By Robert Darden

The following is an interview with Meehan and Thompson conducted by Robert Darden and published in the April 2010 issue of the Wacoan.

Shannon Meehan and the Hero’s Journey

‘Beyond Duty: Life on the Front Line in Iraq’

Lt. Shannon Meehan was and is a hero. A decorated commander in Iraq, he fought alongside his troops in the violent killing fields of Diyala Province. And when U.S. and coalition forces sought to retake Baqubah, a town controlled by brutal al-Qaida forces, Meehan’s task force was at the vanguard of the fighting.

In the summer of 2007, amid the street-fighting and chaos, Lt. Meehan ordered a missile strike on a house thought to be controlled by enemy fighters. He followed every protocol, took every precaution.

But in the aftermath of the strike, eight civilians, including children, were dead.

Shortly thereafter, he inadvertently stepped on an IED (improvised explosive device) and found himself in rehab back in the United States.

But for Shannon Meehan, the deeper wounds and the more painful scars were emotional, and the healing has been slower still.

“Beyond Duty: Life on the Front Line in Iraq” is that rare book about war that is both a crackling good adventure yarn and a fascinating journey inside a warrior’s soul. It has met with universally strong reviews. As Tim O’Brien (the author of “The Things They Carried” and a National Book Award winner) wrote, “I will return to this book often.” Meehan has been featured in The New York Times and a host of other media outlets and is currently on the short list for an upcoming appearance on “Oprah.”

“Beyond Duty” is co-written with Dr. Roger Thompson, once Meehan’s professor at Virginia Military Institute (VMI), a Baylor University graduate (BA ’93 and MA ’95), an expert on Ralph Waldo Emerson and the author of dozens of academic articles.

Their unlikely partnership has resulted in a brutally authentic, uncommonly precise book, that rare combination that combines the best of two worlds.

Meehan and Thompson will speak at 7 p.m. on Wednesday, April 7 in Room 100 in Marrs McLean Science Building on the Baylor University campus. Admission is free.

WACOAN: Shannon, how did you choose first VMI, then the U.S. Army?

Shannon Meehan: VMI works with all four branches of the military, but if you go there and you find that none of them are for you, then you don’t have to commission, you can just go into the civilian world. You can find your niche. It was the perfect school for me. I worked a great deal with the Army ROTC department. They had great officers who really helped develop me as far as the leader I was able to become. I really wanted to emulate them. So the draw that I first had to the Army was being surrounded by such great guys, officers and other soldiers there. I wanted to be a part of that. At the time, I saw myself perhaps eventually going to law school, becoming a lawyer.

WACOAN: How did the two of you first contact each other?

Roger Thompson: Shannon was actually my student and my advisee at VMI years ago. He took at least one class from me and actually may have taken another. After he graduated, like most of our advisees, he went off and I lost touch with him. A couple of years later, I began working on some research with another cadet, Jeremy Clements. It was Jeremy who put me back in touch with Shannon while Shannon was in Iraq. We began sending emails back and forth. That’s how we reconnected.

WACOAN: What was it you saw in those emails that suggested that there might be something more here?

Thompson: I had a fellowship at Harvard, where I was working on a book on Emerson, when I got one of these emails from Shannon. Shannon didn’t write a lot of emails but when he did, he took a lot of time. And this one just punched me in the gut.

I had one of those moments of academic crisis where I’m thinking, ‘OK, I know who’s going to read my book. I know all three of those people. I already know what those three people think about my Emerson ideas. On the other hand, I get this email from this kid, a former student of mine in Iraq, and the email is a confession, basically.’ It was just one of those moments that kind of changed my life. I thought, ‘Does what I’m doing matter in the same way that what he does matters?’

WACOAN: And your academic publisher encouraged you to consider writing a book on the topic.

Thompson: Right. I called Shannon and said, ‘Hey, would you maybe be interested in something like this?’ He thought about it and I thought a lot about it, and then in December we drafted a couple sample chapters and a proposal and sent them off to Polity Press. They got back to us in June, and the editors and the creative team loved it. The marketing folks at the press were very nervous because they feared market saturation on Iraq stories. And that makes sense. But we made the argument, ‘Look, you may have a lot of books on Iraq but you don’t have any books — zero books — on civilian casualties from a first person point of view … what that means and what that does.’

WACOAN: Shannon, I realize some of the dialog was recreated later, but part of what is extraordinary about ‘Beyond Duty’ is the level of detail on what you did on any given experience or maneuver. This really is an amazing amount of specific detail.

Meehan: Going into this project, I certainly had a number of concerns. That was one of the major ones: How well would I be able to remember everything? One thing that helped certainly was that I did extensive journaling while I was there. There were a few emails and letters back home that were very detailed and painted an accurate picture of what we were going through over there at the time.

As I re-read those, as Roger and I talked about it and wrote through it, I believe it was the emotional attachment that I had to these memories that really enabled them to come pouring back. The way we had thought we’d go about writing the book actually drastically changed because once it started to come back to me, the different events came flooding back. That’s one of the reasons we finished the first draft in four or five months. We knew as we were writing that we’d have to go back and do a great deal of fixing, polishing and everything, but at that time we weren’t concerned with that as much as what the memories were. I believe it was that emotional attachment that really helped it along.

WACOAN: Were there times that the emotional attachment was such that you couldn’t sustain that intensity?

Meehan: As we wrote chapter one, which deals with me leaving my family, leaving my father, leaving my brother and leaving my wife, AJ, I didn’t even realize how much that meant to me at that time, how many emotions were attached to that. But as we discussed it, I just completely broke down. I couldn’t believe how upsetting or sad that memory was. I was so close to the feelings I was going through then that I felt as if I was going through them all over again. It really was difficult at times. I was fortunate enough to work with someone like Roger who really understood and respected that. We’d talk for a while about rather difficult things and he’d leave me alone knowing I needed that for a few days. Or he’d call and I’d say, ‘I can’t do it right now.’

WACOAN: Roger, in your opinion, why would someone undertake to make public something so gut-wrenching?

Thompson: I think Shannon’s real personal motivation, on the personal side, was that it was a healing process for him. This is not to say that all is fine and perfect these days, but this was a real strong process of healing, a kind of shaping and ordering things for him, of trying to make sense of it all. That was a really intensive writing experience.

There is also a broader sense of letting other soldiers know that it’s OK to tell your story, and that, in fact, your story needs to be told. And, even broader than that, we’d been very explicit in the kind of unabashedly explosive goals for this book — to try to form a larger national dialog about the cost of war. We’ve tried to remove the politics from that. We situated it within personal narratives and ideas [so] that any assessment of war means taking into account some of these stories. So there are layers of motivation there, I think.

WACOAN: Were you able to work face-to-face or was this a long distance writing relationship?

Thompson: It was a mixture, but primarily long distance. We met a couple times but mostly phone interviews. What would typically happen is that Shannon had given me his journal and all his letters and emails from his time in Iraq. I would read through them, call him, and we would do an interview. They started out shorter, about an hour and a half each time. About halfway through working on the book, they would be about two to three hour phone interviews. I would try to draft a couple chapters out of an interview, and then send a draft to Shannon for comments. It would go back and forth that way.

WACOAN: ‘Beyond Duty’ is definitely Shannon’s voice, but it is parsed in this elegant, startlingly clear prose. That is a rare combination.

Thompson: Thank you. We worked super, super hard on that. I describe it as ‘method acting’ — where the person gives themselves over to the voice of the character. There was a weird transference happening and part of it is that Shannon’s story tapped into my own life narratives, some of the themes of things I’ve been working on — there was some sort of correspondence.

I tried really hard to listen to Shannon. I tried really hard to capture key elements of his voice. We wanted real consistency. And I was really interested in having a kind of rhythm and momentum at times that pull the reader along. I was sensitive to that — and, at the same time, making sure that Shannon’s voice was clear and consistent. We worked hard on that and part of it is the bond that we formed while writing.

There were times when Shannon got really emotional; he would kind of just disappear for a couple of days. There would be no way I could get in contact. And sometimes I needed a break. The emotional evolvement was so deep that any attempt to consciously control that voice disappeared fairly quickly and integrated in some sort of way into what we were doing. While we were aware of it, we gave ourselves over to it at some point, and it seemed to have turned out very well.

WACOAN: I was struck with the way the two of you were able to convey the headlong emotion, tension and excitement of the actual various firefights you were involved in — and still somehow make sense of it all.

