Tuesday, July 5, 2022

Morristown, NJ and Vietnam

 MORRISTOWN AND VIETNAM

 

I consider Morristown as my home town. I lived here from 1958 through 1976 and graduated from MHS in 1966. I was a member of the very first class at County College of Morris.

 

But I would like to share a few things about Vietnam and the town from a Vietnam-era veteran’s perspective.

 

I never heard of Vietnam until I was a sophomore when my European History teacher, Joseph Dempsey had us write a paper about Vietnam. I focused on the Buddist monks who committed suicide by pouring gasoline on themselves and then setting themselves on fire to protest the South Vietnamese government. It was an assignment Mr. Dempsey gave for several years and it helped many of us understand a little about the war that became so divisive. (More about this later).

 

I turned 18 in September of my senior year registering with Selective Service that day without a thought of military service. It was legal proof that I was18 years old. In those days the legal drinking age was 21 in New Jersey but 18 in New York. Many of us would head to the Northern border to places like Greenwood Lake or the Village in the city. Very few of us thought about getting drafted. That same year, military recruiters came the high school. I was a competitive swimmer and had lifesaving, instructor and SCUBA certifications. I spoke to the Navy people about becoming a frogman and doing underwater demolition. I was told it was impossible due to my eyesight. I asked about lifeguarding and teaching swimming but those posts went to NCOs and it would take several years to become one. I also called the Coast Guard office in Newark about search-and-rescue and was told the same thing about my eyes.

 

After graduation, I worked at a couple of office jobs in Morristown and one Saturday, I picked up a copy of the Daily Record to read on the Green and learned one of my best friends, Tristian Hayes, died in Vietnam. It was a shock and I thought about this brilliant, wonderful guy who wanted to be a soldier since middle school had sacrificed his young life in a war very few cared about. At the end of this article you will learn much more about him.

 

When I started at CCM, I was a few years older than most students, but all male students had to be registered with Selective Service. I appeared before the Draft Board to request a student deferment claiming I could not afford to go to college until CCM opened. My request was granted. This was in 1968, a very controversial year with the murders of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. With the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, the war heated up under the Lyndon Johnson administration. I became something of a wanna-be hippie and attended campus protests and an all-night vigil on the Green.  I never did drugs though. A high school classmate, the son of a very popular MHS teacher, took LSD and killed himself by putting his head on the railroad tracks and was run over by a Lackawanna train near the Morristown station. I was too terrified to try them. I had enough problems with self-control.

 

While at CCM, I began working as a freelance newspaper reporter for the Morristown Daily Record covering town meetings in the western part of the county. Since I was a college student and registered for the draft, I was assigned to try to cover Nixon’s draft lottery. “See if you can find someone who has a high number,” the editor told me.  I started to listen to the lottery and had absolutely no problem finding someone. I was number 2. 

 

Many months before, I had gotten on the waiting list for the local Army Reserve unit and I went to their office and asked the Sergeant if it was possible there was an opening available and he gave me the Army’s version of an IQ test. 

 

There was. I could become a drill sergeant! 

 

The unit was designated as a “training” unit. The concept was that if there was a need for cadre to train troops, we would be activated. I would go through Basic Combat Training, a month-long leadership preparation course, Advanced Infantry Training (Vietnam) and Drill Sergeant school.

 

So I had a choice: Enlist in the regular army for three years, the Navy or Coast Guard for four years, get drafted and wind up in the Army or Marines (!) or spend seven months to become a “shake-and-bake” drill sergeant and spend two days a month and two weeks in the summer for the next six years. I chose the drill sergeant opportunity.

 

And so on Jan. 3. 1970, about 30 of us from different parts of our 78th division, a/k/a “Jersey Lightning” boarded a Delta Air Lines jet to New Orleans and then transferred to a 1950s era Trans Texas Airline propeller aircraft where the pilot welcomed us by telling us the aircraft had flown half a million miles without any problems. But then he introduced our stewardess who was wearing tight denim bell bottoms and a tight blouse. She got a wild ovation from us.

