Foreword
A passionate patriot
By Bob KerreyPrologue
By James Martin DavisNovember 8, 1981
A soldier remembered May 30, 1982
The soldiers of twilight November 7, 1982
Soldiers of yesterday May 29, 1983
Graveyard in the clouds August 28, 1983
The invasion that might have failed May 27, 1984
Memory fades, but this name lives on in glory October 21, 1984 America rescues a nation May 26, 1985
Remembrances of a soldier December 21, 1986 Christmas in a bunker November 1, 1987
An invasion not found in history books
February 28, 1988
A returning hero is not forgotten January, 1989
Vietnam: What it was really like May 28, 1989
Remembering at The Wall
112 114 118 122 126 134 140 146 152 156 162 166 172 174 178
May 28, 1989
The Moving Wall May 27, 1990
Vietnam War ideals so very far away November 11, 1993
A soldier’s farewell May 30, 1994 A quiet tribute to precious lives May 29, 1995
The covenant of a soldier August 22, 1998
Families and Omaha remember May 31, 1999
Remember me? Wilco, soldier May 29, 2000
Courage takes many forms May 28, 2001
Soldiers ask only this: Remember May 27, 2002
The ultimate bequest May 26, 2003
This enduring sacrifice deserves the nation’s salute May 31, 2004
Memorial Day sharpens focus on honored dead May 27, 2001 At long last, mom knows
By Mike Kelly May 30, 2005 Requiems for our fallen soldiers May 29, 2006
Generations gave lives to preserve liberty
Copyright 2021 James Martin Davis and Omaha World-Herald. All rights reserved.
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First Edition ISBN: 978-1-7345923-5-1 Printed by Walsworth Publishing Co.
May we never forget
May 28, 2007
The true character of a nation
May 26, 2008
The cost soldiers pay
December 25, 2008
Peace on earth, goodwill to men
May 25, 2009
Giving something back to honor our infantrymen
May 31, 2010
Shrines to selfless sacrifice
May 30, 2011
Remember families along with war veterans
May 28, 2012
A salute to America’s fallen
May 27, 2013
This Memorial Day is extra-special
May 26, 2014
America’s solemn duty: Keep this day holy
May 25, 2015
Pride in America is two-way street
May 30, 2016
Visit to The Wall stirs many memories
November 12, 2017
The Baby Boomer generation grapples with war
May 26, 2019
America’s day of obligation
May 24, 2020
America’s great equalizer
July 5, 2020
Bravery knows no color
November 11, 2020
Why veterans prefer to be silent
May 30, 2021
It hurts when your heroes die
Epilogue
By James Martin Davis
THE CODE OF A SOLDIER
James Martin Davis, Esq.High on that wall of fame there is a young man’s name. No one to accept the blame — for the brief life of this soldier.
Visitors, they come and they go even in the heat and the snow, but no one would ever know — the story of this soldier.
A face from the distant past, a memory that will forever last. Carved into the wall is cast the name of that soldier.
How can I tell it right regarding that bloody fight when Rangers engaged in flight — except this one soldier.
Standing there duty bound holding that crucial ground, he motioned without a sound to withdraw like a soldier.
A single man staying behind in a plan he quickly designed, so all that the enemy would find was this fierce, fighting soldier.
Searching the hill down below was a chopper that flew fast and flew low desperately hoping to scatter the foe to rescue a last soldier.
No tracers, no smoke, and no flare, no panel, no gestures, no glare, no signal that came from down there — from a now-missing soldier.
But now with each pass it was clear that because of the deed he did here no soldier would ever appear; It was the sacrifice of a soldier.
The price he paid was so dear, so the wounded could get to the rear, in spite of the rockets, the rounds and the fear, he showed the heart of a soldier.
About to be overrun by rocket and mortar and gun now all of them gone except one — except this one soldier.
Rattled by blood and by fear, the wounded move quick to the rear a full company of the enemy so near held back by one soldier.
They heard the rounds fall and explode as the enemy began to unload on this Ranger who adhered to his code — the code of a soldier.
As the medevac touched down and arrived and loaded the five who survived, this recon team was deprived — deprived of one soldier.
On the ground as the battle grew still, the enemy now on top of the hill prevented in finding the others until they had moved past this soldier.
The troops now safe in the air removed from this terrible affair yet all of them filled with despair — despair for this soldier.
Reverently standing at the monument today are the men with a debt to repay; here to honor, to cry and to pray — and to remember a soldier.
They each had a story to tell concerning a man they knew well, who unselfishly saved them from hell simply because he was a soldier.
Now, as they quietly kneel, unable to say what they feel, they hope only to bind and to seal their love for this soldier.
All the tears on the cheeks and the faces tell the message of this special place, that our nation can never replace — the precious life of a soldier.