Meehan: As I mentioned before, dealing with some of the more pragmatic issues like that, what exactly happened during a firefight, I relied on my notes. There was also a lot of talk between the guys in my platoon or company and me. I did have great pictures of what happened, and I would talk about it with them to make sure that everything I pictured was accurate, that this soldier did that and so forth. Talking with them and getting their perspective on a given mission or firefight really helped as well because we did really focus a great deal on maintaining accuracy — especially in the different missions that we were involved in. We wanted to paint an accurate picture for anyone who read it. I still had a great deal of what I’ve written as part of the mission planning, which helped me as well. It put me back in that place, along with my journaling and relying on the soldiers and their perspective of what happened in these battles. All that together really helped us nail that accuracy.

WACOAN: What has been the response of former soldiers to the book now that they’ve had some time and distance from the events depicted?

Meehan: This was another concern I had — of not only how the Army would receive the book, or how other soldiers would receive it, but how my own soldiers would receive it. They are characters in the book. I worried, ‘How are they going to feel about it?’ So I’m even more surprised about how excited they are about it and how much they appreciate it. There hasn’t been any negative feedback from any of them. It’s been great — and very relieving for me in a sense.

I think they really appreciate that someone had taken their story and put it in printed words as something they can read themselves. That helps them put order to what happened and gives them something to share with their families, their wives and their children when they grow older, to say that this is what your father went through and this is what you were able to accomplish over there. It’s really all of our stories. It was a terribly difficult deployment. We all met with great challenges but overall we did accomplish a great deal in Iraq. It’s something they should be very proud of.

WACOAN: Roger, has there ever been a sense since ‘Beyond Duty’ came out — either from VMI folks or from U.S. military folks — that this is a subject that shouldn’t be talked about?

Thompson: The military community seems to have really embraced this book. I’m sure Shannon was nervous at first to come forward with this for that very reason. He is going to be breaking his code of silence. But what we found far and away is just amazing acceptance and encouragement, especially the soldiers and veterans coming forward to share their stories and to encourage Shannon to keep sharing his. These service members fully embrace it because they recognize the honesty.

Here’s the key thing: I think they recognize that it’s not about Shannon. It’s not about glory-making in any sort of way. It’s just about making it. They understand that he’s trying to help other people understand what they’re going through, which I think is particularly needed right now.

It is interesting to see at some of the events where a lot of soldiers or veterans will come forward to talk to Shannon and me — but a number of them will only go to Shannon. It’s that bond. They know he’s going to understand things, that this is private, that this is between two soldiers. While we’re very open with each other, there are a lot of those things Shannon keeps private. These are private confessions that have been told to him that he’s holding for them. It’s really amazing.

WACOAN: Shannon, despite some of the horrific things that you and the men under your command saw and heard, ‘Beyond Duty’ implies that you left Iraq with a deep affection for the average Iraq citizen.

Meehan: Absolutely. I still carry that with me, especially the children of poor families and the working classes who are just basically trying to get by and not even having the luxury of the greater concerns of the state of their country. They just needed to know how they were going to feed their family next week. People in that position, the children in that position, I felt a great deal of sympathy for. We really did pride ourselves on affording those families better lives, improving the quality of their lives. At times, that was a challenge to maintain — especially in days or weeks following the deaths of your own soldiers. You wanted to lash out at all Iraqis. But for me, I always tried to keep a strong sense of logic about that, to understand the difference. There is an enemy out there trying to do horrible things, but for the most part the Iraqi people had nothing to do with that. They were even more helpless and powerless than we were. They are the ones we were there to protect.

WACOAN: Growing up as a military brat, all of the officers I ever knew hated war.

Thompson: When we’ve spoken sometimes in public forums, what most of us hate hearing the most is, ‘So? That’s what you signed up for.’ What I’ve witnessed is that anytime that is said in a public forum, there’s just an immediate response from soldiers. They say, ‘How dare you say something like that? You just have no idea what you’re saying if you say something like that.’ We do see that response from the broader civilian public sometimes.

You can see this in some of the comments to The New York Times editorial: ‘Hey, that’s just the cost of war.’ But soldiers don’t say that. There may be some people trying to make Shannon feel better by saying that, but by and large, that’s not something that comes out of their mouths. It’s some other vision of war that is not connected to the reality of it.

WACOAN: It has been nearly three years since the specific events of that terrible day that precipitated the writing of this book. Shannon, what has changed for you emotionally since the book came out a few months ago?

Meehan: It has really been an emotional roller coaster. While I was writing and working on it, that’s where my focus remained. I remember the healing power that writing provided. But after we were finished, I felt, ‘What now? Where do I go from here?’ That’s when I began sharing with other people and giving talks, making the best of the tragedy by sharing the story, by connecting with veterans. Just talking to the general public, sharing light on the struggles of soldiers and civilians in this war, is good.

At the same time, when I give these talks, it makes me vulnerable to the public. I knew that would be the case with the op-ed piece I did in The New York Times — all those comments under it. I knew a lot of them would not have a positive reaction to it or sympathize. Things like that are very difficult to read, very difficult to receive, and it was a struggle. I’ve tried to divorce myself from my personal emotions and understand that there is an overall good here in people talking about it.

Doing things like the op-ed piece, going places and talking about it, has helped create this space in society for these issues to be discussed. I can’t worry about different people’s opinions on it. The goal is to get people talking about it, to create a dialog in society about these. I’ve really tried to keep that dialog in mind and understand that it’s OK, it’s a good thing — even though I’m sacrificing a level of my own personal comfort to do so — it’s for an overall good, an overall better.

WACOAN: Roger, what were your personal hopes and dreams as you went out of your comfort zone as an academic to write ‘Beyond Duty?’

Thompson: I had a couple very personal things attached to this. As I heard about Shannon’s story, I wanted him to find something close to peace, something that would at least approximate peace some of the time. It’s hard hearing his story and not wanting that for him. Then for me, there are some shared threads in the narrative of what was going on, some of the scenes that started resonating with me in ways that I was not anticipating. It’s one of those things that there is a certain level of serendipity about. And as the process went along, I felt myself trying to figure out, ‘Why is this affecting me? What is this doing? How is this story going to shape my own narrative of how I cope and understand my own life story?’

And I’d be lying if I didn’t say that this is an opportunity for me to finally move outside the realm of academic writing, which I’ve been wanting to do for quite some time. This was a great opportunity, to write something that would really matter.

WACOAN: And Shannon, what changes have come since the recent birth of your first child?

Meehan: I imagine that all parents meet that with a level of anxiety or fear, but for me it felt much greater realizing what I’m about to bring this blessing, this gift into the world — the same type of blessing that I had myself destroyed in Iraq, the same type of blessing that I robbed someone else of. The fear that spiraled from that has all been very difficult to deal with. I have to work hard to realize and understand that I do deserve this blessing. More than that, my son deserves to be treated and raised well, to be raised right. Too often I would think with the state I’m in, the conflicts I’ve had over this, ‘How can I raise an emotionally healthy son? And where does my wife fit into all of this?’

A good friend shared a thought that has helped me a good deal: ‘Look at it this way — he’s your son and he doesn’t know what you did in Iraq. All he knows is that he needs a mother and a father to love him and care for him.’ He deserves that. And it’s my duty to provide that for him. I’ve really tried to resolve myself to that.

by Robert Darden

The world was not a pretty place on December 7, 1941. Hitler’s armies had already wrested control of most of Europe. Only Great Britain and the Soviet Union stood in the way. Inside Nazi-controlled territory, the wholesale slaughter of Jews, Poles, gypsies and other “undesirables” had already begun.

Things were not much better in Africa. While Italian troops had finally defeated the brave Ethiopians, Gen. Erwin Rommel was making plans to have his Afrika Korps aid the bumbling Mussolini.

German U-boats all but controlled the North Atlantic, further isolating Britain.

In Asia, Japanese armies swept over most of northern China and were marching south.

And in America, African-Americans, a tenth of the population, faced the worst ravages of the Jim Crow laws that made them second class citizens in the North and virtual slaves in the South. Virulent discrimination meant that there were precious few black doctors or lawyers or congressmen in the United States, particularly in the South. Even the films were lily-white — the few blacks in the movies played either menial roles (cooks, maids or waiters) or shiftless, dangerous criminals.

In the military, black soldiers and sailors held the worst jobs and received the lowest pay. They faced daily prejudice and outright violence with little legal recourse.

Of the Navy’s 170,000 sailors in December 1941, only 5,026 were black. And all of them were stewards or messmen.

The stewards were considered the lowest of the low. They were derisively called the “mess boys” or “steward’s mates” or — as the black press dubbed them —  “seagoing bellhops.” Navy slang at the time referred to messmen as “the chambermaids of the Braid.” Stewards manned the officers’ mess and maintained the officers’ billets on ship.

Mess hall attendant Doris Miller (sometimes called Dorie by later newspapers) was a steward aboard the U.S.S. West Virginia. He peeled potatoes, shined shoes, mopped decks, made beds, washed dishes and served as a waiter for the officers of the West Virginia. He was not trained in the operation of the ship and its weaponry. In fact, by unspoken tradition, he was forbidden to even touch the machine guns on deck.