 

After deplaning, we got a different reception from Drill Sergeant Russel and friends who began screaming at us to get into and dress up our line. After finding temporary barracks, getting dinner and falling asleep, we were woken at 0-dark-30 to do KP. Later that day, we were given haircuts. Unlike previous weeks a new regulation went into effect as of the new year stating we didn’t have to get our heads shaved, but long hair was long gone. Following the unpublished “Hurry up and wait” regulation, we stood on line to get our uniforms and vaccinations. The next day, was perhaps the funniest day of our orientation. We had an ice storm. You had to understand that we were in the South and many of the base’s permanent party had never seen snow or ice. Soldiers were falling all over and we Jersey guys laughed our butts off as we saw several cars spin out of control, one slamming into a fire hydrant.

 

So much for fun, that night we were moved to the barracks of Alpha-one-two and revived our acquaintance with Drill Sergeant Russell and his friends. We were divided into four barracks. Barracks One was National Guard people from Texas, We Jersey boys were in Barracks Two, and Barracks Three and Four were draftees and enlistees. 

 

We learned to march and do other drills. In about a week we stated to march to rifle ranges. We were introduced to the command “At Ease, March. Drill Sergeant Russell set the pace. He was about 6’3” and had long legs. He set a very rapid pace that had us either tripping or jogging to keep up. By the time we reached the range, we had many people puking up their breakfast. The next day, many of us changed from fried eggs and bacon to a hard-boiled egg. toast and juice.

Most of our training was with the M-16, which included an automatic fire mode we rarely used. We also used the Korean-war era M-14 and Colt .45 caliber pistols. 

 

But the most interesting part of our training was with hand grenades. In the morning, we played with practice ones that we could toss at targets. We also were introduced to grenade launchers that were attached to M-16 rifles. That afternoon, we got to throw real grenades. We stood behind a bunker with a sunken area to take cover in in case someone dropped their grenade before tossing it. In turn, we would throw our grenade over the 8’ wall. I wasn’t thrilled about the distance mine went because I compared it to a baseball. I really didn’t see how far it went. I then watched the guy next to me throw his. Instead of going out, it went way up. I immediately dropped to the pit on the ground with my hands covering my helmet liner. The grenade exploded on the other side of my wall, shaking me off the ground. But I was alive and the guy next to me was given special instructions (500 pushups) from the range sergeant while other cadre were laughing about my duck-and-cover elementary school drills were so well remembered. 

 

We marched to cadence, with a sergeant calling out different songs that we repeated, many of them ribald. But everyone’s favorite was our countdown. “X more weeks of polish and brass, then Fort Polk can kiss my ass!” And finally came the day it could. We participated in a graduation parade with about 1,000 others. The parents of three of my Morristown comrades showed up and treated us Morristown men to lunch.

 

And then it was time to return to the real world until I was to return for more training. I took a bus to the New Orleans airport and flew to Newark. Then I took the train to Morristown and since Mom moved while I was away, I went to her law office next to the Chinese restaurant, showing up in my uniform. They gave mom the rest of the day off  and we went to our old place on Wetmore Avenue where I picked up my car and then went to the new place in Jacob Ford Village. 

 

Leave was spent renewing friendships and girlfriends. Mom came home early and threw a fit when we were caught in bed.  Mom, born in 1908 to an Irish Catholic family, wasn’t so upset about our bed activities as she went wild because the girl was Jewish. I had no clue she was so prejudiced. 

 

After that, I took my car, an eight-year-old Rambler convertible, to Seaside Heights to sort of clear my head. On the way down, I came across two girls hitching and eventually they asked why my hair was so short. I told them I was on leave from the Army. 

They started talking to each other and in a few minutes they asked to be let out. As I pulled away, one of them screamed “baby killer.” Hell, I never had been to ‘Nam, much less was involved in combat. I only shot at paper targets.

 

I spent most of the day on the beach and headed home early to avoid traffic. Around Mt. Kimble Ave. and Colles Ave., there was a girl hitching so I said to myself “what the hell, why not!” I pulled over and seven MHS kids piled into the car. They were heading to Morris Plains and we drove twice around the Green yelling and screaming. As we drove down Speedwell Avenue, we talked and they learned I was in the Army. They started to welcome me back and as they left the car thanking me for the ride, one of the girls kissed me. Morristown people had made a bad day fantastic!