FOREWORD
By Bob KerreyA PASSIONATE PATRIOT
James Martin Davis does not glorify war. Quite the contrary. This decorated Vietnam combat veteran writes with firsthand knowledge of the hell of war and the sacrifice of those called to serve and protect our great nation and world.
Jim’s essays, written over four decades and published by the Omaha World-Herald, are reminders of why we must never forget or take that sacrifice for granted. And why Memorial Day is our nation’s “holy day of obligation” — not to those who came home, but to those who did not.
While times and perspectives may change, one constant is that every American who serves must surrender much of their freedom on our behalf. Sometimes they are asked to risk their lives. Too often they go to war and are themselves altered permanently. None emerges as they were before.
Rare is the veteran of any war who does not occasionally question, “Was it worth it? Should I have resisted the call to duty?” In the closing scene of the movie of the same name, Private Ryan visits the grave of the man who saved his life, kneels to pray and then says to his wife, “Tell me I am a good man.” All of us — civilian and military alike — need validation from time to time that we are good men and women.
Rare, too, is the veteran of any war who does not understand the pain that cannot be shared. It is invisible to all but the men and women who feel it when they least expect it.
My good friend James Martin Davis puts it all into perspective and also helps us cross the divide that separates those who served from those who, for whatever reason, did not.
May 27, 1991: U.S. Sen. Bob Kerrey obtains a rubbing of a comrade’s name at the Vietnam Memorial.
Heroes, Jim reminds us, exist wherever a man or woman chooses to sacrifice for others. A hero can be a mother, father or friend who is there when you need them most, when the confusion of ordinary life becomes overwhelming, when life turns hard on account of a painful loss.
It is my fondest wish that Jim’s reflections on Memorial Day, war, sacrifice and valor will help us all be better Americans and bring us closer together in shared gratitude for those who gave us so much.
Bob Kerrey
Bob Kerrey, a long-time friend of the author, served in the Vietnam War as a United States Navy SEAL officer and was awarded the Medal of Honor for heroism in combat. He served as governor of Nebraska from 1983 to 1987 and as a U.S. senator from Nebraska from 1989 to 2001.
MAY WE NEVER FORGET
When I wrote my first Memorial Day article for the Omaha World-Herald in 1981, I never dreamed I would go on to write them for so long. Nor did I have any thought that four decades of writings might find their way into a book.
My first article was about my uncle, SSgt. Jim Laferla, who was killed in the last few weeks of World War II. My family never knew how or where or even when he had been killed. After several weeks of investigation, I was able to solve the mystery and share my uncle’s story.
My editor was the legendary journalist Hollis Limprecht, who had served heroically in North Africa, Italy and Germany. He encouraged me to write more articles — but suggested they be about my war. “It will be therapeutic,” he said. He was right.
What encouraged me most was hearing from other veterans. They would thank me for putting into words what they could never express. I realized there were more stories that I needed to tell. Stories I had lived, or heard about, or read. These were Memorial Day stories that America needed to know.
After the Vietnam War, James Martin Davis became a Special Agent in the United States Secret Service. In this August 1971 photo, he’s to the right rear of President Richard M. Nixon.
Memorial Day is America’s holy day of obligation. It is a special day set aside to honor and remember all those who died wearing the uniform of their country. I wanted to remind our nation that we had made a promise to them to always keep holy this day. We had pledged to never forget the suffering and sacrifice they endured for us.
This book is about Memorial Day; it is not about me. I was never a hero, but I served with those who are. I was a reluctant soldier when I was drafted after my first year of law school. Then my country sent me to war.
I was lucky to survive that war, but I have never been able to forget the tens of thousands who did not. I lost friends from every school I attended, every team I played on, and every parish I was in. Sadly, I knew their families as well.
The author, a defense attorney in Omaha, Nebraska, served as a combat infantryman in Vietnam from 1969 to 1970. His writings reflect an intense desire to honor the memory of those who served selflessly for freedom’s sake.
Overseas it was the same. We had casualties in every division, brigade, battalion and company in which I served. Some who died I knew well and some I hardly knew it all.
Regardless, we shared a common bond. When we heard that one of our own had been killed, a part of us died with him.
So many combat veterans suffer from survivors’ guilt. How could they not? There is no human explanation for why some of us lived and others had to die. That is the thought that forever troubles a combat veteran. There are no unwounded soldiers in combat.
War is not something we choose to remember. It is something that is impossible to forget. As are the names and faces of those with whom we served.
The purpose of this book is to remind us that we, as a nation, intentionally send young people to war knowing that some are going to die. These young people serve willingly, knowing that they might never come back. That kind of courage needs to be remembered.
Abraham Lincoln once said, “A nation that does not honor its heroes will not long endure.”
Veterans Day is for those who came home.
Memorial Day is for those who did not. May it always be our nation’s time to remember.
