As a young man in the Army, I was always the youngest, the youngest in Jump school, the youngest in the 101st airborne infantry company in Vietnam, and one of the youngest to leave there alive. I once had a lady tell me in my run for the US Senate in 2018 can you imagine 18-year-old boys with automatic weapons? I said yes, and with hand grenades, claymore mines, and machine guns, I could call in artillery and airstrikes. She laughed and tapped my shoulder as she walked away as if I was kidding.

As my age has gotten to the other side of young, I am still amazed at 73 that on this side I amaze myself also. After six years out of golf, in a few short weeks, I was hitting the ball just as hard and better than six years ago. In the Slavic tournament, my age let me crash on the gold tees, but I didn’t. I stayed with ordinary men and outdrove them more times than not. I have averaged four buckets of balls a day at the Diamondhead country club since starting back and have practiced hours of putting. One may be asked why at 73, my competitiveness demands it.

As a young man in Vietnam, sometimes I considered myself a hero; other times, not so much, sometimes I realized I was a scared, frightened young kid. As with anything, no one is the same in every situation; sometimes you are tremendous, and sometimes it isn’t there. Most folks don’t understand that in most firefights, someone is almost always wounded or killed, sometimes many. My memory sometimes lights up like the 4th of July, remembering the good and evil, the heartaches of losing friends, and the pain of living another day. Death, I noticed, was the cure to war, no pain, no more fear, just peace.

I would hope that the nation I fought for and helped carried many of their dead sons for their last flight in lost life, from all walks of life and all colors, that fought not for the glory of the nation, not for medals to be placed on their chest but to protect one another. They fell on the battlefield as brave men, and I hope they will always be remembered as the heroes they were to me.

“There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.”