 

When I was in town, I went to the First National Iron Bank at the corner of South Street and Madison Ave. to get some cash from my checking account only to discover it was suspended for inactivity. I showed them my military ID and they re-opened the account with a promise to not close it. On payday, I sent my mother a money order to add to the account. But I had purchased some civilian clothing from the PX with a check that bounced and there was hell to pay until I gave them the business card of the branch manager and they confirmed what happened. 

 

I returned to Fort Polk for Leadership and infantry training, then to Fort Knox for Drill Sergeant School. About 18 months later, I was activated. I returned to Morris County but lived in Randolph and Roxbury, only to spend some days visiting my mother after getting married and living in Queens.

 

After 33 years of marriage, we divorced and I roamed the country for many years. But when in the East, I spent much time with my 1966 senior prom date. We went to our 45th and 50th reunions together and lived together coping with the Covid-19 lockdown. When we decided to break up, I moved to Florida and stayed with another classmate while finding an apartment. One of the things I bought was a “Vietnam-Era” baseball cap and people frequently thanked me for my service. 

 

But before I end this, I want to share one last thing about Morristown and Vietnam. It was probably the finest moment of my life.

 

***

TRISTIAN

I graduated from Morristown (NJ) High school in 1966. During that time, I was on the school’s stage many times: receiving athletic awards, appearing in plays and in concerts as a member of the school chorus.

 

But the proudest moment of my life happened on that stage, about 45 years after graduation. 

 

Before I describe that moment, it is important to understand a little about Morristown. It has a long and proud history. The town headquartered George Washington’s revolutionary war army during two winters, one of them being the worst in the colonial era’s history. Throughout the town there are many statues and three areas of a National Historical Park:  the Ford mansion headquarters, The troop area in Jockey Hollow, and Fort Nonsense at the highest part of the town. It was there that I lost my virginity to a Morris Township girll and got married to a Brookyn woman.

 

The center of the town has a green that is the site of many parades and festivals. I also remember attending an all-night anti-war protest there. There were several Memorial Day parades when I marched with my Boy Scout troop.

 

Samuel Morris invented the telegraph here. Thomas Nast, the newspaper cartoonist who fought Tammany Hall and gave us the images of the Republican Elephant, the Democratic Donkey and even Santa, lived here. The house I lived in was built just after the Civil War and it featured many of the ideas advocated by women’s magazines at that time which included the early concepts of childhood and adolescence. 

 

In other words, the town is very aware of and promotes its past. 

 

When I attended the high school, the main entrance featured a dual staircase, called the “senior staircase.” Its use was restricted to senior students and during the school’s last week of every year, there was a “senior skip day” when the seniors decided not to go to school. On that day, the juniors would “rush” the stairs and occupy it for a brief time as they made their claim to it for the next school year.

 

Since then, the school has a couple of expansions and the stairs no longer occupy the central status it once did. Instead, it has been changed to a “Wall of Fame” where distinguished alumni, teachers and athletes are featured on plaques. I suppose it means little to the current students, but visitors can share memories and inspiration from the many names there. 

 

The school hosts an annual “Heritage Day” where those who are to be added to the wall are honored and announced at an assembly. When I learned about this new tradition, I was quite pleased especially since the senior stairs concept had ended. I never liked the undemocratic “clique” system that had created so many rivalries and emotional pain for those who weren’t permitted to use the stairs simply because of their date of birth. 

 

So anyhow, I had some unfinished business with Morristown and I made it my job to see that Tristan Whitney Hayes, class of 1967, would have a plaque there to honor him. 

 

I met Tristan when I was a freshman and he was in eighth grade. We were both in the same boy scout troop and I was a patrol leader and he my assistant patrol leader. We planned many events such as campouts together and also became close friends. I remember we once visited Times Square in New York City and browsed many stores. He was especially interested in the metal soldiers representing historic battles such as Napoleon’s downfall at Waterloo. Even at that age, he wanted to be a soldier. 