NOVEMBER 8, 1981
Sunday World-Herald Magazine of the Midlands
A SOLDIER REMEMBERED: ‘I’M PROUD OF THE UNCLE I NEVER KNEW’
Inever knew my Uncle Jim. I never knew where he had died or how he had been killed, or even what he had done in the war. When I was a youngster I had asked about him several times, but no one really wanted to talk about him then. The pain was too sharp; the memory was too recent.
The only information my family ever had been told was the official version. My uncle had died of wounds received somewhere in Europe during World War II. That was 36 years ago.
It was now Memorial Day 1981. I don’t know what compelled me that morning to visit the cemetery where he was buried. Maybe it was because it was such a beautiful day. Maybe it was just because I wanted to show my young son, Jimmy, the grave of his great-uncle.
I knew when I got up that morning that I had to pay tribute to my uncle, the person I was named after.
Above: SSgt. Jim Laferla. Opposite page: James Martin Davis with his 2-year-old son, Jimmy, at the gravesite of Uncle Jim Laferla.
Walking down the side of that hill in Holy Sepulchre Cemetery alongside Leavenworth Street with my Aunt Mary and my young son, the first thing I noticed was that all of the gravestones were identical. They were all gravestones of soldiers.
There were names on scores of gravestones; all males. Names like Boyle and Ziemba, Scarpello and Marino, McCormick and Sullivan; young men from Omaha families who had fought and died in World War II.
I had not visited my uncle’s grave since I had been a small child. In the interim, for me there had been Vietnam where I, too, had been a soldier. I don’t like cemeteries. No one who has ever been to war and returned safely does.
I suddenly felt terribly uncomfortable. Anyone who has ever been in uniform and has lost friends in combat, or hears the bugle call of Taps has experienced that same feeling at one time or another.
My uncle’s gravestone read: “SSgt. Jim Laferla, 22nd Infantry Regiment, June 22, 1918, to March 7, 1945.”
A gravestone is so criminally impersonal. It tells so little about the man below. I felt a penetrating sense of guilt. No matter how hard I tried, I could not suppress the feeling that I had somehow failed my uncle. After all those years, I had learned little about the man and absolutely nothing about the circumstances of his death.
I only knew that my uncle had been wounded on March 5, 1945. Surely a family is entitled to know more about one of its members who has had his life cut short in the service of his country.
When my uncle died, he was survived by his parents, grandparents, sisters Ida and Mary, and a brother, Joseph. Ida, is my mother. The telegram the family received from the War Department began: We regret to inform you …’ It was almost more than they could handle. Now, years later, standing so close to my uncle, I knew it was my obligation to try to turn back the clock.
The next day I wrote to the Military Personnel Records Center in St. Louis, asking for my uncle’s Army 201 file. If I could obtain his Army personnel file, it would be an immense help. It would be filled with names, dates and places.
Weeks later I received a disappointing reply. My uncle’s military records had been destroyed by fire on June 12, 1973. No other records relating to him were available.
Regardless of that fire in St. Louis, I suspected there must be alternative or collateral record sources — unit records, after-action reports, other dusty files that would tell me what I needed to know.
The return address on my uncle’s letters told me he had been with H Company of the 22nd Infantry Regiment. I called the Army Center for Military History at the Pentagon. I was told the records I sought were no longer in existence.
I called the National Archives in Washington, D.C., and shared my story. The man I talked with was sympathetic, but he was not encouraging. He promised that he would do some checking and call me back.
He did. He told me he had searched the after-action reports for 1-8 March, 1945, and located the name of Jim Laferla on a casualty report for that period. The entry read: “Jim Laferla, 37448566, SSgt., Co. H.D.O.W. (Died of Wounds) 7 March 1945.” That was all. There was no record as to the place, the nature of the action or any other details. The archivist was apologetic. He speculated that my uncle was killed somewhere in the Rhineland in Germany.
I was determined not to give up. I called the U.S. Army Institute of Military History at Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania. The story was the same. All unit records at the company level had long since been destroyed.
The military historian knew I was disappointed. He tried to help. He advised me that the 22nd Infantry Regiment had been part of the 4th Infantry Division. The 4th Division had been my unit in Vietnam. My uncle and I had been in the same unit. I felt closer to my uncle already.
He advised me that a book had been published about the 22nd Infantry Regiment in 1959 by William S. Boice in Phoenix, Arizona. No, they did not have the book, but he gave me the name of four out-of-print bookstores that might.
I called the bookstore in Boston; I called the one in Nashville. I called the one in Washington, D.C., and in New York. None had the book nor expected to acquire it. I went to the Omaha Public Library. Nothing.
The library at the University of Nebraska at Omaha had no such title. I picked up several books about World War II and pored through them for several evenings. They were all so general.
I was getting nowhere. I had learned a great deal about World War II, but nothing about my uncle or my uncle’s unit. I decided to try a long shot. I called information in Phoenix to see if there was a listing for a William S. Boice, the author of the book on the 22nd Infantry Regiment.