But the world changed on December 7, 1941. The Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor awakened the sleeping giant.

And in that moment, it changed in a heartbeat for the 22-year-old from the sleepy town of Waco, Texas.

The Naval Hero

For long-time Wacoans, the story of Doris Miller is as familiar as the face of an old friend. He was born October 12, 1919 on the family farm outside rural Speegleville to Connery and Henrietta Miller — the third of four sons. He was an avid hunter and was reputed to be a crack shot. He starred at fullback at A.J. Moore High School while augmenting his family’s meager income as a short-order cook at an unnamed downtown diner. Against his parents’ wishes, Miller left high school to enlist in the Navy in September 1939.

Miller was assigned to several ships before ending up on the West Virginia. By now he was 6 feet 3 inches tall and a muscular 250 pounds. He quickly became the heavyweight boxing champion of the powerful ship. By February 1941, his rank was Mess Attendant, Second Class.

On the morning of Sunday, December 7 at 7:55 a.m., Miller had probably been awake for several hours. He was allegedly collecting soiled laundry on the great battleship when the first of eight Japanese torpedoes knocked him to his knees. Within minutes, the entire ship was in flames. Japanese Zeros repeatedly strafed the deck and additional bombs caused fires throughout the West Virginia.

Between walls of burning oil, Miller heroically dragged several wounded seamen to safety even as machine gun fire repeatedly raked the deck. One of his attempted rescues included the mortally wounded Capt. Mervyn Bennion, who refused to leave his post. Seeing an abandoned anti-aircraft gun, Miller grabbed it and instinctively began firing at the low-flying Zeros. Even as the deck splintered around him, Miller continued to fire, expertly leading the planes and pumping rounds into their bellies.

Years later, Miller’s brother Selvia said he wasn’t surprised. Miller’s hunting ability, after all, was “eye” well known in the area: “Doris rarely did miss his target. He was quite skilled. He was no amateur.”

Miller, who had only observed other sailors operating the Browning .50-caliber machine guns, was credited with two confirmed planes downed and four more “probables.” He peppered several additional Japanese fighters with bullets.

“It wasn’t hard,” he recalled later with characteristic modesty. “I just pulled the trigger and she worked fine. I had watched the others with these guns. I guess I fired her for about fifteen minutes. I think I got one of those Jap planes. They were diving pretty close to us.”

As the great ship began to list dangerously, Miller was ordered to abandon the bridge. He dove into the water and swam for shore, even as the West Virginia’s ammunition magazine exploded. The attack ended at 9:45 a.m.

Word of Miller’s exploits circulated quickly via the sailor grapevine, but the Navy officials withheld official word, eventually only acknowledging the actions of “an unnamed Negro cook.” The military preferred instead to tout the actions of a white man, Capt. Colin P. Kelly, a pilot and West Point grad, as the “first hero of World War II,” even though his actions took place three days later on December 10.

It took an exposé in the influential African-American newspaper The Pittsburgh Courier to pressure the Navy to admit Miller’s role. After still another white hero of Pearl Harbor received a commission, The Courier ran an editorial with the headline bemoaning Miller’s lack of recognition: “He fought … keeps mop.”

The CBS Radio series “They Live Forever” broadcast a stirring docudrama based on Miller’s life and actions on March 29, 1942. The widespread popularity of the broadcast put additional pressure on the Roosevelt administration to recognize Miller.

President Franklin Delano Roosevelt eventually sent Miller a Letter of Commendation. But it was only when other civil rights groups took up his cause that Miller received the much-deserved Navy Cross. On May 7, 1942, Fleet Admiral Chester W. Nimitz pinned the Navy’s highest award to Miller’s chest. Doris Miller was just 22 at the time.

The event was front-page news in the African-American press, but the Waco Times-Herald only briefly mentioned the award in a single paragraph three weeks later under the headline, “Doris Miller’s Medal Pinned.”

Even though, as a black man, he was not eligible to receive training, Miller addressed the graduating class of the Navy’s Great Lakes Training School later that spring. He also made a cross-country tour with other celebrities, promoting U.S. War Bonds. Incidentally, also touring the United States for War Bonds at the time was another well-known African-American from Waco — baritone Jules Bledsoe of “Old Man River” fame.

That June, New York City was the site of ceremonies honoring “Negro Achievement Day,” designed to recognize “Distinguished Service to America.” The honorees included George Washington Carver, Mary McLeod Bethune, Joe Louis, Adam Clayton Powell … and Doris Miller. When the Navy couldn’t spare Miller from his public relations duties, his mother Henrietta was invited in his stead.

Four months to the day after Pearl Harbor, the Navy — long called “the most undemocratic and un-American aspect of our Government” by various civil rights organizations — finally abolished its 20-year ban on African-Americans holding any rank save steward or messman.

The Civil Rights Hero

One of Miller’s few known letters was addressed to The Pittsburgh Courier. It appeared on September 26, 1942:

I am writing you and your correspondent in the behalf of the things that you have done for me in the past, and also for my fellow men, of my standing. For it has opened up things a little for us, at least for the ones who are following me, and I hope it will be better in the future.

In January 1943, Miller returned briefly to Texas. The Dallas Morning News carried a short news item about Miller, mentioning that he would speak at the Moorland Branch of the YMCA on January 5. On January 14 The Pittsburgh Courier reported that Miller, along with Matt Eugene Fowler, another black sailor from Waco who was recovering from wounds received at Pearl Harbor, spoke briefly at the Waco YMCA.

Of his brother’s return to Waco, Miller’s brother Arthur said, “The whole town was in chaos; everyone wanted to see the hero.”

But according to writer Thomas Turner Sr., when Miller left Waco that day, he cautioned his family that he might not return home again.

For his brother Selvia, the Navy’s treatment of Miller smacked of the racism that still permeated the U.S. military at the time:

It was a code of silence in the Navy. That’s why Doris didn’t talk about the war. Mainly because of what he did as a black man, he was getting too much publicity.

Miller’s mother Henrietta even wrote a poem about the occasion of his visit. The final lines read:

Uncle Sam, my son belongs to you,

Now proudly clad in uniform of blue.

When victory is won, and men again are free,

God willing, you will give him back to me.

The Navy had other plans. Miller was eventually promoted to Cook, Third Class and assigned to several more ships in the Pacific, including a short stint on the ill-fated U.S.S. Indianapolis.

In November 1943 he was assigned to the newly commissioned U.S.S. Liscome Bay (CVE-56), which was sent in support of the invasion of the Gilbert Islands.

At 5:13 a.m. on November 24, 1943, during the Battle of Tarawa, the Liscome Bay was struck by a single torpedo and sank within minutes. Nearly 650 crewmen died, including Doris Miller.

The Hollywood Hero

But this is where the story of Doris Miller takes an unexpected turn. Black sailors kept his story alive and the African-American press continued to champion him. Within weeks of his original feat, Miller was all but “canonized” (to quote Amiri Baraka) by black Americans.

Across the United States in the summer and fall of 1942, vendors (both black and white) offered various items for sale, all featuring Miller’s likeness. African-American newspapers sold color prints of his photograph. The U.S. Navy recruiting poster “Above and Beyond the Call of Duty” also featured his portrait that year. And after his death, a number of entrepreneurs sold memorial buttons with Miller’s face on them.

“Indeed, he may now have become the most identifiable enlisted sailor in the Battle of Pearl Harbor, if not the entire Pacific War,” wrote Richard E. Miller, author of “The Messman Chronicles: African-Americans in the United States Navy, 1932-1943.”

In “No Ordinary Time: Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt: The Home Front in World War II,” acclaimed historian Doris Kearns Goodwin wrote, “The example of Miller’s heroism became a principal weapon in the battle to end discrimination in the Navy.”

By now, the inspiring story of the quiet, shy giant from Waco had attracted Hollywood’s attention. Pressed by progressive politicians (including Eleanor Roosevelt), the NAACP, African-American newspapers and other groups, the movie industry’s most forward-thinking producers, directors and actors began to look for ways to break Hollywood’s unwritten code against stories prominently featuring African-Americans in positive roles. Southern theaters simply refused to show such movies, despite the success of all-black productions like “The Green Pastures” (1936) and “Cabin in the Sky” (1943).

For instance, films like “The Sailor Takes a Wife” (1945) were banned throughout much of the South because a white man (actor Robert Walker) tips his hat in a neighborly fashion to an African-American (actor Eddie “Rochester” Anderson)!