 

We grew apart as our interests in school varied. I was into sports, debate and drama while he was more academic, though he played football. Without a common interest, we drifted apart.

 

During those high school years, the war in Vietnam began to heat up, especially after President Kennedy was murdered and Johnson replaced him. In 1963 and 1964,Joseph Dempsey, our European History teacher, had us all write papers about the war that was starting to involve more forces. In retrospect, those papers gave us some information about a war that would become so divisive.

 

Tristan graduated a year after me and as soon as he graduated, his family moved to Massachusetts. The last I heard about him was a brief newspaper article that he was killed in action in Vietnam; quite possibly the first from our town to die in that war, but certainly not the last. 

 

Many years later, I was chaperoning my son’s eighth grade trip to Washington, DC, and visited the Vietnam Memorial Wall. I found out where Tristian’s name was listed and spoke about him to the students and how he was more than just a name. Many adults gathered around while I was speaking and listened to Tristian’s story.  

 

A decade or so later, I looked him up on the Internet, which had finally become a major research and social phenomena. His story was incredible. Then a private first class, he was on patrol with his platoon when they were ambushed by the Viet Cong. His sergeant and platoon leader were cut down by enemy fire and Tristian carried him out of danger to safety. Carrying a several more soldiers, he also took over the platoon and led them to safety. In doing so, he was wounded and died a few weeks later. He received a bronze star with valor, purple heart, Combat Infantry Man’s badge and Vietnam service medals as a result of his actions. 

 

In the early 2000nds, I became a social studies teacher and every Friday before Memorial Day weekend, I had my students look up Tristian’s name, reminding them that he was my best friend at their age. This was after 9/11 and I hope it gave these students, who lived under the shadow of the World Trade Center, an idea about the middle east war.

 

In 2010, after separating from my wife, I contacted the school’s alumni association and asked about how to nominate Tristan for the school’s wall. I got the forms and sent them in. In March, 2011, I got a call from the president of the Alumni Association.  Tristan would be given the award but there was no one to make a speech on his behalf. An only child, his parents were long dead. He died at 18 years of age and had never married so there were no children. There was a distant cousin, but he had never even met Tristian. Would I do the speech for his award? I suppose there really was no more qualified person, so I agreed. 

 




 

So in April, 2011, I returned to the stage. I was the first one to speak and began by asking the audience to stand. 

 

“Attention to orders,” I barked out in my best drill sergeant voice. I then read his citation.

 

For exceptionally valorous service in connection with military operations against a hostile force. Private First Class Hayes distinguished himself by exceptionally valorous actions on 9 September 1968 while serving as a rifleman on a combat operation in the Republic of Vietnam. When artillery rounds began falling into the company's surrounding area, numerous casualties resulted. Seeing that his squad leader was missing and that his squad was disorganized, Private First Class Hayes immediately directed his squad to dig in. He then left the safety of his position to look for his squad leader. Upon finding his wounded squad leader, he carried him to safety and to medical aid. Several times Private First Class Hayes left the comparative safety of his position to carry wounded comrades to safety and to medical aid. As a result of his unceasing determination and concern for his comrades, the wounded received the medical attention they needed. Private First Class Hayes' personal bravery and devotion to duty were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.“

 

I then began to speak. I pointed out an aging Mr. Dempsey, sharing how he forced us to understand Vietnam and educating us to be able to make choices about the divisive war. 

 

Then I said: “Mr. Dempsey, once an all-state football player for this school in the 1940s, also coached Tristan and me. One day, during practice, Tristian stopped chasing someone. Mr. Dempsey grabbed Tristian’s face mask and told him ‘you keep playing until the whistle blows.’ It was lessons like this that gave him the incredible courage he displayed in Vietnam.”

 

I thanked people; told them they could be seated. They didn’t and I left the stage to a standing ovation. I suppose timing is everything because my cell phone started ringing as I walked off the stage as the ex started demanding money. I turned the phone off and sat down next to a friend. As I sat in my seat, I thought that since Tristian’s family had moved away, a long-delayed need for the community to say good bye to its hero had finally been met. As I said, it was the proudest moment of my life.