I was shocked when the operator gave me the number. I dialed it and the man answered.
The Rev. William Boice had been the regimental chaplain for the 22nd Infantry Regiment during the war. But he could tell me nothing about my uncle, for the regiment had been composed of three battalions and more than 5,000 men, but he did tell me about the 22nd Infantry Regiment.
He was proud of that unit. It had been the first unit to hit the Normandy beaches on D-Day. It had fought through France, and it had survived the siege of the Hurtgen Forest.
It had helped turn the tide during the Battle of the Bulge, and it had penetrated the Siegfried Line and had driven into Germany. Rev. Boice wanted to help me. For years after the war he had kept many of the various companies’ records at his office, including those for H Company, but he thought they were now long gone. He told me he would look very hard for them and instructed me to call him back in several days.
He also gave me the names of three people who had been in the 22nd Infantry Regiment. Two of them he believed may have been in H Company. George Wilson, he thought, had been the company commander. His wartime address was in Grand Ledge, Michigan.
Ruben Snitkin had been in H Company, and he lived in Florida. Swede Henley, from South Carolina, had been at the battalion level but might be able to provide additional leads.
I called George Wilson. Yes, George had been the company commander but not until after the war. He did not know my uncle. However, he gave me additional names.
I tracked down some of the people who belonged to the names he gave me. None had known my uncle. They gave me other names. The story was the same. These soldiers either had not been in H Company, or were replacements later in the war and never knew my uncle. I was getting discouraged.
I finally reached Ruben Snitkin in Holiday, Florida. He had left H Company in December of 1944, but he never knew my uncle. However, there were two brothers in Mississippi, both of whom, he believed, had been in my uncle’s company. Their last name was Guinn.
I tracked them down, but neither could help. They gave me names of soldiers in other cities. Those leads went nowhere.
Several days later I reached Clifford “Swede” Henley. He found the diary he kept during the war. While he could give me few names, he provided me with what I thought was my first real information.
On March 5, 1945, my uncle’s company was operating inside Germany in the Schwirzheim-Hillesheim area. On that date the battalion command post had been located at Duppach, Germany. My uncle probably had been wounded not far from there, he told me.
I checked my atlas. There was no Duppach listed. I continued to look. No Schwirzheim! No Hillesheim! I went out and bought the best map of Germany I could find. None of these names was on the map. Next, I tried to telephone the few people he had mentioned. Nothing!
By then I had spent a fortune on phone calls, and my office work was piling up. I could find no one who knew my uncle. I could find no records of the action that killed him. I could not even find where he had been wounded.
I followed up with Rev. Boice; he had no records for H Company. It seemed like a dead end, but he did tell me that on or about March 5, 1945, H Company had been in the neighborhood of Prum, Germany. David Roderick, he thought, had been in H Company, and he lived in Lancaster, California.
I went back to my map. Prum, Germany? I found it! It was in the tri-border area where Belgium, Luxembourg and Germany come together.
I called David Roderick that night. Yes, he had been in H Company, but he had left the company in the fall of 1944 and did not know my uncle. He did remember the name of a platoon leader in H Company — Elmo Meister of Maryville, California.
I obtained the listing for Elmo Meister and dialed. No, he had not been my uncle’s platoon leader, but my uncle’s name sounded familiar. He told me to get my uncle’s letters and call him back. Lt. Meister was going to help me.
I gathered the letters from my aunt and called him back. “What’s the name of the censor on the front of the envelopes?” “A.H. Brennan,” I replied.
“That’s Andy Brennan,” he said. “Andy Brennan was your uncle’s platoon leader. Your uncle was in the 2nd Platoon. Andy is alive and lives in Fair Haven, New York. Good luck, Mr. Davis.”
My uncle’s name rang a bell, but Andy Brennan did not specifically remember him. Brennan had been the platoon leader for the 2nd Platoon for only a few weeks before March 5, 1945, but he remembered the date vividly.
It was on that same date that he, too, had been wounded. I pumped him for every detail he could remember about that action. We talked for 45 minutes. Since he had been the platoon leader for such a short time, he could not remember the names of any of the other members of the platoon who might have known my uncle.
However, he said there had been a combat medic named Mickey Lieberman, and he lived in Stamford, Connecticut.
My mind clicked. A medic? I remembered a story my grandmother had told me a generation ago. There had been a “first aid man” who had come back after the war looking for my uncle. He had served with him, but my grandmother never quite understood what he told her.
Brennan thought the man may have been Mickey. He had traveled the country after the war visiting some of the guys in the platoon. It couldn’t be, I thought.
It was now at least 11:30 p.m. in Connecticut. I could not wait until morning. The man who answered the phone stated his name was Mickey Lieberman. I told him who I was, and I told him all of the details of my search. I gave him all of the background information I had.