In desperation, the head of the NAACP held a meeting with a number of prominent Hollywood figures and many did, indeed, promise to address the inequities of casting and plots. Initially, producers like Jack Warner and Samuel Goldwyn pledged to incorporate more African-Americans into their films, but claimed a “paucity of material” as an excuse for not producing movies, according to Thomas Cripps, author of “Making Movies Black: The Hollywood Message Movie from World War I to the Civil Rights Era.”

But the story of Doris Miller was simply too compelling to ignore.

By late 1942, a “Dorie Miller biopic” was rumored to be in negotiations. One of the first films to feature an African-American was “Action in the North Atlantic” (1943), which included a black deck officer. A few months later, Howard Hawks’ “Air Force” included African-American crew members. Cripps quoted producer Hal Wallis instructing the screen writer to make the crew “a cross section of Allies” — including African-Americans.

Walter Van Tilburg Clark’s “The Ox-Bow Incident” (1943) was even more daring — a black man with a significant role. Both the films “Sahara” and “Bataan,” two more war movies from 1943, also featured African-Americans as part of larger ensembles.

In 1943, 20th Century Fox rewrote a scene in “Crash Dive” to incorporate elements of Miller’s heroics. He was played by Ben Carter who had appeared in a number of films in the usual stereotypical roles, including “Gone with the Wind” (1939). Carter made a strong impression in this submarine thriller with Tyrone Power and Dana Andrews.

The most ground-breaking element of “Crash Dive” was a virtual recreation of Miller’s Navy Cross ceremony, complete with the white officer shaking the character Miller’s hand as he receives his medal. (Given a second chance to play a sympathetic realistic character, Carter also shined in “Bowery to Broadway” in 1944 with Donald O’Connor.)

Another breakthrough came with the War Department’s propaganda film, “The Negro Soldier” (1944), which showed black soldiers throughout American history, training and fighting (led by black officers) and even singing in church. The film ends with a “March of Time” newsreel-styled reenactment of Doris Miller’s actions at Pearl Harbor. Movie historian Cripps called it the Army’s “ … wished-for black dedication to the war and a repudiation of Japanese racial propaganda.”

The most compelling moment of “The Negro Soldier” is a shot of a stone cairn in France that testifies to black heroism during World War II. The cairn suddenly explodes and is trampled by jack-booted Nazi stormtroopers. According to Cripps, “Together with the image of Miller, it offered blacks a motive to fight.”

The Army brass originally made the 45-minute film to show to new recruits, and by the spring of 1944 it was screened for all soldiers. “The Negro Soldier” would not receive general release.

Also from 1944, one of the heroes of Alfred Hitchcock’s stunning “Lifeboat” is the ship’s steward Joe (powerfully played by Canada Lee). In the film (with an excellent script by John Steinbeck) the mixed cast of survivors treats Joe with dignity and respect. Only the Nazi U-boat commander displays any overt racism.

The idea of a film based on Miller’s life, however, did not die, resurfacing periodically even as Hollywood slowly incorporated African-Americans in greater numbers of films and in larger roles in the immediate post-war years. Likewise, films attacking racism and anti-Semitism (most notably “Angel on My Shoulder” and “Till the End of Time” in 1946, and the two dramas —  “Crossfire” and “Gentleman’s Agreement” — in 1947) began to emerge. Cripps called subsequent films like “Home of the Brave” (1949), “Lost Boundaries” (1949), “Pinky” (1949), “The Jackie Robinson Story” (1950) and “No Way Out” (1950) part of the movie industry’s long overdue evolution in race relations:

Thus the metaphor of the lone black warrior thrust among a white platoon, which had been put forth as an icon of a multiethnic war effort, and blossomed into legends such as those of Colin Kelly, Meyer Levin, and Dorie Miller, was revived on the nation’s screen.

In time, stars like Sidney Poitier and Harry Belafonte would establish, once and for all, that the American public wanted quality acting and stories above all other considerations — including the race of its actors.

“The Doris Miller Story,” alas, has yet to be made. On July 25, 1990, Waco Tribune-Herald Entertainment Editor Carl Hoover reported that ABC-TV and the Chrysler Corporation had commissioned a movie “treatment” on the life of Doris Miller as part of “The Chrysler Showcase.” The film was to be aired in conjunction with the 50th anniversary of Pearl Harbor and titled “The First American Hero.”

A year later, on September 20, 1991, Hoover reported that the proposed film was still a go, though it had no director or stars attached to it.

Nearly two decades later, in early January 2010, Hoover said that, to his knowledge, the film was never made.

Still, the best thing about the otherwise often forgettable film “Pearl Harbor” (2001) is Cuba Gooding Jr.’s dynamic (and mostly historically accurate) portrayal of Miller in action.

The First Hero

Doris Miller’s father suffered a stroke and died soon after his son’s heroics. His brothers all served in World War II and eventually left Waco. The home where Doris was born was flooded and covered by the creation of Lake Waco, and his mother moved to a home on 1213 Southey Street (between Highway 77 and Interstate 35, close to Greenwood Cemetery). The house — and all of Miller’s medals, correspondence, photographs and commendations — were consumed by fire in 1957. U.S. Rep. Bob Poage led the fight to secure duplicates for the family.

Miller’s mother Henrietta was present to commission a destroyer escort named in her son’s honor in June 1973, The U.S.S. Miller (DE-1091). Also present was U.S. Rep. Barbara Jordan, who said:

Dorie Millers of the future will be captains as well as cooks and the USS Miller will be a strong symbol of the country’s rejection of inequity. Black people struggle to win equal or full rights as American citizens, whereas people like Doris fought hard just to protect the rights of all people … The Navy is shaking past prejudices and making equality a reality in America.

Today there are dozens, if not hundreds of VFW Posts, schools, hospitals, housing projects, parks, and memorials in his name, including Doris Miller Elementary School and the Doris Miller Family YMCA here in Waco. There are plaques at A.J. Moore Academy Magnet School, the Waco Veteran’s Administration Medical Center and at Pearl Harbor itself (located on the north end of Doris Miller Loop). Also in Waco, a group of veterans and citizens continues to raise funds for a statue of Miller in Bledsoe-Miller Park.

But there is still no Medal of Honor for Doris Miller, despite the best efforts of numerous organizations and political leaders, most recently U.S. Reps. Eddie Bernice Johnson (Dallas) and Chet Edwards (Waco). As State Rep. Jim Dunnam recently told a local newspaper, “His honor of the Navy Cross is a big deal, and we don’t want to belittle that award. It is a huge honor. But, in addition, his entitlement to the Medal of Honor is well-founded.”

Finally, as part of Black History Month, the U.S. Postal Service chose Miller as one of the Navy heroes to be honored in its “Distinguished Sailors” series in February 2010.

Doubtless, the stamp would have embarrassed the shy, taciturn Miller. Even in a society that didn’t value him, he served — and paid the ultimate price.

There is a great scene in Edward Dmytrk’s “Till the End of Time” (1946). Robert Mitchum and Guy Madison are Marines returning from the war. They are recruited by members of a quasi-fascist organization called the American Patriots’ Association.

Finally, Mitchum asks the leader, “What kind of people do you have in your organization?”

The leader replies, “We take all Americans, that is everybody except Negroes, Catholics and Jews.”

Mitchum grabs the man by the collar and hisses:

My best friend, a Jew, is lying back in a fox hole at Guadalcanal. I’m going to spit in your eye for him; we don’t want to have people like you in the U.S.A. There is no place for racial discrimination here now!

After a rousing brawl, the soldiers throw the American Patriots from the pool hall.

Doris Miller’s unmarked grave is somewhere off the waters of the Gilbert Islands. His sacrifice may have helped change the motion picture industry. And a first-class film about his heroism would be nice.

But perhaps a more fitting tribute would be to pick up the torch and insist that America’s first hero from World War II finally receive the recognition that he so richly deserves — the Medal of Honor.

Sources:

All sources from The Texas Collection and Moody Memorial Library on the Baylor University campus

American Legion Post #914, Chicago, Illinois

http://www.doriemiller915.org/doriemiller.htm

Cripps, Thomas. “Making Movies Black: The Hollywood Message Movie from World War I to the Civil Rights Era.” (New York: Oxford University Press, 1993).

Dallas Morning News, July 1, 1973.

Goodwin, Doris Kearns. “No Ordinary Time: Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt: The Home Front in World War II.” (New York: Simon & Schuster, 1995).

Jones, LeRoi (Amiri Baraka). “Blues People: Negro Music in White America.” (New York: Harper Perennial, 1999 edition).

Miller, Richard E. “The Messman Chronicles: African-Americans in the United States Navy, 1932-1943” (Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 2004).

Miller, Vicki Gail. “Doris Miller: A Silent Medal of Honor.” (Austin: Eakin Press, 1997).

