A Haunting Portrait of War

I know I have published this before. In my opinion, it will never lose its importance or become outdated. Each time, I try to bring it up to date. We should forever keep the memories of our lost soldiers alive in our hearts and minds…

There isn’t a day that goes by when the thundering echoes of war escape us. Today, we live in a world rife with radical extremists like daesh (I won’t call it ISIS) and al Qaeda, sick and deranged with a desire to destroy civilizations and murder all of humanity, save themselves, in the name of their god. The following story is my hideous wake-up call to war. It came at a time when most conflicts were fought over more mundane causes - nationalism, patriotism, democracy, communism, bigotry and territorial rights. This was back when building a bigger and more powerful bomb was all the rage and nations proudly strutted their massive hardware in displays of strength and unity in order to intimidate the world. North Korea comes to mind. Now, for the most part, our enemies use IEDs, ram trucks into bustling crowds, and strap bombs to their chests, blowing themselves up.

On a distant morning in 1967, one of my classmates at East Amwell Township School was quietly asked to get up from his desk and follow the administrator out of the classroom. I remember that day and wondering why. Did he do something wrong? Of course not, and it didn’t take very long before the principal announced on the P.A. system that his cousin, Van Dyke Manners, was killed in action in Vietnam. He was one of the first from Hunterdon County, New Jersey, to die in the line of duty. I didn’t know him personally, but I remember it well because it was a solemn day. My friend had lost a loved one. Greg did not come back to class that week. To a 14-year-old, those echoes of war were a distant sound that lightly flickered in our young minds. We never thought of death then. We were invincible, but with each passing day, the reverberation grew louder and louder, and reality hit us fast and hard. The Vietnam War was in full boom.

Back then, what was going on in our own back yards seemed more important than anything else, but the Vietnam war was lurking out there - somewhere in our heads. Despite our youthful dreams and aspirations, the war never escaped us. We saw it on our black & white television sets. We heard it on our AM radios. It made headlines in the daily newspapers. Everywhere we went, the specter loomed large and cut deeply into our subconscious minds.

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Early in 1968, a girl who lived up the street from me asked if I would be interested in creating a portrait of her boyfriend. Back in those days, a small town was just that; there was no city in sight. Windows were left open to let air breeze through because air conditioning was a luxury. We weren’t afraid to leave our doors unlocked, and neighbors knew all the gossip. I was known as the left-handed artistic kid. Ask Dave. He knows how to draw.

She was a little older than me, and her boyfriend had enlisted in the Army. She offered to pay me and I accepted. I asked her to round up whatever photographs she could so I had something to work with. I asked her if I could meet him. To an artist, it’s good to know something about a subject that photographs alone cannot tell you. In the flesh, you get to know the person. Because of that request, I got to know Mike Baldwin. At 21, he was a man. At 15, I was not. He was old and mature. I was still a kid. He shaved, I didn’t, and with a war raging, I was in no hurry to buy my first razor.

His girlfriend asked me to draw the portrait as big as I could. When I went to the store to buy materials, my old “Be Prepared” Boy Scout lessons taught me to have a back-up plan, so I purchased two giant drawing boards, just in case I messed up. I couldn’t simply up and go to the store back then because I was too young to drive.  Fortunately, I didn’t mess up, so I decided to draw another one, identical to the first. The original BOGO! I don’t know what compelled me to do it, but I’m glad I did. Maybe I thought if the relationship didn’t work out years later, at least he would have one to share with his family. That must have been the reason. Maybe the death of Van Dyke put apprehension in my heart. You know, one for his mother, just in case.

When I finished the drawings, I made a date to deliver the artwork. My neighbor had invited Mike and his mother to “attend” the presentation. Everyone was very pleased with the job I had done, especially his mother, who was honored to have her son’s portrait captured by a local artist.

Soon afterward, he left for Vietnam. He went because he believed in a cause. He believed in America and freedom. In school, we were taught about the Domino Theory. Back then, it meant that if one country falls under the influence of communism, then the surrounding countries would follow. Red China didn’t exist on any of our maps and globes. It was just a grayed out mass of nonexistent land, but it was still a major threat because North Vietnam was one of the countries under their grip. South Vietnam was not, and we came to its defense. Today, Vietnam is one country but, by the end of the war, 58,000 red-blooded Americans gave up their lives. Michael Baldwin was one of them.