“Young man, I knew your uncle very well.” I could not believe what I was hearing. I was speechless. The medic continued. He had been a very close friend of my uncle. But more than that, he had pulled my uncle off the hill on which he had been wounded on March 5, 1945.
And yes, it was Mickey who had visited my grandparents in 1946. He thought that perhaps my uncle had pulled through, and he had stopped by in hopes of seeing him.
For an hour Mickey Lieberman, the combat medic, told me about my uncle — a man full of life. He always had a smile on his face. He told me about the good times they had together, and the times that two, three and sometimes four of them spent nights freezing in foxholes.
He also gave me a detailed description of the action that resulted in my uncle’s fatal wounds.
Mickey remembered that there had been two other staff sergeants from the 2nd Platoon who had survived the war. Both Staff Sgts. Bernard Lyons of Pittsburgh and Gerald Crane of Chicago — had been good friends of my uncle. Both were still alive.
I could not sleep at all that night.
The next day I called Bernard Lyons.
He had been wounded three days before my uncle, on March 2, 1945, and spent two years in the hospital after the war. He had never known that Jim had been hit. He told me that all the staff sergeants in the platoon had been close; they were older and better educated, and they stuck together.
Lyons used to play poker with Jim, go into town with him, and talk about the future with him. Both had been interested in journalism. After 60 minutes of conversation, I hated to hang up the phone.
Gerald Crane had been a lawyer before he entered the service, but somehow Army logic turned him into a staff sergeant in a machine gun platoon. Crane and my uncle were buddies.
And on March 5, 1945, he would be an eyewitness to the events that took his life. Crane described the battle and answered question after question. We talked until I had pages of notes and had exhausted him.
The next day I received a letter from Elmo Meister with photocopies of several pages from William Boice’s book on the 22nd Infantry Regiment. The pages contained two brief paragraphs about the unit’s action on March 5, 1945.
I sat back and reviewed all the materials I had compiled. I just could not make myself believe it. After all these years, I had been able to find out exactly what had happened to my uncle. The entire story was laid out before me. I had collected all of the pieces of the puzzle.
The 22nd Infantry Regiment had been a part of the 4th Infantry Division, and the 4th Division had been a part of Gen. George Patton’s famous Third Army.
In early March, the Third Army was inside Germany, pushing toward the Rhine River, and was involved in Operation Lumberjack.
This action was designed to clear the German defenders out of an area extending from Cologne to Koblenz, north of the Moselle River. By March 3, 1945, the Third Army had fought its way to the Kyll River.
On March 5, 1945, the village of Duppach was secured and became the 2nd Battalion command post. The battalion jumped off from Duppach and encountered very stiff resistance on a hill nearly 1,000 yards southeast of Duppach.
The 2nd Battalion’s mission was to take Queen’s Hill with H Company in the lead, despite the fact that it was a heavy weapons company.
Jim Laferla commanded two squads in the 2nd Platoon of H Company. He was in the point element, moving up the hill on line with the rifle companies.
Halfway up the hill, the 2nd Battalion ran into troops from the 5th German Parachute Division. The fanatical German paratroopers, along with elements from the equally rabid Volksturm, composed mostly of Hitler Youth members, overran one of the rifle platoons, and they began killing the American wounded.
Elmo Meister’s platoon moved up quickly in support of the rifle platoon and pushed back the Germans.
The point element of the 2nd Platoon, led by my uncle, was the closest to the crest of the hill. It was caught in a cascade of enemy machine gun and artillery fire, but it held. However, Jim’s machine gunner was hit and put out of action.
Jim began laying down covering fire with his M-1 rifle in the direction of the German guns while his assistant gunner took over the machine gun and tried to set it up. Jim then attempted to direct the placement of his other gun.
Jim managed to get to the gun under a hail of fire. He began firing, and while swinging the gun around, was hit in the abdomen by German machine gun fire.
Medic Mickey Lieberman saw that Jim had been hit and raced and crawled to him.
SSgt. Gerald Crane, the lawyer from Chicago, was further down the hill directly behind my uncle’s element. He set up his guns and provided covering fire for my uncle’s squads and for Lieberman.
Lieberman was on his way down the hill carrying my uncle when he was hit in the shoulder with automatic weapons fire from a German paratrooper in brush a few yards away. He also took a round through his helmet, which narrowly missed his head.
While crouched, he took a hand grenade from my uncle’s belt, tossed it into the brush and started back down the hill. Lieberman asked my uncle, who was semiconscious, how he was.
Jim’s only reply was, “Oh, Mickey, I hurt.”
Lieberman got my uncle down the hill where he was quickly removed by stretcher to a field hospital. Lieberman and Lt. Andy Brennan, both wounded, made it back to an aid station accompanied by a German prisoner.
The 5th day of March, 1945, had been H Company’s worst day of the war. Eight men had been killed and numerous others wounded. But by dark, the 2nd Battalion had captured an important hill, a line of departure for an assault on the river.
