Two remarkable men are Buddy Sadler and Conrad Geibel. Long after “Lights Out” in Viet Nam, they set out on a daunting task: Reassemble Bravo Company, 1/52nd Infantry, 198th Light Infantry Brigade, Americal Division.
The troops from long ago and far away didn’t maintain contact with each other. They spread all across the country and resumed their roles as citizens. Most married; many had children. Both the challenges of citizenry and the incredible pleasures of being American were their lot.
Some carried shrapnel in their bodies; others fingered fading scars. The unspeakable trauma of war was a source of constant pain for many. Each felt he had a special stake in America, and that feeling was justified.
So it has been for every generation of American warriors.
Buddy and Conrad were remarkably successful. With the skill of tracking dogs and persistence of used car salesmen, they built a current and accurate list. With the help of others, they arranged reunions.
A few years ago, I went to the reunion in Nashville. Eighty-five guys, some with wives, showed up. Many were grandfathers, others close to retirement. Except for being grizzled, bald, hard of hearing, wearing bifocals, and fat, they hadn’t changed one bit. To say the reunion was wonderful is to damn with faint praise. For me, it somehow sealed a chapter in my life.
Buddy and Conrad couldn’t reach everyone, of course, and a few didn’t want to be contacted. The guys I hoped to see were there, with a few exceptions.
One of those exceptions was Stony, one of our medics. I never knew his real name, or, if I did, it didn’t stay with me. Stony was a baby-faced blond kid with a soft Carolina accent. Instead of an M-16, he strapped a .357 Magnum to his right hip. If Stony ever got anxious or frightened, I didn’t see it. A wonderful medic.
When mail was dropped off, Stony would be holding a hand-written letter, savoring every word from his home town of Cherryville, North Carolina. We would interrupt by yelling, “Hey, Stoney, how’s things in Cherryville?” because he always had the same answer, “Things is turr-i-ble in Churr-i-ville.” I always smile when my memory plays again his voice.
Today the eyes blur a little; Stony — Randy Dean Hudson — died ten years ago. He was 18 years old when we met and he lived only to age 50. Somehow, I always believed Stony and I would get together again, if only for a day.
That news came from Buddy and Conrad and Charles Arthur, one of our very good platoon leaders. They started their search with an old black and white picture of Stony that eventually led to his 10-year old obituary.
Stony might as have well passed away this morning. I guess it’s my turn to say, things is turr-i-ble in Churr-i-ville.