Nearly 46 years ago, he became a statistic. His body was zipped up in a bag and shipped home. That was the day I woke up to the horrible tragedy of war. It was my first experience. Someone I knew personally was dead because of it. 

One of the things I learned, and it’s very important, was that Michael Baldwin put his country before his life. We lost so many and what did we gain? I know I gained a whole lot of respect for those who march off to war. Michael Baldwin was a man and I was a boy when we met, but I still look up to him and I will soon be 47 years older than he was on the day he died. To this very day, I wonder what would life be like had he lived. Would he have married my neighbor or someone else? Would he be happy? Or would he be mourning the loss of his children or grandchildren because of our brutal and self-inflicted world of terrorism, home-spun jihadists and plain, old weirdos? The more violence changes, the more it remains the same. Death is still death and the loss of loved ones over religion and politics is still just as senseless as it was the day Michael Baldwin died.

On July 19, he would be turning 70. I will remember him as a true American hero; a very proud young man. As for the identical pictures I drew, they are lost and gone, but not forgotten. In my mind, the memory of them will forever remain a haunting portrait of war.

Sgt. Michael Richard Baldwin (7/19/1947 - 9/12/1968) KIA - Binh Long Province, South Vietnam, ambushed while on reconnaissance 5 kilometers Northeast of Loc Ninh, along with:
Ssgt. Phillip Kenneth Baker - Detroit, MI
Pfc. Eugene Russell Boyce - Spartanburg, SC
Sp4. Wayne Daniel Jenkins - Bryson City, NC
Pfc. Kenneth Leroy Martin - Los Angeles, CA
Pfc. Marion Luther Oxner - Leesville, SC
Pfc. Dale Arden Palm - Toledo, OH
Pfc. Kurt Francis Ponath - Cudahy, WI
Sp4. J C Williams Jr. - Muncie, IN
Pfc. William Wittman - Binghamton, NY

September 12, 1968, was a long and sad day for Alpha Company, 1st Battalion, 28th Infantry, 1st Infantry Division.

Pfc. Van Dyke William Manners (11/10/1945 - 2/15/1967) KIA - Kontum Province, South Vietnam

To all our brethren lost in wars, rest in peace. Your deaths will never be in vain.

I first published a different version of this story in 2006. Michael Baldwin’s cousin searched his name on Google and found my blog about a year later. She wrote me and said, “I just found your website and read your article about Mike.  I just wanted to say thank you…  It touched me and helped me remember my cousin very fondly.  He was a good guy and the last of the Baldwin men in our family.  He is remembered fondly by many of my friends who still [live] in Flemington, as well as my family.

“I also wanted to let you know that Aunt Peg didn’t handle Mike’s death very well.  She couldn’t even bring herself to go to the funeral.  I do remember that both she and my Uncle Alvin (Mike’s Dad) did attend the memorial at Ft. Dix after his death.  That was really all she could handle.  She always said she preferred to remember people while they were alive.  I can’t say that I blame her.  I didn’t understand it in 1968, but I get it now.

“Mike left a large impact on me.  The memorial service was really something and I can still remember the 21 gun salute at his funeral in the cemetery in Flemington.”

Mike’s mother passed away in 1993. His sister contacted me right after her cousin got in touch with her. Here is what she told me:

“My cousin called me and told me about your blog.  She had seen Michael’s name in it and read the story.  I read it too and also your reply to her.  I am Mike’s youngest sister.  You made me cry—but it was a good cry.

“My family and I are so pleased that we are not the only one’s who remember Mike.  Looking through your blog and your e-mail to Mary, I found it so interesting that there are so many things we are connected through.

“I go to church at Kirkpatrick Memorial Presbyterian church in Ringoes. Van Dyke’s mother went there before she died a couple of years ago and there is a stained glass window dedicated to him.