On March 6, 1945, the entire regiment was able to cross the Kyll River into Hillescheim. On that same day, charred medical records reveal that Maj. M. Sarkisian of the Army Medical Corps operated on SSgt. Jim Laferla to repair a perforation wound of the abdomen that had penetrated the gall bladder.
On March 7, 1945, less than 20 miles northeast of where my uncle had been wounded, assaulting American troops from the Ninth Army found the Ludendorf Bridge still standing across the Rhine River at an obscure place called Remagen. The bridge was seized, the Rhine River was crossed, and for the first time American soldiers poured into the heartland of Germany. The Nazis’ days were numbered. And on that same day, the war was over for SSgt. Jim Laferla. At 0250 hours, my uncle died — a long, long way from Omaha, Nebraska.
The 22nd Infantry Regiment remained in Hillescheim for several days. Then, after 199 straight days in combat, the regiment was relieved and sent south to Lunneville, France.
The casualties that H Company suffered on March 5, 1945, were the last casualties it took during the war.
My uncle, most probably, was the last man from H Company killed in the war.
I have recently obtained a World War II grid map for the area of Germany from the National Archives. Gerolstein, Hillescheim, Schwirzheim and Duppach are all clearly marked. Also depicted is a place called Hill 520. This is Queen’s Hill.
I can now pinpoint within a few hundred yards the spot in Germany where my uncle was hit. I have promised myself that someday I am going to see that hill.
After 36 years, my uncle is no longer a vague figure to me. I think about what Bernard Lyons told me: “You can be proud of your uncle. He was a hell of a good guy and a hell of a good soldier.”
My search is over. It was all worthwhile. I am proud of the uncle I never knew, the uncle I never saw. I am also proud of the men with whom he served in the 22nd Infantry Regiment. No one can ever truly measure what we owe them.
I went back to Holy Sepulchre recently. I still do not like cemeteries, but this time I went with a purpose. I silently told my uncle that I had talked with his platoon leader and to his buddies Lieberman, Lyons and Crane, and that they had not forgotten him.
But mostly, I went back to silently tell him that all of us were so very proud of him, and that we all loved him.
I spent a long time at his grave. Before I walked away, I saluted for the first time in 11 years.
In the Army it is always a matter of military courtesy to salute heroes. Somehow it seemed the proper thing to do, considering the fact that I was standing on a hillside full of them.
NOVEMBER 12, 2017
Sunday World-Herald
THE BABY BOOMER GENERATION GRAPPLES WITH WAR
It was a few days before Christmas in 1969, and I had just returned from a patrol. It was mail call and on the way to the mess hall, I was handed a letter. I tucked it inside my shirt to read later.
After chow I returned to my hooch. Sitting on my bunk, I read that letter. It informed me that Steve Backhaus, one of my earliest childhood friends, had been killed when his vehicle hit a land mine.
What a tragedy for my boyhood buddy, but since there was nothing I could do about it, I tossed the letter into my footlocker and went to sleep.
As a U.S. Army soldier, I couldn’t let that letter affect me. I had to be concerned with the living. Soldiers are not allowed to grieve or mourn. Those dangerous emotions can paralyze a soldier.
I remembered a veteran drill sergeant growling, “If you want to stay alive, don’t dwell upon the past because it will screw up your future.” So, I set aside my emotions and promised myself that after I got back home, I would take the time to remember Steve.
Yet when I returned, for me, the dirty job of war was over. I wanted to be a civilian again. So I neglected to keep my promise. I selfishly worried if I dwelled upon the past, it could screw up my future, so I tried to move on with my life.
JAMES MARTIN DAVIS’ U.S. ARMY MEDALS AND AWARDS
BRONZE STAR
For valor or meritorious achievement
AIR CREWMEMBER WINGS
Awarded for service on-board military aircraft
AIR MEDAL
Meritorious achievement, with valor, while participating in an aerial flight
ARMY COMMENDATION MEDAL
For heroism or meritorious service
ARMY GOOD CONDUCT MEDAL
Awarded for honorable and faithful service of more than one year
NATIONAL DEFENSE MEDAL Awarded for honorable active military service
VIETNAM SERVICE MEDAL
Participant in the military campaign in the Republic of Vietnam
ARMY PRESIDENTIAL UNIT CITATION (left)
VIETNAM GALLANTRY CROSS (right)
REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM CAMPAIGN MEDAL
Presented by the government of Vietnam to U.S. military participants
First, I was a Special Agent in the U.S. Secret Service. Later I became a prosecutor in an organized crime strike force in Indianapolis. Eventually, I moved back to Omaha and continued to try to put the war behind me.
While civilians had read about my war or caught a glimpse of it on TV, they were never a part of it. Only the soldier lives a war, and even as a veteran, it never really goes away.
