In a seldom used corner, of a not frequented room, stands a photograph.  It doesn’t have a frame, just a scratched plastic cover.  It’s tucked informally into the bookshelf on a space-permits basis.  It’s unpretentious and undemanding.  It can withstand years of neglect and inattention.  It never complains.

 

The photo is slightly out of focus.  It’s beginning to fade.  A liquid stain of unknown origin dribbles statically across the bottom right corner.  The setting is one of any hot, hazy, sticky, muggy,          eye-squinting days in Bien Hoa, Vietnam.

 

In the photo, exactly 26 young men lounge in various stages of casual repose on and around a UH-1 Helicopter.  Their average age is probably…21, maybe 22.  These men (kids, really) are, “The Spartans.”  They are the second flight platoon, 190th Assault Helicopter Company, Spartans, First Aviation Brigade. I flew with most of them.  I knew them all.

I bring them to your attention nearly 40-years later because, they deserve an encore.  As I look at their faces, some, I don’t remember.  Some, I recognize, but can’t recall their names.  For other’s, oh yes, for others, I can recall their smallest mannerisms.  Their smile, favorite phrase, music, or the way they lit, or flipped away a cigarette.  They’re all lean, fit, and impervious to danger.

 

Still, not all the Spartans are present.  Michael Hatfield, a fellow pilot, is missing, killed on a morning reconnaissance outside the airfield boundaries, shot down—as was the Medivac helicopter dispatched to extract him.  His wife never remarried—to this day.  The night before he was killed, Mike and I stayed awake late, talking about the future, what we’d do when we got back to, “The World”, and his newly born son.

 

A gunner–a crewmember who sits in the back and mans the M-60 machine gun–named Graves is not in the photo.  If I ever knew his first name, I don’t recall it now.  Graves was killed on the Two Corps/Three Corps border flying a mission I no longer remember.  Some sort of search and rescue I think.  I have a hazy memory that it may have been a false alarm…for everyone but Graves and his family.

 

The sad part, really, is that much of this is forgotten. The pressing reasons we were there, no longer matter, overcome by everything from iPods to Iraq.  I wonder if 5 of 10 people picked at random could find Vietnam on a map—much less give you two sentences about its history.  After so much blood and anguish, the irony is, it was so important then, so unimportant now.

 

But, that wouldn’t matter to these folks.  Lincoln may have expressed it for the Nation at Gettysburg, but, I can assure you, these guys wouldn’t consider themselves, “honored dead.”  Hearing that, they’d laugh outright.  They’d just see themselves as dead.  Plain and simple.  Unvarnished, unpoetic, unclean, and unnecessarily dead.

 

But the ones that are in the photo hold my attention, too.  What happened to them?  Dead?  Alive? Prosperous?  Broke?  Successful?  Failure?  Killed in some silly accident after surviving all those dangers?  Or, are they destined to die peacefully in bed at age one hundred?  I’ll never know.  They’re all sixty or better now.  Hard to believe.  In my mind’s eye, they look exactly as you see them in the photograph.  Frozen and youthfully smiling.

 

I did meet with a couple of the guys not too long ago.   Dave Coons, was my first crew chief.  I flew with David nearly every day, as a new aircraft commander.  Dave made it his responsibility to ensure I stayed out of trouble.  (I out-ranked Dave, but, he’d been ‘in-country’ for 6 months when I got there.  I must have looked lost instead of tough; he knew I needed watching.)  Last I heard, Dave’s working for the Army National Guard in Utah.  I also met Curtis Loop, then a Captain and the Operations Officer.  He was smart and personable.  When I saw him about  five years ago, he was a retired General.  I’m not surprised.

 

Then, there’s Randy Score, my second crew chief.  Randy and I aren’t in the photo; we were out flying…hey, someone had to do the work.  Randy died suddenly a couple of years ago.  Heart attack. He was mid-fifties.  Fortunately, we’d corresponded.  Randy had seen my first book, and through it, traced me.  Randy gave me the idea to write him, Dave, and the Spartans, into the second book, Betrayal.  Randy read his section and thought it was great.  Typical Randy.  In the book, I blow him up in a helicopter crash.  Only his boots remain—with feet, I might add.  His, “Alright, cool!” reaction makes me smile even now.

 

So, what’s the point?  Well, your past has unique writing material you may have not considered, no matter your age.  If you shine your emotional light deep enough into the shadows, you’ll find relationships, events, adventures, and people that can not only appear in your work, but deepen and enrich it in a way research can’t.  You lived these events.  You can still see, hear, smell, and feel most of them.  They may be your most fertile ground for growing strong, dynamic characters, scenes, and chapters.  Don’t be afraid to look in those dusty corners.  You may have a Michael, Dave, Randy–or group of Spartans–ready to help.  It can be powerful, powerful stuff.  Don’t be afraid to look.  Sometimes, the folks you surface, might  deserve an encore.

Thanks for stopping by, Galen, Spartan 20.