Mueller, William R., “The Negro in the Navy,” Social Forces, October 1945.

http://plasma.nationalgeographic.com/pearlharbor/ngbeyond/people/index.html

Nelson, Dennis D. “The Integration of the Negro Into the U.S. Navy.” (New York: Farrar, Straus and Young, 1951).

Noble, Peter. “The Negro in Films.” (London: Skelton Robinson, 1945).

Reddick, L.D., “The Negro in the United States Navy during World War II,” The Journal of Negro History, April 1947.

Waco Tribune-Herald, July 25, 1990.

Waco Tribune-Herald, September 20, 1991.

Waco Tribune-Herald, November 24, 2009.

Wilson, Joe Jr. “The 761st ‘Black Panther’ Tank Battalion in World War II: An Illustrated History of the First African American Armored Unit to See Combat.” (Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland & Company, Inc., 1999).

Left, Randall O’Brien served with the 101st Airborne Infantry in the Republic of South Vietnam in 1971.

By Robert Darden

It is perhaps the saddest Christmas song of all, though it doesn’t seem so now.

It comes from the musical “Meet Me in St. Louis,” and even Judy Garland (as Esther), who sings it so beautifully, at first balked because she thought it was too depressing. But few songs capture the wistfulness of loved ones separated by wartime than “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.”

You remember the story, of course — “Meet Me in St. Louis” is Vincente Minnelli’s love song to America in the early hours of the 20th century. In the film, their daddy is about to move from their beloved St. Louis to New York, so Esther sings this song to comfort her little sister, Tootie, the winsome Margaret O’Brien.

In a year, we all will be together

If the Fates allow

But the viewers in 1944 knew exactly what the song was really about. These are dark days and the Fates would not allow tens of thousands of young men and women to return home — not in a year, not in ten years, not ever.

We’ll just have to muddle through somehow

And have ourselves a merry little Christmas now.

In honor of the Christmas season, we asked a sampling of veterans from recent wars to share their memories of holidays in far-off lands.

For some, the mists of time have clouded their memories — they salvaged tiny snippets of moments from the past, a friend’s touch, a package of stale cookies, a surprise dessert in the mess hall, a moment’s respite on the battlefield.

Still others had no memories at all. Caught up in a brutal struggle, praying to stay alive another day hunkered down in a foxhole or walking point in a forgotten Vietnamese jungle, Christmas was just another day, another day to survive, another day closer to home.

While, for a few, the Christmas season had a poignant urgency, and memories of those days are indelibly burned in their memories.

Only a few veterans of World War I are with us today. The last old soldier will fade away in the next few years. Still, it doesn’t seem right not to include at least a mention of Christmas in the trenches during the War to End All Wars. One excellent source is “The Memoirs of Sr. Edward Hulse,” a very personal history by a much-decorated English officer. It is Hulse who provides the best snapshot of the astonishing events of Christmas Truce of 1914 where, across no-man’s land, German and English soldiers exchanged cigarettes for cigars, showed pictures of families and sweethearts, passed around a covert bottle or two and joined their voices in “Aud Lang Syne.” In the titanic offensives in the days to come, most of these soldiers would kill each other, and only a precious few would ever see Wales or Bavaria again.

Floyd Prather served as operations officer in the Army Air Corps in North Africa and Italy in World War II. He lost many of his fellow pilots as their boat capsized in rough waters as they were attempting to land from their ship off the coast of Africa, just before Christmas of 1942. He spent that Christmas in Casablanca. Some of the troops on the base had bought some flour from a local vendor and collected the ingredients to make a cake for a Christmas celebration. However, just as they were beginning to bake the cake, the unit was ordered to immediately evacuate the airbase. And Prather said he remembered all of the pilots being “profoundly disappointed.”

Prather went on to lead 40 bombers on a successful mission to hit a hidden target in Steyr, Austria, and was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for that mission.

Former Baylor employee Tom Parrish, himself a noted author, served overseas every Christmas from 1941 to 1944 before he was finally discharged from the Navy on December 15, 1945. On December 7, 1941, he was assigned to the U.S.S. Vestal, which was berthed next to the U.S.S. Arizona at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. He was eating breakfast that fateful morning when the Vestal took two direct hits, immediately losing water-tight integrity.

The first bomb blew Captain Cassin Young overboard and the Officer of the Day issued an order to abandon ship. Miraculously uninjured, Captain Young climbed back on board, counter-manned that order and ordered the ship to steam out of the harbor, where he beached it a mile east of Pearl Harbor. Christmas 1941 found Parrish aboard that badly damaged ship, feverishly making repairs.

“So I spent Christmas 1941 cleaning up the storeroom, which is where I now lived,” Parrish recalled. “It had taken a bomb, and the smoke and fire damage was everywhere. That Christmas I was a mile east of Pearl Harbor on an unnamed beach, staring back at battleship row, where six great ships sat on the bottom of the harbor. That was my Christmas tree — and it was not an encouraging sight.

“It was then that I realized that Christmas is more than the build up, the music, the food, the family, the presents,” Parrish said. Still, the Navy managed to somehow transport turkey out to all of the mess halls that Christmas Day, all over the Pacific. But even the Navy can’t create a Christmas, he said.

“Christmas,” Parrish noted, “has got to come from within.

“For the men and women who were in desperate combat all over the world in December 1941, Christmas hardly meant anything. We didn’t have TV in those days, and we could only get one radio station out of Honolulu. It kept us up on the news, but it didn’t have much time for Christmas music. Honolulu was still blacked out for fear of another attack — and would remain in blackout for quite a while — so there were no Christmas lights.

“So, with none of the trappings, and in the desperate days after Pearl Harbor, the build up for Christmas just wasn’t there. I spent Christmas 1941 down in that dark hold, trying to get that ship ready again.

“It was a dangerous time. That Christmas, we were in a dark tunnel. There was light behind us. We hoped there was a light ahead of us, but we couldn’t see it then.”

More special than Christmas itself that year were the times Parrish met with friends from East Texas. One such friend was a first cousin, a lifelong friend, who worked in the Pearl Harbor PX.

“He had access to just about everything,” Parrish said. “With another lifelong friend, who was in submarines, whenever we could get together, we would. Those were grand, gala occasions and because they were friends, I remember those nights much more vividly than I remember any of the actual Christmas days during the war. Whenever I’d see a familiar face, it was a joyful day. Those days were the most like Christmas — the occasions when you saw someone from home.”

By late 1942, Parrish had been promoted to junior officer, and the United States Navy was still recovering from the great sea battle off Midway Island. Few realized at the time how crucial the Battle of Midway had been. In retrospect, Parrish said, it was more decisive than D-Day in Europe, when Germany had already been beaten on the Eastern Front.

“It was a dark time for me, perhaps the darkest time of all,” he said. “Captain Young, who I greatly admired, had been promoted to command the U.S.S. San Francisco. And during the naval battle of Guadalcanal in November, he had been killed in action. It became personal to me when the San Francisco limped into Pearl Harbor. I saw its bridge and mast blown away. That night, as a communications officer with the Hawaiian Sea Frontier, I had de-coded the Navy’s message from the battle, that Admiral Callaghan, Admiral Scott and Captain Young, among others, had been killed.”

That night, Parrish volunteered to join the dangerous Third Amphibious Corps, and he served the rest of the war as a forward observer during the island invasions, a communications officer who directed close bombings from Allied aircraft and ships.

But the losses, especially Captain Young, meant that Christmas 1942 was a subdued and somber time. For Parrish, perhaps the most dismal of the war.

“It has been too long — I don’t remember specifically where I was in Christmas 1943. Perhaps I was on an island,” he said. “My lone memory of those days is one of utter homesickness during that time. We had a saying back then, ‘The Golden Gate in ’48.’ The war seemed endless to us all, especially in 1943.”

It wasn’t until the Battle of Guam in early July 1944 that Parrish said he began to feel the first inklings of hope. After the battle, he had been sent to New Guinea and was gone two or three weeks before returning to Guam. In that time, the Seabees (the Naval Construction Force) had constructed a huge airfield, and he watched in utter astonishment as row after row of B-29 bombers took off each day and bombed the Japanese homeland.

“In October 1944, my captain looked at my record and saw that I’d been in the Pacific for 37 months without leave, so he sent me home for a month,” Parrish recalled. “I returned to Moscow, in East Texas, where I’d taught and served as superintendent of schools.

“When I returned in December 1944, I was finally sure of victory. I was stationed on the U.S.S. Mt. Vernon off the coast of the Philippines as part of the great force that would invade Luzon. I got up one morning and looked out on deck, and as far as I could see was the invincible invasion force, too many ships and planes to count. I thought, ‘Here we come!’ It was then that I knew the war would end soon. Christmas 1944 was greeted with considerably greater optimism!”