When I came home, I was a tough and tanned combat veteran. I believed I would never be more of a man than I was right then. I had three rows of medals, I had been awarded the Combat Infantry Badge, and I had taken lives as well as saved them. But even though we were veterans, to the rest of the world we were just kids. Vietnam was the “baby boom” war. The average age of the combat soldier was only 19.
When I surprised my parents back home, my father beat my mother to the door. That rugged World War II veteran, who spent 32 months fighting in the South Pacific, gave me a bone-crushing bear hug. With tears in his eyes, all he could say was, “It’s my boy! It’s my boy!” Even though in my mind I was as mature as I ever would be, I was still just his boy.
We Baby Boomers thought we would never grow old. Because of our war, many of us did not. At first, our soldiers were shipped back one by one. Then they came back by the dozens. Soon scores of bodies were coming back in flag-draped caskets. So many flags. So many caskets.
These Baby Boomers died too early, they died alone and they died so far from home. They died in pain, they died in anonymity and they died not knowing whether their nation would ever recognize the extent of their sacrifice.
It was years before I would keep my promise, but in one article I wrote for The World-Herald, I finally remembered Steve. Shortly thereafter, I received a call from his mother, who invited me to their home.
I was anxious to see Fred and Arlene Backhaus. I was apprehensive about how I would be received and unsure of what I should say. I had spent one full year in Vietnam and I had survived. Their boy had been in-country only 10 days before he had been killed. How could I justify to them the unfairness of that equation?
My apprehension was needless. They welcomed me like a son. Together we remembered a time when life was so simple and we boys were all so innocent. We recalled our suburban neighborhood, which was teeming with kids whose fathers all were veterans of World War II.
It was a carefree era. We played outside all day, coming in only when the street lights came on. Our heroes had been Superman and Batman. Only later would we learn that real heroes don’t wear capes; they wear dog tags.
What we enjoyed most was playing war, never knowing that one day we would have to fight one. Never dreaming that one of us would die in one.
When Fred and Arlene talked about Steve, never once did they show the sorrow burned deep in their hearts.
As a testament to their courage, they had managed to let the pride in their son outweigh the pain of losing him.
Earlier I had been afraid to come. Now I did not want to leave. When I got up, Fred Backhaus, that savvy old Marine veteran, shook my hand. “Remember,” he said, “no matter what you are calling yourself now, you are still just Jimmy Davis to us.” For a moment, I was a 10-year-old all over again.
As I walked to the door, Arlene gave me a motherly embrace. With tears on her cheeks, she said, “God bless you, Jimmy, for remembering Steve, and God bless you for not forgetting us.”
As I drove away, my postponed emotions welled up inside me. This brave couple who had lost their oldest son taught me how to deal with sacrifice. On Veterans Day, it is a lesson no civilian should ever forget. While death is a heartache that no one can heal, love is a memory that no one can steal.
EPILOGUE
by James Martin DavisIhad been home from Vietnam for a decade when I was invited by the Omaha World-Herald’s Hollis Limprecht to write a piece for the Magazine of the Midlands. He made it the cover story. After the article appeared, Hollis encouraged me to write more articles about “my war,” particularly for Memorial Day. When I did, I was overwhelmed by the public’s response. The most meaningful messages came from our veterans, who thanked me for putting into words the feelings they could never express. My article on “What Vietnam Was Really Like” resulted in more than 100 telephone calls, notes, letters and Public Pulse comments encouraging me to continue sharing my war memories and patriotic messages.
When I did so, I was writing totally from memory. I did not keep a diary in Vietnam, nor did I have the internet, Google or Wikipedia to help me fact check and clear the cobwebs in my mind. Because of that, some dates, times, places and details I mention may not be explicitly accurate. Those flaws remain in this collection because even today, I still cannot pinpoint exact dates, remember all of the names or recall all of the details.
That reality was brought home by one of the pilots I flew with in Vietnam. In attempting to verify the month of a particular incident, I contacted Capt. Jack Armstrong in Santa Barbara, California. I was convinced the mission was in December of 1969 but he recalled it as being in October. I commented, “Captain, only one of us can be right.” He replied, “No, Jim. At our age, the probability is that both of us are wrong.”
Still, this is the place for updates, explanations and elaborations in columns that have been abridged, condensed or combined for clarity and space.
My very first published article was about my uncle, Jim Laferla, who was killed in World War II and buried in Holy Sepulchre Cemetery in Omaha. A photo of my young son, Jimmy, and me decorating his grave accompanied the article.
Jim is no longer buried in that cemetery. In 2004, my family had him re-interred in Calvary Cemetery, where other family members are buried. He rests 12 feet from my son, Jimmy, who was killed in a car accident in 1996.
In my third article, “Graveyard in the Clouds,” I told about 2,000 French soldiers who were buried on the summit of the Mang Yang Pass. They were buried in lime, standing up, facing France. Their bodies are no longer there. The communists had them removed to prevent the sacred spot from becoming a shrine to their French enemies. Only God knows where the bodies are now.
