Where We Come From on Memorial Day

I come from San Diego, Calif. And I come from Point Mugu, Calif. I come from Oxnard, Wichita Falls, Midway Island, and Providence, Rhode Island. I come from Plattsburgh, N.Y., Denver, Colo., Panama City, Fla., San Antonio, Texas, Macon, Ga., Portugal and Germany. I come from your home town, my home town and his hometown.

They came from many of the same places and some were friends who came from places like Woomera, Lyon, Surrey, Toronto and elsewhere. Their tired feet treaded soil in countries they’d never head of dodging bullets and missiles and tank shells and the MPs. But when they came home, they’d come from there, too. And like me and many others, when the call to war sounded, they went places they didn’t want to go. Some were scared. Some were eager. Some were cowards. Some were heroes. Regardless of their circumstance, they went. Some did not return.

Today is the day in the United States when we honor our fallen. My comrades. Your neighbors, bowling teammates, hunting buddies, bridge partners, brothers, sisters, son and daughters.  I remember two people who, as soldiers, left this world a better place than they found it. First, my grandfather, James Hayman, Sr., He flew a C-47 on D-Day over Normandy until anti-aircraft fire caused shrapnel to rip up his eye and force him to retire. he was a brilliant man — artist, engineer, pilot and carouser. I miss him though I only barely knew him.

I also remember Sergeant John Levitow. I’ll let the Wikipedia explanation take it from here:

On the pilot’s command, the gunner pulled the safety pin and tossed the flare through the open cargo door. Suddenly, Spooky 71 was jarred by a tremendous explosion. A North Vietnamese Army’s 82-millimeter mortar shell hit the right wing and exploded inside the wing frame. The blast raked the fuselage with flying shrapnel. Everyone in the back of Spooky 71 was wounded, including Levitow who was hit by shrapnel that he was quoted as saying “felt like being hit by a two-by-four.”

Despite his wounds, Levitow saw a loose, burning Mark 24 flare had been knocked free in the fuselage and was rolling amid ammunition cans that contained 19,000 rounds of live ammunition.

Through a haze of pain and shock, Levitow, with 40 shrapnel wounds in his legs, side and back, and fighting a 30-degree bank; crawled to the flare and threw himself upon it. Hugging it to his body, he dragged himself back to the rear of the aircraft and hurled it through the open cargo door saving the aircraft and its crew. When the aircraft finally returned to the base, the extent of the damage became apparent. The AC-47 had more than 3,500 holes in the wings and fuselage, one measuring more than three feet long.

I had the privilege to interview Sergeant Levitow about a year before he died. I flew to Long Beach, where the Air Force named a huge cargo aircraft after him (“The Spirit of John L. Levitow”), and the Medal of Honor recipient was pretty humbled. We shared the morning and I tried to understand what he did and why.

If you’re able, take a moment to remember those who lost their lives during various wars, battles and engagements across the globe. They came from the same places you and I did — small towns, big cities, farms, suburbs and every where else. And they deserve more than a moment today for us to remember their sacrifices.

If you’re remembering someone today, please share that in the comments.

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