  MORRISTOWN AND VIETNAM

 

I consider Morristown as my home town. I lived here from 1958 through 1976 and graduated from MHS in 1966. I was a member of the very first class at County College of Morris.

 

But I would like to share a few things about Vietnam and the town from a Vietnam-era veteran’s perspective.

 

I never heard of Vietnam until I was a sophomore when my European History teacher, Joseph Dempsey had us write a paper about Vietnam. I focused on the Buddist monks who committed suicide by pouring gasoline on themselves and then setting themselves on fire to protest the South Vietnamese government. It was an assignment Mr. Dempsey gave for several years and it helped many of us understand a little about the war that became so divisive. (More about this later).

 

I turned 18 in September of my senior year registering with Selective Service that day without a thought of military service. It was legal proof that I was18 years old. In those days the legal drinking age was 21 in New Jersey but 18 in New York. Many of us would head to the Northern border to places like Greenwood Lake or the Village in the city. Very few of us thought about getting drafted. That same year, military recruiters came the high school. I was a competitive swimmer and had lifesaving, instructor and SCUBA certifications. I spoke to the Navy people about becoming a frogman and doing underwater demolition. I was told it was impossible due to my eyesight. I asked about lifeguarding and teaching swimming but those posts went to NCOs and it would take several years to become one. I also called the Coast Guard office in Newark about search-and-rescue and was told the same thing about my eyes.

 

After graduation, I worked at a couple of office jobs in Morristown and one Saturday, I picked up a copy of the Daily Record to read on the Green and learned one of my best friends, Tristian Hayes, died in Vietnam. It was a shock and I thought about this brilliant, wonderful guy who wanted to be a soldier since middle school had sacrificed his young life in a war very few cared about. At the end of this article you will learn much more about him.

 

When I started at CCM, I was a few years older than most students, but all male students had to be registered with Selective Service. I appeared before the Draft Board to request a student deferment claiming I could not afford to go to college until CCM opened. My request was granted. This was in 1968, a very controversial year with the murders of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. With the Tet Offensive in Vietnam, the war heated up under the Lyndon Johnson administration. I became something of a wanna-be hippie and attended campus protests and an all-night vigil on the Green.  I never did drugs though. A high school classmate, the son of a very popular MHS teacher, took LSD and killed himself by putting his head on the railroad tracks and was run over by a Lackawanna train near the Morristown station. I was too terrified to try them. I had enough problems with self-control.

 

While at CCM, I began working as a freelance newspaper reporter for the Morristown Daily Record covering town meetings in the western part of the county. Since I was a college student and registered for the draft, I was assigned to try to cover Nixon’s draft lottery. “See if you can find someone who has a high number,” the editor told me.  I started to listen to the lottery and had absolutely no problem finding someone. I was number 2. 

 

Many months before, I had gotten on the waiting list for the local Army Reserve unit and I went to their office and asked the Sergeant if it was possible there was an opening available and he gave me the Army’s version of an IQ test. 

 

There was. I could become a drill sergeant! 

 

The unit was designated as a “training” unit. The concept was that if there was a need for cadre to train troops, we would be activated. I would go through Basic Combat Training, a month-long leadership preparation course, Advanced Infantry Training (Vietnam) and Drill Sergeant school.

 

So I had a choice: Enlist in the regular army for three years, the Navy or Coast Guard for four years, get drafted and wind up in the Army or Marines (!) or spend seven months to become a “shake-and-bake” drill sergeant and spend two days a month and two weeks in the summer for the next six years. I chose the drill sergeant opportunity.

 

And so on Jan. 3. 1970, about 30 of us from different parts of our 78th division, a/k/a “Jersey Lightning” boarded a Delta Air Lines jet to New Orleans and then transferred to a 1950s era Trans Texas Airline propeller aircraft where the pilot welcomed us by telling us the aircraft had flown half a million miles without any problems. But then he introduced our stewardess who was wearing tight denim bell bottoms and a tight blouse. She got a wild ovation from us.