Several articles speak of our Cambodian incursions. It was an important moment in Vietnam. I identified our target as Enemy Base Area 442. In 2013, I learned that it actually was Base Area 226. When the bell rings, I need to go back to geography class.
While I was at Camp Radcliff near An Khe, our base was attacked several times. One of the most dramatic resulted in the enemy penetrating our perimeter and destroying scores of American helicopters. I recalled that the attack took place in November of 1969. Our base was attacked and penetrated in November, but it was an April of 1970 attack that caused the destruction of all the helicopters.
“What Vietnam Was Really Like” appeared in The World-Herald in 1987. This book features an edited version requested by the United States Army Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, for publication in the Military Review in 1989.
In 2004, I told about the American “Brave Men” who were killed in 1943 along the Kasserine Pass in North Africa. That article did not give them the credit they deserve. The Battle of the Kasserine Pass was a crucial conflict in North Africa involving the American Army. What I did not know at the time of my writing was that the hundreds of American soldiers killed, wounded or captured were from Nebraska and Iowa. They were members of the 34th Infantry Division, Red Bull Division, with hometowns of Red Oak, Council Bluffs, Glenwood, Villisca and other southwest Iowa communities, and from Omaha. What an omission! Someday I hope to write their story.
Over the years, people have misunderstood who I am and what I did. I was not a Ranger, a Green Beret or a Marine. I was just an ordinary combat infantryman. My Marine buddies have kept me honest telling everyone they know that I was never tough enough to be a Marine.
Likewise, I was not a member of the CIA or FBI. I was a Special Agent in the United States Secret Service. There is a photo of me on the back of a presidential limousine. As a Special Agent, I protected the president and vice president on numerous occasions though I was never permanently assigned to the Presidential Protection Detail.
In my brief military career, I had the honor of being a PFC, a Sergeant and then a Second Lieutenant. I was inducted into the National Order of Battlefield Commissions but my commission was not technically a battlefield commission. Unlike those stone-cold heroes of WWII and Korea who were promoted to officer rank on the battlefield, mine was a direct commission. I became an officer because the Army had a program, at the time, whereby soldiers who had a college degree, held a rank of Sergeant or higher, and who had been awarded the Combat Infantryman Badge for sustained combat, could be made an officer.
When I returned from Vietnam, had I been an enlisted soldier, my military obligation would have been over. Because I became an officer, I had a continuing military reserve obligation. As an Infantry Platoon Leader, I attended monthly drills in Nebraska. In June of 1971, my military career was cut short. I had been scheduled for reserve drills even though I was a Special Agent in the Secret Service. On the same weekend I had a scheduled drill, I was ordered to report to the White House for protective duties. The daughter of the president was getting married. When I advised my Special Agent in charge, John Hanley, about the schedule conflict, he picked up the phone. With one call to Washington, my reserve obligation and military career were over.
I never intended to make the military a career. In fact, I never intended to go into the military at all. I wanted to be a trial lawyer. Yet I was called; so I went. I had no idea that this detour would change my life. I never anticipated that I would know so many young men my own age who would be killed in Vietnam. Little did I know that someday I would write so many obituaries. Maybe God spared me for that purpose.
War, necessary or not, is an ugly business. It becomes even uglier if a community fails to remember the names, the faces and the families who are permanently affected by war. It has been a long time since I went to war. Yet my mind still lingers there. I still remember. I always will. I wrote these articles, so more than anything else, I would not have to remember alone.
EDITORS
Chris Christen
Thad Livingston
DESIGNER Christine Zueck-Watkins
PHOTOGRAPHY
James Martin Davis
Kurt A. Keeler
Omaha World-Herald Archives
PRODUCTION COORDINATOR
Scott Hoeper
MARKETING AND FULFILLMENT
Michelle Gullett
Sara Brownell
SPECIAL THANKS
Kiley Cruse
Kurt A. Keeler
A PRODUCT OF THE OMAHA WORLD-HERALD
Julie Bechtel, Publisher
Randy Essex, Executive Editor
TO PURCHASE
Copies of the book are available at www.owhstore.com. For more information call 402-444-1014.
A new soldier at the beginning — not the old soldier the author was at the end.
James Martin Davis of Omaha, Nebraska, was a reluctant soldier, drafted into the Army after his first year of law school and sent to Vietnam in 1969. He emerged a decorated combat veteran, intent on keeping the memory of his fallen comrades alive. He was here, after all, because of their sacrifice.
The remarkable story of his uncle and namesake, Army SSgt. Jim Laferla, would launch the author on a continuing quest to give testament to the bravery, courage and loyalty of those who died during combat — not just in his war but all wars.
Through this collection of poignant salutes, published over four decades by the Omaha World-Herald, we gain greater understanding of Memorial Day as “America’s holy day of obligation” — a time for honoring and mourning those in the United States Armed Forces who never came home.