Parrish finally mustered out of the Navy in December 1945 and returned to Moscow. Though he’d been accepted to law school, he agreed to play Santa Claus at the town pageant.

“I didn’t weigh but 138 pounds and was the slenderest Santa Claus you ever saw,” Parrish said. “I’ll always remember one bright little boy who I talked to. He went home and told his momma, ‘Santa Claus has a wrist watch just like Thomas Parrish!’

“Oh, that Christmas 1945 was one to remember. We met as we always had before the war at my grandmother’s. It was unbelievable to be back. All of the family cashed in their coupons, we pooled our resources, and we cooked for days — and what a feast it was. It was a glorious Christmas to be home.”

In recent years, Parrish has had occasion to talk to other vets about their memories, including Christmas. He said that few remember anything specific about Christmas in wartime. In a way, Parrish understands.

“You see, Christmas is a time of nostalgia,” he said, “of a hope for the future. And there was precious little of that in the dark early days. So much of what Christmas is now is the anticipation, the build up. We didn’t have much of that, either. We really didn’t have much time for the outward trappings of Christmas then. I know my friends in the foxholes didn’t.

“But that makes it all the more sweeter now.”

The hot and steamy South Pacific was also Wacoan A.D. Holland’s home during World War II. He operated radar, plotting enemy aircraft and ships, on the U.S.S. Colorado. Along with his buddies, he dreamed of hamburgers and milkshakes while on extended tours, one of which lasted 33 months.

At Christmas in 1944, the Colorado was in for repairs near the coast of Borneo, where the crew enjoyed a rare turkey and dressing dinner with ice cream for dessert while listening to Christmas music, including “Silent Night,” over the ship’s intercom. For most of the soldiers, who were teenagers, Christmas was lonely and more than a little frightening on the other side of the world. Holland’s ship had been hit twice by Kamikaze planes and had suffered 22 direct hits with more than 400 casualties in fierce fighting in the Marianas — which caused them to dock for repairs in December.

More than half a century later, Holland recalled a touching, but eerie moment after the final engagement in the Marianas. Along with the other surviving sailors, he stood and saluted while “Taps” played and 110 sailors were buried at sea.

When Billy C. Logue died on October 13, 2005, he left a hole in the heart of both McLennan County and Baylor that can never be filled. Logue had served as a judge since 1954 and, when he retired in 1999, he was the longest-tenured judge in Texas history.

But during the later stages of World War II, Logue was with Company C, 394th Infantry Regiment, 99th Infantry Division, a relatively untested division that found itself near Lanzerath, Germany in December 1944, as part of the U.S. VIII corps. But the 99th took the brunt of the last desperate German advance, which included eight Panzer divisions, in the early days of the Battle of the Bulge. Despite horrific losses, the 99th held, only to finally surrender, battered and bloody, a week before Christmas, 1944. Private Bill Logue was a prisoner of war.

But for Gloria Logue, Bill’s wife for 54 years, the Battle of the Bulge was only something she read about in books. Bill never spoke about his experiences until a year before his death.

“We were watching a very fine documentary on PBS about prisoners of war,” she recalled. “And, for the only time, he talked about his experiences. We bawled the whole time. It was good release for both of us.”

Bill told Gloria that the Germans had rounded up the POWs and transported them in stinking, crowded boxcars to the prison camp, the infamous Stalag 13. Long days of travel followed, with little food or water. More than one camp refused the trainload of POWs.

“When they finally arrived somewhere, all they’d had all day was a drink of water, no food,” Gloria said. “They’d traveled through Christmas Eve. The Germans unloaded them and the POWs stood around all day in the freezing cold, the coldest winter in decades. Night fell again, and they began to freeze in the dark.

“Then, Bill said, somewhere in the blackness, a soldier began softly singing ‘Silent Night.’ The other soldiers joined him before they were loaded up once again and shipped to their prison camp. He spent the next five months in that prisoner of war camp. I haven’t been able to sing ‘Silent Night’ since he told me that story a year ago.”

According to Gloria, Bill said he was always overcome with emotion when he’d hear “Silent Night.”

“That night in Germany, I’m sure he fought back tears,” Gloria said. “None of them knew what was going to happen to them next, what was ahead, where they were going. And so, every time he heard that song for the rest of his life, I’m sure Bill was very emotional about it. I would think that you would be afraid, scared, a good bit of the time you were a prisoner of war. ‘What’s going to happen to me? Where are they going to take us?’ That song gave him a tiny measure of comfort in those moments.”

After World War II, M.W. Holland found himself stationed in Tagu, Japan, with the First Marine Division, rounding up stray Japanese soldiers, some of whom would hide for years in the mountains. The countryside was devastated and the people were desperately poor. Holland and his two best buddies were particularly touched by the ever-present children, who followed them everywhere.

During one particularly harsh Christmas season, Holland wanted to do something for the children, but Tagu was a long way from the nearest PX or store. His solution? Holland said he joined his friends in acquiring the one thing that was available to them — cases of Coca Cola, which they distributed to the children in the village. The children, he recalled, were thrilled with the gift. And, half a century later, Holland still smiles at the memory.

Charlie C. Jones served as a General Line Officer at a naval air station in Atsugi, Japan, during three Christmases, from 1954-56. He regularly attended Christmas services at the churches in the area, but his most memorable moment came when he heard “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” blaring from a tinny hi-fi record player in a Japanese house — and sung in Japanese!

Manuel “Manny” Sustaita, now an outspoken veteran’s rights advocate, was assigned to Delta Company, First Battalion, with the 8th Marines. During the Cuban Missile Crisis of 1962, he was flown from Camp Lejeune (outside Cherry Point, North Carolina) to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, a flashpoint for the fast-building hostilities between the United States and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

“Where we were, there wasn’t much there,” Sustaita recalled. “At first we had to sleep out under the stars on the side of the mountain. There was no mess hall; we ate our C-rations on the ground. Eventually, the Seabees brought in some perimeter bunkers for us to sleep in. What I remember best are the durn mosquitoes.”

As one of the few Hispanic Marines, Sustaita was assigned to the perimeter fence to encourage the Cuban sentries to defect — while the English-speaking Cuban sentries on the other side did the same to us.

“They were smarter — they had women sentries!” Sustaita said. “It got to be a big joke. We’d cuss a while, make a few hand gestures, then go about our business. We never saw any combat, but this was the closest the U.S. ever got to World War III. It was nerve-wracking.”

This was Sustaita’s first of several Christmases abroad, including one in Vietnam, but the Cuban Missile Crisis made this the most memorable.

“Being away from my big Hispanic family was difficult enough,” he said. “That we were on the brink of a disastrous world war, one that could wipe out the planet, only heightened the memories.

“What I remember best about that Christmas is that the Marines tried to make the season as homey as possible. We didn’t have a mess tent, but they did set up a chow line and served us hot food. We ate off our mess kits while sitting on the ground, but it was a good, hot meal.”

But the Marines had one more Yule surprise for the soldiers. Shortly after Christmas, several trucks took Sustaita and his fellow soldiers to the Guantanamo Bay Naval Station.

“They had a stadium and a stage there and that’s where I saw Perry Como in a revue sponsored by the USO. It was pretty good, although at the time I would have preferred Elvis or Chuck Berry!”

J. Logan Fagner of Valley Mills served in World War II and eventually became a pilot. He went to Korea from 1951-52 and later even served in Vietnam, flying close support helicopter. While serving during the Korean War, Fagner flew helicopters to the front line for evacuations. He remembered spending his first Christmas there on an island off the west coast of Korea. It was a rare mission-free day and — somehow — the mess hall managed to round up enough a turkey for a special Christmas dinner.

Fagner’s memories of Christmas in Vietnam during the war are more piecemeal, though he hoped — as he did every Christmas overseas — that his family would remember to take “lots of pictures and write you and tell all about the wonderful day back home.”

Don Ariail, a long-time Baylor employee, endured two grueling tours in Vietnam. During his first tour, July 1968 to July 1969, he was assigned to the 3rd Brigade of the 82nd Airborne as a 4.2 mortar platoon sergeant, arriving shortly after the harrowing Tet Offensive of January through February 1968. He was later transferred into a rifle company, which operated out of Firebase Birmingham, in the northern highlands of South Vietnam, just south of Hue.

Ariail’s second tour of duty was from July to November 1972.

“I just don’t remember where I was during Christmas 1968,” he said. “During that first tour, we rotated four companies — with three always out in the bush. That means three chances in four I was out in the field on Christmas, doing recon missions at night.

“What we did was fairly routine — search and destroy, ambush missions. I just have no recollection of how I spent that Christmas. I’m sure I spent the day like I spent all other days, waiting to put on the pack and head out into the night.