“My father worked for the Forans in the foundry they owned in Flemington.  My father was friends with Walt Foran. [My friend Frank’s father.]

“When I read your blog, I could feel that you knew Mike well.  He was a great kid and we loved him.  You talk about my mother—you may not know it but I had a brother who was older than Mike—his name was Alvin—we called him Skip.  He died in a car accident on Sept. 13, 1958.  No, I didn’t confuse the dates, it was one day short of 10 years later that Mike was killed.  It was a blow that my parents never recovered from.

“I am so glad that you wrote about Mike, it makes me feel that we are not the only ones who remember. Thank you again for keeping his memory alive.”

Please see: NJ Vietnam War Memorial - Michael Baldwin

Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund

http://www.vvmf.org/Wall-of-Faces/2163/MICHAEL-R-BALDWIN

Cross posted on Daily Kos

BRUCE ALL BITEY

Back in the ’70s, there was a guy named Bruce who came into the Weiner King every week or so. He was tall and lanky and graduated high school with me. I considered him to be my friend. Not a close friend, mind you, but a friend just the same.

The Weiner King in Flemington was one of the most popular places in town back in the day. Most customers came back time and time again because they loved the food. Obviously, that was the case with him.

Bruce loved our Texas Weiners. For those of you who might not know, and I would always describe it like a mantra of some kind, “A Texas Weiner is a hot dog with mustard, onions and chili.” Oh, the memories this brings back… Our hot dogs were grilled and the chili was made in-house from a secret family recipe. All meat! No beans! Bruce also loved French Fries and Coca Cola. That’s what he always, always ordered and he usually came in after the lunch crowd was gone. Somewhere between 2:30 – 4:00: that lull time every restaurant experiences.

You’re probably wondering where I’m going with this. So what, some guy likes Texas Weiners, French Fries, and Coke. What’s the big deal? So did almost everyone else.

Well, what made his order special was due to what ALL he ordered. Each time, it was the same exact thing. Bellying up to the counter, he’d say…

“Yes, I’d like seven Texas Weiners, seven large French Fries, and seven large Cokes, please.” Take into consideration that he was always alone. And tall. And thin. And, just in case you’re wondering, NO, seven Texas Weiners, seven large French Fries, and seven large Cokes will not fit on a single tray. I’ll let you figure it out.

Bruce always waited patiently while we went to work. He was soft spoken. We’d pour the seven sodas and he’d take them to a table around the corner, in the very back, so he could be somewhat hidden from view and not noticed by anyone else passing through. You never heard a peep out of him and he’d sit there for quite some time, chewing and sipping away.

After eating all that, he’d throw out his trash. You’d think he’d be heading toward the door, but…

Noooooo!

He didn’t. He came back to the counter to order again. “Yes, I’d like seven Texas Weiners, seven large French Fries, and seven large Cokes, please.” And he’d spend another half hour or so back in his corner, munching away.

I never wanted to believe that one man could consume all that, but Bruce was proof. The girls were always shocked, too, because they were light eaters.

“Where did all that food go?” they’d ask me.

“I don’t know, but I’m sure he’s got a bathroom at home,” I’d generally respond.

“Ewww!” I had no explanation for it other than to add that everyone’s metabolism is different.

Whatever became of Bruce, I don’t know. After the Weiner King closed, where did he go for his food fix?  

THE LAST TIME I SAW BILL

This is a true story that took place on October 23, 2001. It was a Tuesday afternoon…

My parents’ house is on a small street just north of Orlando. It has about a dozen homes on the south side. On the north side, and directly across the street, is a small lake. That side is owned by one family, Bill being the strong patriarch. There are two houses on his property, both owned by his family.

Sadly, he came down with a very rare form of leukemia; so rare, in fact, that he couldn’t be treated by any of the Orlando hospitals. He opted to go to Houston, where he spent months at the MD Anderson Cancer Center. It was his only choice. It was his only chance.

