We're happy to introduce a new occasional contributor. Frank Mullen (confirmed, card carrying Baby Boomer) commented once, so we promptly went and looked at his site. Yup--he's funny.
End of an Era
by
Frank Mullen III
The subject of my military service constantly comes up at the coffee shop. Only when it's relevant, of course.
"I see you put sugar in your coffee," I'll say, thereby establishing relevance. "We enlisted men learned to do without sugar back during Vietnam."
Not being a close observer of the subtle difference between the phrases 'during Vietnam' and 'in Vietnam,' you are likely to respond, "Army? Marines?"
"Navy," I say, "and I could tell you some stories." Then, with a faraway look, "But I don't like to talk about it."
I have flashed my warrior credentials and slipped them back in my vest pocket so smoothly that you are left with the impression that the memories of my time in the service are painful.They're not painful; they're boring. I was a stateside Navy musician. What memoirs do I have to offer?
"There I was, trapped in the middle of the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade; trombones ahead of me, alto saxophones behind, the spectators pelting us with a hellish rain of cheers and tickertape. Suddenly, the drum major gave the signal for 'I'd Like To Teach The World To Sing.' I put my lips to the mouthpiece of the tuba..."
Please understand that I have never claimed the status of 'Vietnam veteran.' That is a title of honor, reserved for those who were there.
But what about those of us who answered the call in other places? The mess cook working an eighteen-hour shift, the drill instructor on overnight march with his recruits, the musician moonlighting with Danny Kellerman's Dixieland Kings during happy hour at the officer's club five nights a week, cash under the table and free drinks--did we not also serve?
Indeed we did. I have long called myself a veteran, not of the Vietnam war, but of the Vietnam era.
At least I did until last Tuesday night, when I was cleaning the basement and came across a box of my old medals.
My Good Conduct award. They gave me three of them, that's how good I was.
My Navy Achievement medal, one of the highest awards you can get without being shot at.
An "E" ribbon with a star, representing two awards. Empathy? Esperanto? I never knew what I did to earn these, but I must have done it twice.
But no National Defense medal. This was the all-important award that identified the wearer as a Vietnam-era veteran. You didn't need to have been in Vietnam to get it; it simply signified military service anywhere, at any time between 1961 and 1974, so everybody got one.
Everybody but me. I enlisted in 1974, but somehow that medal was never awarded to me. A slip-up? Lost paperwork? I never knew. For my first four years of service I wore no ribbons or medals at all, which my Leading Petty Officer, Doug Blovall, could never understand.
"Why arenít you wearing ribbons, Mullen?"
"I don't have them."
"Go get them."
"Can I just go 'get' awards? Don't they have to be, shall we say, 'awarded'? "
"Well, you joined in '74, right? Where's your National Defense ribbon?"
"Beats me."
"Don't be so smart--go over to the uniform shop and order one."
"You mean I can 'order' a medal, like a taco or a Budweiser? In that case, I'll take two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star, to go."
The gay repartee ended only when I eventually received a Good Conduct award. At last I had a medal to make Blovall happy, and I forgot that my wartime experience had never been officially recognized.
Recognized or not, I have always tried to use my military experience for the public good. Every few years a war pops up, and the citizenry looks for knowledgeable veterans to put things in perspective. That's where I step in, analyzing strategy and tactics, telling everyone in the coffee shop what the generals should be doing.
After all, I'm a Vietnam-era veteran and, boy, I could tell you some stories.
So, there I was last Tuesday night, deciding it's about time I found out about the decoration I'd never received. I visited the Navy's website, clicked on 'medals and ribbons' and learned an astounding fact: the words 'National Defense' and 'Frank Mullen' cannot be used in the same sentence.
The mass giveaway of the National Defense award ended, along with the Vietnam-era, on August 14, 1974. I, however, didn't enlist until the following November.
By this reckoning, I wasn't in the Navy during what we loosely refer to as 'Vietnam;' I was in what we loosely refer to as 'college.' Apparently, they didn't give medals to guys who spent the war riding stolen cafeteria trays down the hill in the snow behind the library while waving jugs of Gallo and screaming, "I'm druuuunk!"
This has been a week of humiliation. It is as though I've been walking around in a tee-shirt that says, "What if they ended a war, and then Frank showed up--would he notice?"
But, life goes on. We do what we can, not to attain glory, but to serve; always to serve. If you think I'm going to stop offering my expertise where it is needed, let me tell you this, loud and clear:
We Grenada-era veterans aren't quitters.
You don't remember the Grenada Invasion? 1983? Maybe the campaign in that Caribbean hell-hole didn't drag out as long as Vietnam, but it was a weekend I'll never forget.
Did I see action? Not with the first assault wave--I was needed elsewhere, and I could tell you some stories.
But I don't like to talk about it.
Copyright 2003, Frank Mullen III. Originally published by Suite101.com.
Frank Mullen III is Suite101's Baby Boomer Humor Contributing Editor.
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