“One day ran into the other. We didn’t pay much attention to days, except for the days until we returned to base camp — and counting the days to go home.”

Here we are as in olden days

Happy golden days of yore

In the last days of 1971, Randall O’Brien, now the provost of Baylor University and a noted author and professor, was just another grunt with the legendary 101st Airborne Infantry, Company D, peering out from his poncho in the Central Highlands of Vietnam. He returned periodically to Firebase Rakkasan, a semi-permanent campsite on a forgotten mountain, overlooking triple canopy forests swarming with Viet Cong and North Vietnamese regulars.

This was the year President Richard M. Nixon, to bolster his waning popularity, brought home some of the troops early in time for Christmas — although most had been due to rotate home in January or February anyway. O’Brien was one of the lucky ones — he rotated home the week before Christmas. Until then, like Ariail, most of his entire tour of duty was spent in the bush.

“Thanksgiving was C-ration turkey in a can, heated over a heat tab,” O’Brien recalled. “I didn’t drink or smoke and in your C-rations were small packets of cigarettes. So for Thanksgiving, I traded my cigarettes for another small can of fruit cocktail. I had saved several, so I had extra helpings for my Thanksgiving dinner.”

A tour of duty was generally 13 months. But for O’Brien, and many of the “grunts” like him, a year was like four years.

“In the 101st Airborne in the Central Highlands, this seemed non-ending, like time was standing still,” O’Brien said. “The only way many of us even knew we were getting close to home was that many of us carried these little plastic pocket calendars in our ammo boxes or p-boxes (personal boxes), and we’d mark off a day at a time, like we were serving prison time. Where some soldiers could listen to Radio Vietnam — we couldn’t hear it. Even if we could have picked it up, you keep quiet at night or you die. So I never knew what day it was. We were in a different world. And I thought I was going to be there for Christmas.”

But one day, without warning, the call came. O’Brien was one of the chosen few heading home. He was transported to the embattled Ben Hoa airstrip, flown to Ft. Lewis, Washington, where he was debriefed, and then flown again to New Orleans. His family, which then lived in southern Mississippi, picked him up and brought him home.

“That Christmas I suffered from survivor’s guilt,” O’Brien said. “I didn’t have a ‘merry little Christmas’ that first Christmas home. It took me a while to adjust. I couldn’t come from the jungles of Vietnam to Christmas in southern Mississippi with all of the trimmings.

“For a while, I couldn’t stay in the house. My parents lived out in the country, so I actually lived out in the wood behind my parents’ house for a period of time until I could adjust. I came up to the house during the day, to see people and to eat, but I slept outside.

Eventually, my father brought a portable pop-up camper and put it on the edge of our property from February through March before I could live in the house. From there, I eventually re-entered society.”

Like many vets, O’Brien’s return home generated a flood of differing emotions, each of which had to be dealt with in its own time.

“There was great joy at being alive and tremendous joy at being reunited with family and being home for Christmas,” he said. “But I was surprised by guilt. I’d done things in my life that I was guilty of — but not surprised. But I was surprised by this guilt.

“I certainly do remember that Christmas feeling at once both exceedingly grateful for the bounty and family and home and at the same time being halfway absent and back with my buddies. I could picture them sitting on their helmets, cold, wet, listening for sounds in the night. They were still there and I had a hard time being here, eating turkey and dressing and cranberry sauce, with my buddies being there cold and hungry and scared. I remember those emotions even now.”

O’Brien had volunteered for Vietnam. Though raised in the Christian faith, he had gradually drifted away from the church. But Vietnam changed everything.

“In the Army, I let go of my anger and hostility and let God have my life,” he said. “It was in Vietnam that Christ became my Lord. I began to read the Bible cover to cover.

“The first questions new soldiers were asked were designed to determine how they planned to handle the hell they were about to enter. My path was provided by God in Christ. What the Bolshevik Revolution was to the Russians, what the Bastille was to the French, what the Exodus was to the Hebrews, that’s what Vietnam was to me. I set foot there on the path that led me to the Lord. It was a time of liberation for my soul.”

It was that faith that enabled O’Brien to emotionally survive the midnight ambushes, a “Dear John” letter and sleeping on the ground behind his parent’s house.

“I did a lot of praying,” he said. “That was immensely therapeutic to me in my ‘wilderness years’ because I didn’t talk to a lot of other people. I didn’t talk to my parents. I didn’t think anybody could understand.

“But I knew this — Christmas meant everything to me that year. I came back from Vietnam knowing that the hope of the birth of Christ was real. All of us who live in the Christian America, if we’re serious about our faith, wonder — ‘Will it hold up in the really hellish times?’ And I came home knowing that my faith had held. Yes, I still struggled, but the good news was that I felt that God was with me through this time.”

In time, of course, O’Brien did re-enter society. Eventually, he was ordained and taught in the religion department at Baylor University.

But no Christmas before or since has matched the raw emotional, spiritual intensity of that first Christmas back from Vietnam.

“I didn’t have any money that Christmas to buy any gifts, and I had always been known in the family as the one who was a great gift-giver,” he said. “But I can honestly say that that Christmas the gifts didn’t mean what they’d meant before. What did mean a lot to me was family, friends, home.

“Vietnam stripped everything else away.”

Precious friends who are dear to us

Will be near to us

Once more

Let your heart be light

Next year all of our troubles

Will be out of sight.

This Christmas season, take a moment and whisper a prayer of thanks for the “precious friends” who gave their lives to make it so.

And have yourself a merry little Christmas… now.

Photograph by Lance Grigsby

By Robert Darden

Hi, officers. Beautiful evening. Clear but cold — that’s why I’ve got this hot chocolate — but it’s always beautiful on Christmas Eve, isn’t it?

What am I doing on Clifton Street alone at nearly midnight sitting on the hood of my ’88 Ford LTD? Good question. I’ve got a good answer if you’ve got a minute.

First, sure you wouldn’t like some cocoa? No? Suit yourselves.

My name? Oh, Jack Storrow, but everybody in Waco calls me “Jaco,” on account of I play bass guitar and the world’s greatest bassist was Jaco Pastorius.

A few years ago, I was working at Goggin’s Music Store. Remember it at around 7th and Austin Avenue? It’s gone now. It was Christmas Eve. The old man said someone ought to work late in case someone needed a last-minute gift. I volunteered. Why the heck not? My longtime girlfriend had just left me, I didn’t have any family here in town, I was in a crummy mood anyway — why not just make it a perfect evening by working Christmas Eve?

Naturally, no one came by. A drum set or Farfisa organ isn’t exactly an impulse item. So I put some old LPs on the turntable — a little B.B. King, some Aretha Franklin — and started to tidy up.

My well-worn old Squier bass guitar needed some new strings, so I re-strung it. Then I plugged it in a couple of bass amps to check them out and started practicing.

I guess the time got away from me.

Suddenly, three sharp-looking black gentlemen came in the store. I mean, they looked good — gabardine suits, fedoras, shoes with spats, vests, the works. I started to tell them that the store was closed, but I didn’t have anything better to do.

“Evening, gentlemen,” I said. “How can I help you?”

“Oh, you can help us a great deal, young man,” the apparent leader said. He was a good-looking guy with a deep, deep voice. “And perhaps, just perhaps, we can help you.

“These are my associates, Benny Benjamin and Son Seals. We heard you playing. We have a Christmas Eve engagement tonight at one of the finer venues in this charming town, and we suddenly find ourselves without a bassist. Interested?”

I didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

“Splendid! And your name is …?”

“Jaco Storrow. And I’m afraid I didn’t get your name …”

“Oh, I didn’t toss it. My name is John Marshall Alexander, Jr. But please, call me Johnny.”

Benny bought a pair of drum sticks, and Son bought some light gauge strings. I rang them up, grabbed my bass and started to pick up my battered old Fender bass amp.

“Oh, the club has its own equipment,” Johnny said. Was that a slight frown? The amp had seen better days, I’m afraid. Or maybe it was the slogan, “This machine kills Fascists” that I’d neatly painted on the side in day-glo yellow.

Outside was parked a beautiful classic 1953 aquamarine blue Buick Roadmaster Riviera with a white roof and whitewalls. But when Benny tried to start it, it wouldn’t turn over.

“Good luck finding an open garage tonight,” I said.

“Is that your … vehicle?” Johnny asked, pointing to my faded LTD. “Would it be possible to hitch a ride tonight? This is a very important gig. We will, of course, compensate you for your time and gas.”

“Uh, sure! That’d be fine. Just give me a minute to, um, tidy it up a bit. I’ve been, um, moving.”

“Of course you have,” Johnny said, with his most dazzling smile.