 

After deplaning, we got a different reception from Drill Sergeant Russel and friends who began screaming at us to get into and dress up our line. After finding temporary barracks, getting dinner and falling asleep, we were woken at 0-dark-30 to do KP. Later that day, we were given haircuts. Unlike previous weeks a new regulation went into effect as of the new year stating we didn’t have to get our heads shaved, but long hair was long gone. Following the unpublished “Hurry up and wait” regulation, we stood on line to get our uniforms and vaccinations. The next day, was perhaps the funniest day of our orientation. We had an ice storm. You had to understand that we were in the South and many of the base’s permanent party had never seen snow or ice. Soldiers were falling all over and we Jersey guys laughed our butts off as we saw several cars spin out of control, one slamming into a fire hydrant.

 

So much for fun, that night we were moved to the barracks of Alpha-one-two and revived our acquaintance with Drill Sergeant Russell and his friends. We were divided into four barracks. Barracks One was National Guard people from Texas, We Jersey boys were in Barracks Two, and Barracks Three and Four were draftees and enlistees. 

 

We learned to march and do other drills. In about a week we stated to march to rifle ranges. We were introduced to the command “At Ease, March. Drill Sergeant Russell set the pace. He was about 6’3” and had long legs. He set a very rapid pace that had us either tripping or jogging to keep up. By the time we reached the range, we had many people puking up their breakfast. The next day, many of us changed from fried eggs and bacon to a hard-boiled egg. toast and juice.

Most of our training was with the M-16, which included an automatic fire mode we rarely used. We also used the Korean-war era M-14 and Colt .45 caliber pistols. 

 

But the most interesting part of our training was with hand grenades. In the morning, we played with practice ones that we could toss at targets. We also were introduced to grenade launchers that were attached to M-16 rifles. That afternoon, we got to throw real grenades. We stood behind a bunker with a sunken area to take cover in in case someone dropped their grenade before tossing it. In turn, we would throw our grenade over the 8’ wall. I wasn’t thrilled about the distance mine went because I compared it to a baseball. I really didn’t see how far it went. I then watched the guy next to me throw his. Instead of going out, it went way up. I immediately dropped to the pit on the ground with my hands covering my helmet liner. The grenade exploded on the other side of my wall, shaking me off the ground. But I was alive and the guy next to me was given special instructions (500 pushups) from the range sergeant while other cadre were laughing about my duck-and-cover elementary school drills were so well remembered. 

 

We marched to cadence, with a sergeant calling out different songs that we repeated, many of them ribald. But everyone’s favorite was our countdown. “X more weeks of polish and brass, then Fort Polk can kiss my ass!” And finally came the day it could. We participated in a graduation parade with about 1,000 others. The parents of three of my Morristown comrades showed up and treated us Morristown men to lunch.

 

And then it was time to return to the real world until I was to return for more training. I took a bus to the New Orleans airport and flew to Newark. Then I took the train to Morristown and since Mom moved while I was away, I went to her law office next to the Chinese restaurant, showing up in my uniform. They gave mom the rest of the day off  and we went to our old place on Wetmore Avenue where I picked up my car and then went to the new place in Jacob Ford Village. 

 

Leave was spent renewing friendships and girlfriends. Mom came home early and threw a fit when we were caught in bed.  Mom, born in 1908 to an Irish Catholic family, wasn’t so upset about our bed activities as she went wild because the girl was Jewish. I had no clue she was so prejudiced. 

 

After that, I took my car, an eight-year-old Rambler convertible, to Seaside Heights to sort of clear my head. On the way down, I came across two girls hitching and eventually they asked why my hair was so short. I told them I was on leave from the Army. 

They started talking to each other and in a few minutes they asked to be let out. As I pulled away, one of them screamed “baby killer.” Hell, I never had been to ‘Nam, much less was involved in combat. I only shot at paper targets.

 

I spent most of the day on the beach and headed home early to avoid traffic. Around Mt. Kimble Ave. and Colles Ave., there was a girl hitching so I said to myself “what the hell, why not!” I pulled over and seven MHS kids piled into the car. They were heading to Morris Plains and we drove twice around the Green yelling and screaming. As we drove down Speedwell Avenue, we talked and they learned I was in the Army. They started to welcome me back and as they left the car thanking me for the ride, one of the girls kissed me. Morristown people had made a bad day fantastic!

