Sky Soldiers

Tony Soprano. Thomas Edison. Salt water taffy. Baseball and boardwalks.  All originated from New Jersey and have helped define the state's character.  The first boardwalk in the world was built in Atlantic City in 1870. At the same time, salt water taffy was being produced for the first time. Thomas Edison created the light bulb, the first movie, and the phonograph. The first city to ever have been lit by electricity was in New Jersey and the first organized baseball game was played in Hoboken in 1846. There is a lot of history in New Jersey.  All the above are wonderful attributes that have helped shape the way we see the state. This is a story about an older black man named Gilbert. I first met him while walking down the street.  He asked if I could spare some change.

"Excuse me sir. Could you please spare some change? I'm hungry."

I kept walking like so many times before. But for some reason I turned around and noticed his jacket and a familiar patch on it.  It read, "Sky Soldiers."  The patch was very distinctive with a dagger and a parachute. I had seen this insignia before on my late fathers jacket. I was shocked.

"I'm sorry sir. Can I buy you lunch or something?"

He smiled and said gratefully, "Yes, son. I would love that."

We walked across the street to a small diner. We sat and he took off his jacket. It was at this point I noticed his left arm. It was missing from the elbow down.

Our conversation was a a simple one. We exchanged pleasantries and I shared with him my reason for my visit to New Jersey. At one point in the conversation he jokingly asked if I was here looking for Snookie. We both laughed so hard that most everyone in the diner turned to look at us. Some couldn't stop starring and I assume they were wondering what a well dressed individual was doing with this apparent homeless man. 

Our conversation went on and we eventually began talking about his service to our country and I mustered up the courage to gracefully ask about his injury to his arm. 

His eyes told his story almost as well as his words. You could tell from this man's demeanor and conversation that he was an intelligent person, not a typically person from the streets.  He was worn but his soul and love for this country was apparent.

"On February 22nd 1967, during the Vietnam war, my brigade, the 173rd Airborne, parachuted into the Tay Nihn Province.  We called it War Zone C.  We were the only ones to ever conduct a parachute combat mission during the war.  Operation Junction City.  The locals called us the Sky Soldiers."

I could see some pain and pride in his eyes. His head was held high as we spoke. He continued to tell a few stories as he swallowed up his food.

"Later that summer, we were deployed to Dak To.  We were under heavy sniper fire and that's when I was hit in my arm. We called this Hill 875.  The North Vietnamese were throwing grenades and peppering us with small arms fire. I was standing next to my good friend Karl when I dropped my cig. I reached down to get it and was hit in the arm, right by my elbow.  It was gone instantly and I fell to the ground."

"Holy cow," I said.  I found what he said next to be most surprising.

"I consider myself lucky.  You know those snipers over there never missed.  They were known for their head shots.  There's no doubt that he was aiming for my head."

"It's kind of ironic that a cigarette saved your life huh?"

"Son, you're right.  The funny thing is that I never smoked another one after that day.  I quit cold turkey. You know we lost a lot of good men during those two operations.  875 took its toll on us.  We lost half of the 173rd during that operation.  Many of those young men left in worst shape than me."

We had our own moment of silence for a minute or two.  It was a comfortable silence. The Mets were playing the Yankees that day and from the small television in the corner we could hear the National Anthem being sung. I could see him silently singing it to himself.  He was rubbing the Presidential Unit Citation he received for his heroism in the war.

We sat there for a little longer when he finally asked me what my name was. 

"My name is Nathan.  Nathan Karl Bedford from Atlanta Georgia."

His eyes lit up. "I knew a Karl Bedford," he said with surprise.

I slowly looked up with a tear in my eye and said, "I know.  I know you did."

To this day, I still keep contact with Gilbert.  He has shared with me many stories of my father. We write back and forth.  He still sleeps at the same mission and still volunteers his time to the community.  He has received awards from the state for his dedication to veterans and work in the community.  The man who has nothing has more than most Americans.

God bless America and those that have and continue to fight for our country.