Once we’d pulled out of the parking lot, Johnny turned to me. “One other thing. We haven’t eaten in forever. Not since Houston, anyway. Would you mind taking us to a restaurant before the show?”

“No problem,” I said. “But there probably aren’t many places in town that are open, either.”

“Gentlemen,” Johnny said, “I propose we go to Sam Coates’ Restaurant!” Benny and Son happily agreed.

“Um, I’m not sure where that is,” I said.

“It’s on South Valley Mills,” Johnny said. “I’ll show you.”

“You guys must know Waco pretty well — I’ve never even heard of it.”

“Oh, we come to Waco most every year about this time,” Johnny said. Son and Benny laughed a little too loud, it seemed to me.

And when did it get so foggy? The forecast had said it was going to remain clear and dry through New Year’s. I could hardly see a block ahead of me. Even the old familiar Waco landmarks looked a little different as we passed them. Or maybe I was just getting tired.

Sam Coates’ Restaurant was, indeed, open — right where Johnny had said it would be — just before the South Valley Mills overpass. Funny, I’d never noticed it before.

But the lights shone like a beacon through the mist and the place was packed. It seemed like Johnny, Son and Benny knew everybody there. A bunch of the guys looked like old football players.

The food was fabulous, especially the black-bottom pie.

When the waitress came with the check, Johnny reached into his coat pocket.

“Oh my,” he said. “It appears that I left my wallet in my other suit back in the car.”

Son and Benny were suddenly very interested in their shoes.

“Jaco, I hate to impose on you like this, but could you cover us until after the engagement?”

Johnny gave his most ingratiating smile. “Well, of course,” I stammered, and fumbled for the money.

When we left, the fog was worse.

“We’ve still got a few minutes before we’re due to go on stage,” Johnny said. “Let’s take the scenic route to East Waco through downtown.”

“You’re the boss,” I said. But it quickly became clear to me that I was more than a little turned around. As we neared the old downtown square and headed towards the Brazos River, I kept seeing businesses I had never seen before — Ashford’s Café, T.J.’s Restaurant, the Mecca Drugstore, Baby George’s Saloon, Pipkin’s Drugstore, Pete’s Hamburger Stand and the Jockey Club.

“Man, I hope you guys know where you’re going,” I said. “I’m completely lost.”

“Oh, we’re doing fine, Jaco,” Johnny said. “You’re doing fine. Just keep heading towards Clifton Street.”

In East Waco, I stopped for a traffic light near something called the Gayety Hotel and a trolley pulled out of the mist and fog and silently eased past us.

Now I was really confused.

Finally, we reached 1001 Clifton. A rambling old building with a weathered sign said, “Walker’s Auditorium.” Even in the car, I could hear the music thumping. People were appearing out of the fog and streaming in, attracted by the lights and laughter.

Inside the club, the fog turned to a thick, smoky haze. Usually cigarette smoke kills my eyes, but this didn’t seem to bother me.

The four of us entered to thunderous applause. Johnny raised his hands grandly like a reigning monarch.

On the small stage, a single pianist was playing a rollicking blues number. “It’s Otis Spann!” Johnny shouted. “How in the world are you, Otis? You must sit in with us. I insist!”

Otis nodded and kept playing.

True to Johnny’s word, the stage was already set up with first-rate amplifiers and instruments. My old bass guitar never looked more out of place. Son picked up a vintage Gibson and Benny sat behind the drums.

“Hey, Jaco,” Benny whispered. “Do you know ‘Cross My Heart?’”

“Um, that would be a ‘no.’”

“Aw, you’ll do fine.”

Just then, Johnny launched into a soulful ballad — “Cross My Heart” — and I watched Son hoping for the key, for a sign, for anything. He just smiled and mouthed, “Follow me.” Miraculously, I did.

The place went berserk. We followed it with several more songs, none of which I knew, but I somehow managed to figure out the bass lines after a few bars — “The Clock,” “Yes, Baby,” “Please Forgive Me” and “Never Let Me Go.”

By now I had time to look around — or at least squint through the haze. It was pretty clear I was the only white guy there, but no one seemed to notice. Or care.

After the applause died down from “Never Let Me Go,” Johnny motioned to some of the people in the audience — “T-Bone! Big Bill! Elmore! Buddy! Sonny Boy! … good to see you, brothers! And Big Mama! Are you a sight for sore eyes, sweetheart! Why don’t you come up and do a few songs?”

Big Mama was, indeed, big. She lifted Johnny up and gave him a massive bear hug, made a funny curtsy to the crowd, then turned to the three us.

“‘Hound Dog,’ boys — and try to keep up with Big Mama,” she hissed.

“Wait a second …” I said, but it was too late. A deafening roar filled Walker’s Auditorium … “You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog!” and I was furiously playing along.

For the rest of the evening, different people took the stage, one by one. Otis was replaced by a pianist named Sunnyland Slim. After a while, Son left and T-Bone took over and tore the place up. A guy named Al sat in on drums for Benny — although everyone actually called him “Papa Zita.” Al was superb, a human metronome.

It was surreal. I somehow knew all of the songs. I felt like I should know all of the singers as well, but my head was spinning from fatigue and the effort to keep up on bass. But they all somehow looked so familiar …

At last, a heavy-set guy came up with a beautiful new Fender Jazz bass. “Hey, son, you’re looking a bit pale — even for a white guy — let ol’ Willie Dixon take over for a spell. Get yourself a root beer or something.”

I was too happy to give up my seat on the stage. After a song or two, it was clear that the guy was an extraordinarily funky bassist. He smiled my way and gave me a wink.

I stood by the band and watched and listened in amazement as an array of unbelievable singers took the microphone. I had no idea what time it was, and every bone in my body ached. I had blisters on my fingers from playing so hard and a headache from squinting through the clouds of smoke. But I was mesmerized.

At last, a few singers I did recognize took turns at the microphone — Wilson Pickett, Ike Turner, Joe Tex … “Funky Broadway,” “Rocket 88,” “Skinny Legs and All” …

Something at the far end of my consciousness kept nagging at me. Something wasn’t right here … and yet … and yet … the music was so other-worldly, I couldn’t help but get caught up in it, completely swept up in its bluesy power.

Finally, Johnny majestically took the stage again. He called Papa Zita, Otis, Son and me back up to the bandstand. I looked for my raggedy old Squier bass, but it was nowhere to be seen. I panicked for a moment, but Willie handed me his.

“This is the last song,” Johnny said. “It’s almost Christmas morning — and we all know what that means. It has been wonderful. It’s always wonderful.”

Some people in the audience were crying.

Johnny took the microphone and, in his rich, resonant baritone, began to sing a song I’d heard on the radio only once before, “Pledging My Love.” And the folks who hadn’t been crying before, were bawling now:

Forever my darling, our love will be true

Always and forever, I’ll love only you

Just promise me darling, your love in

return.

After the last note, the crowd rushed the stage and began hugging each other. I handed Willie his bass back and found a seat off in a corner, shaking my head in utter astonishment.

I guess I fell asleep.

When I woke up, I was back in my car, outside my apartment near the old Sanger Heights Elementary. My bass was nowhere to be found. I get stiffed for dinner, don’t make a dime for the evening and someone runs off with my only bass guitar!

Well, merry, merry Christmas to me.

It was a bright and sunny Christmas morning and the neighborhood kids were already running around, shouting and laughing, showing off their new toys.

And that’s when it finally hit me, when the last wisps of the Christmas Eve fog were burned away:

John Marshall Alexander, Jr. — Johnny.

John Marshall Alexander, Jr. — Johnny Ace!

That was Johnny Ace!

Wait a minute, I think to myself. Johnny Ace … he’s dead. In fact, all of those guys are dead, even Wilson Pickett and Ike Turner. They’re all gone.

What was it about Johnny Ace … he accidentally killed himself with a handgun. Or maybe it was Russian Roulette. Backstage at the Houston City Auditorium. In 1954! On Christmas Eve!

Johnny Ace! The original rock ‘n’ roll ghost!

I revved the engine and frantically drove back over to 1001 Clifton Street.

Nothing.

A vacant lot with a bare concrete foundation and some stray bricks and bottles. No Walker’s Auditorium. I got out and walked around. Nothing.

Well, nothing but a box in the middle of the overgrown lot.

And on that box, my name neatly printed, “Jack ‘Jaco’ Storrow,” followed by the words, “Thanks for everything, Johnny.”

Inside the box, a brand new bass guitar. Top of the line Fender Jazz Bass. It was beautiful. I still have it.

And that’s why I come back to 1001 Clifton Street in East Waco every year just before midnight on Christmas Eve, officers.

Would you care to join me? I have a Johnny Ace CD on the car stereo and another Thermos of hot chocolate in the back seat …

… and it’s just a couple more minutes until midnight …