 

When I was in town, I went to the First National Iron Bank at the corner of South Street and Madison Ave. to get some cash from my checking account only to discover it was suspended for inactivity. I showed them my military ID and they re-opened the account with a promise to not close it. On payday, I sent my mother a money order to add to the account. But I had purchased some civilian clothing from the PX with a check that bounced and there was hell to pay until I gave them the business card of the branch manager and they confirmed what happened. 

 

I returned to Fort Polk for Leadership and infantry training, then to Fort Knox for Drill Sergeant School. About 18 months later, I was activated. I returned to Morris County but lived in Randolph and Roxbury, only to spend some days visiting my mother after getting married and living in Queens.

 

After 33 years of marriage, we divorced and I roamed the country for many years. But when in the East, I spent much time with my 1966 senior prom date. We went to our 45th and 50th reunions together and lived together coping with the Covid-19 lockdown. When we decided to break up, I moved to Florida and stayed with another classmate while finding an apartment. One of the things I bought was a “Vietnam-Era” baseball cap and people frequently thanked me for my service. 

 

But before I end this, I want to share one last thing about Morristown and Vietnam. It was probably the finest moment of my life.

 

***

TRISTIAN

I graduated from Morristown (NJ) High school in 1966. During that time, I was on the school’s stage many times: receiving athletic awards, appearing in plays and in concerts as a member of the school chorus.

 

But the proudest moment of my life happened on that stage, about 45 years after graduation. 

 

Before I describe that moment, it is important to understand a little about Morristown. It has a long and proud history. The town headquartered George Washington’s revolutionary war army during two winters, one of them being the worst in the colonial era’s history. Throughout the town there are many statues and three areas of a National Historical Park:  the Ford mansion headquarters, The troop area in Jockey Hollow, and Fort Nonsense at the highest part of the town. It was there that I lost my virginity to a Morris Township girll and got married to a Brookyn woman.

 

The center of the town has a green that is the site of many parades and festivals. I also remember attending an all-night anti-war protest there. There were several Memorial Day parades when I marched with my Boy Scout troop.

 

Samuel Morris invented the telegraph here. Thomas Nast, the newspaper cartoonist who fought Tammany Hall and gave us the images of the Republican Elephant, the Democratic Donkey and even Santa, lived here. The house I lived in was built just after the Civil War and it featured many of the ideas advocated by women’s magazines at that time which included the early concepts of childhood and adolescence. 

 

In other words, the town is very aware of and promotes its past. 

 

When I attended the high school, the main entrance featured a dual staircase, called the “senior staircase.” Its use was restricted to senior students and during the school’s last week of every year, there was a “senior skip day” when the seniors decided not to go to school. On that day, the juniors would “rush” the stairs and occupy it for a brief time as they made their claim to it for the next school year.

 

Since then, the school has a couple of expansions and the stairs no longer occupy the central status it once did. Instead, it has been changed to a “Wall of Fame” where distinguished alumni, teachers and athletes are featured on plaques. I suppose it means little to the current students, but visitors can share memories and inspiration from the many names there. 

 

The school hosts an annual “Heritage Day” where those who are to be added to the wall are honored and announced at an assembly. When I learned about this new tradition, I was quite pleased especially since the senior stairs concept had ended. I never liked the undemocratic “clique” system that had created so many rivalries and emotional pain for those who weren’t permitted to use the stairs simply because of their date of birth. 

 

So anyhow, I had some unfinished business with Morristown and I made it my job to see that Tristan Whitney Hayes, class of 1967, would have a plaque there to honor him. 

 

I met Tristan when I was a freshman and he was in eighth grade. We were both in the same boy scout troop and I was a patrol leader and he my assistant patrol leader. We planned many events such as campouts together and also became close friends. I remember we once visited Times Square in New York City and browsed many stores. He was especially interested in the metal soldiers representing historic battles such as Napoleon’s downfall at Waterloo. Even at that age, he wanted to be a soldier. 

