a good look at the man I considered my hero. This would be his last hospital stay. I looked at the man who stood 10 feet tall to me, with broad shoulders, and a very sharp mind. He now looked like someone who had been in a concentration camp. The twinkle in his eye, firm touch and words of encouragement were gone.

During the next few weeks, my brother, mother and I would take turns staying by his side, never leaving him alone. My shift was 5:00 p.m. to 7:00 a.m. every day, as I did not work. I drove the 25 miles each way daily to sit with my hero. When we would talk, I would listen to his war stories that I had heard my entire life. We would talk about my grandchildren, his great grandchildren and the apples of his eyes. He would tell me about the nurse who bathed him daily and how they would sing his favorite hymn, Amazing Grace. I never knew that was his favorite hymn. He would start to sing it and would fall asleep. I would sit there holding his hand and remembering my years with him. Wondering why my father did not let us see the sweet, gentle side of him.

On a cloudy day in late September, I began my usual drive to the hospital, not knowing it would be my last. As I entered the room I sensed something different. My father, who all along had refused any type of pain medication, had slipped into a coma. As he laid there, my mother kissed his hand and told him see would see him in the morning. I touched him and let him know I was there. He squeezed my finger, our little signal to each other. That evening about 9, the nurses came in to turn him. His hand was in mine, and then as they turned him, he clutched my hand and went lifeless. I had just felt the life of my father leave. I said out loud, “Daddy I love you.” He was gone, his battle was over and his enemy had won.

The next few days were a blur, a large military funeral with two honor guards, Marine Corp and United States Army, and hundreds of family and friends. As I sat at the cemetery, listening to the taps played from the far away bugler, the 21-gun salute, looking at those in uniform, I was reminded of my father. I clutched the flag that had draped my father’s casket and my thoughts went to all the battles this soldier had fought for his country and his undying love for it. He had never given up and never retreated from any of the battles. His courage, devotion, commitment and love of his country and his family had given him so much strength during this time. Yes, even at the end he was a “soldier’s soldier”.




Footnote: I wrote this while a student at the University of Missouri – Columbia.