Bill was a strong kind of guy. By that, I mean he had character and integrity. He was a hard worker and everyone seemed to like and respect him. He and his wife had been known to throw some great parties, so I would hear, and he was a big banker of some kind. All I really did know about him was that he had leukemia and things didn’t seem to be working out in his favor. Unfortunately, no procedure helped and, in the end, he was sent home to live out his remaining days with his loving wife and family, under his doctor’s care in order to keep him as comfortable as possible. Despite not really knowing him all that well, I made it a point to ask about him every time I visited or called my parents.

One afternoon, I decided to stop by the old homestead. It was my nature to make sure my mother was doing okay, especially when she was alone. Except for the pets. Driving by Bill’s house, I saw him standing there, just off the road. I waved, but he didn’t respond. He didn’t even notice me, as a matter of fact, and it seemed like he was staring out into an empty void. His face was pale and emotionless. I thought, well, he’s not in the best of health right now, anyway. Intently, I watched as I drove by, thinking that this would most likely be the last time I’d see him because something just appeared to be different. To this day, I still can’t put my finger on it. It’s as if he was somewhere else. I thought to myself that he must be nearing the end of his journey and was too weak to acknowledge me. That must be it. I knew that his health had been declining, but didn’t really know what kind of shape he was in. Until this day.

I pulled into my parents’ place, got out, and went inside. The first thing I said to my mother after greeting her was that I had just seen Bill standing in his driveway. I waved and he didn’t even notice me. Poor Bill.

“That’s impossible,” she responded.

“Why? I mean, he didn’t look good, but there he was.”

“No, David, you couldn’t have seen him. He passed away two days ago. In the hospital.”

“You’re kidding. No way!” I knew I saw him and had to quickly go back outside to take another look.

Bill was gone.

MAYBE SHE JUST DOESN'T LIKE ME

My Website, marinadedave.com or daveknechel.com is divided into three sections; a wide one in the center and two narrow ones on the left and right. There are ads and missing people notices and a lot of other things, including a way to contact me. If you scroll down and keep looking at the left column, you’ll find it. It says:

CONTACT ME:

This form will allow you to send a secure email to the owner of this page. Your email address is not logged by this system, but will be attached to the message that is forwarded from this page.

Believe it or not, I still receive “fan” mail occasionally, despite the fact that the Casey Anthony case ended almost six years ago. I also know that this case will never be forgotten. Casey is just as embedded in our psyches as Lizzie Borden. 125 years later, and many people still remember the Lizzie mantra, even though she was acquitted of murder…

LIZZIE BORDEN RHYME

Lizzie Borden had an axe
She gave her mother 40 whacks
When she saw what she had done
She gave her father 41

Of course, I had to write one about Casey, although I don’t think it will be said a hundred years from now…

THE BALLAD OF CASEY

For the rest of her life

Her name will be mud

For taking the life

Of her own flesh and blood.

For what lies ahead

Is a brewing storm.

Her Caylee long dead

Was fed chloroform.

I wrote that poem seven months before the trial, but did do some minor tweaking six months after it ended.

What’s my point? The hatred is still intact, and it sometimes includes writers like me, who covered it extensively. Please read the following letter I received last night, sent through my Website. I opened it this morning. I won’t identify the sender, of course, but it’s obvious she knows nothing about me and how I became an integral part of the Casey Anthony case. Obviously, she has no recollection of my participation in the case for three years; that I attended almost all of the hearings and the entire trial. She’s not aware that I covered it for 10 weeks as a credentialed journalist for Orlando magazine from inside the courtroom. Yes, it was a paid position. During my time as a writer, I investigated and exposed three different people and situations as frauds. I even received an excellent compliment from the judge early on, but we won’t go there.

The letter writer seems to be one very vindictive person. To feel this way nearly six years after it ended? Clearly, she’s obsessed and angry, not to mention uneducated. (The emphasis is mine.)

I know you followed the case of casey Anthony just like everyone else, even the real media but what makes u think you know so much about what really happened, especially just by hearsay. I hate her just as much as everyone else. But hate people like you more who read a bunch of everyone’s writings and now YOU’VE become an expert like you if your were personally there. I know you think you a writer, but try to stick to fictional books. You sound like a fool on scandal made me famous. Really.  

You know what they say.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but…