 

We grew apart as our interests in school varied. I was into sports, debate and drama while he was more academic, though he played football. Without a common interest, we drifted apart.

 

During those high school years, the war in Vietnam began to heat up, especially after President Kennedy was murdered and Johnson replaced him. In 1963 and 1964,Joseph Dempsey, our European History teacher, had us all write papers about the war that was starting to involve more forces. In retrospect, those papers gave us some information about a war that would become so divisive.

 

Tristan graduated a year after me and as soon as he graduated, his family moved to Massachusetts. The last I heard about him was a brief newspaper article that he was killed in action in Vietnam; quite possibly the first from our town to die in that war, but certainly not the last. 

 

Many years later, I was chaperoning my son’s eighth grade trip to Washington, DC, and visited the Vietnam Memorial Wall. I found out where Tristian’s name was listed and spoke about him to the students and how he was more than just a name. Many adults gathered around while I was speaking and listened to Tristian’s story.  

 

A decade or so later, I looked him up on the Internet, which had finally become a major research and social phenomena. His story was incredible. Then a private first class, he was on patrol with his platoon when they were ambushed by the Viet Cong. His sergeant and platoon leader were cut down by enemy fire and Tristian carried him out of danger to safety. Carrying a several more soldiers, he also took over the platoon and led them to safety. In doing so, he was wounded and died a few weeks later. He received a bronze star with valor, purple heart, Combat Infantry Man’s badge and Vietnam service medals as a result of his actions. 

 

In the early 2000nds, I became a social studies teacher and every Friday before Memorial Day weekend, I had my students look up Tristian’s name, reminding them that he was my best friend at their age. This was after 9/11 and I hope it gave these students, who lived under the shadow of the World Trade Center, an idea about the middle east war.

 

In 2010, after separating from my wife, I contacted the school’s alumni association and asked about how to nominate Tristan for the school’s wall. I got the forms and sent them in. In March, 2011, I got a call from the president of the Alumni Association.  Tristan would be given the award but there was no one to make a speech on his behalf. An only child, his parents were long dead. He died at 18 years of age and had never married so there were no children. There was a distant cousin, but he had never even met Tristian. Would I do the speech for his award? I suppose there really was no more qualified person, so I agreed. 

 




 

So in April, 2011, I returned to the stage. I was the first one to speak and began by asking the audience to stand. 

 

“Attention to orders,” I barked out in my best drill sergeant voice. I then read his citation.

 

For exceptionally valorous service in connection with military operations against a hostile force. Private First Class Hayes distinguished himself by exceptionally valorous actions on 9 September 1968 while serving as a rifleman on a combat operation in the Republic of Vietnam. When artillery rounds began falling into the company's surrounding area, numerous casualties resulted. Seeing that his squad leader was missing and that his squad was disorganized, Private First Class Hayes immediately directed his squad to dig in. He then left the safety of his position to look for his squad leader. Upon finding his wounded squad leader, he carried him to safety and to medical aid. Several times Private First Class Hayes left the comparative safety of his position to carry wounded comrades to safety and to medical aid. As a result of his unceasing determination and concern for his comrades, the wounded received the medical attention they needed. Private First Class Hayes' personal bravery and devotion to duty were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflect great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.“

 

I then began to speak. I pointed out an aging Mr. Dempsey, sharing how he forced us to understand Vietnam and educating us to be able to make choices about the divisive war. 

 

Then I said: “Mr. Dempsey, once an all-state football player for this school in the 1940s, also coached Tristan and me. One day, during practice, Tristian stopped chasing someone. Mr. Dempsey grabbed Tristian’s face mask and told him ‘you keep playing until the whistle blows.’ It was lessons like this that gave him the incredible courage he displayed in Vietnam.”

 

I thanked people; told them they could be seated. They didn’t and I left the stage to a standing ovation. I suppose timing is everything because my cell phone started ringing as I walked off the stage as the ex started demanding money. I turned the phone off and sat down next to a friend. As I sat in my seat, I thought that since Tristian’s family had moved away, a long-delayed need for the community to say good bye to its hero had finally been met. As I said, it was the proudest moment of my life