Page 8 - Aerotech News and Review, April 1, 2022

High Desert Hangar Stories
Remembering a Vietnam hero;
and why we need to pass on
by Bob Alvis
special to Aerotech News
March 29 is Vietnam War Remem- brance Day, the day we officially re- member all those who served during the war in Vietnam.
Over the years, I have been part of many programs and events paying tribute to the heroes and survivors of America’s most unpopular war.
Over time, I have found myself a bit conflicted. The times and attitudes have me wondering what the future will hold when it comes to the sacri- fice of American soldiers and how the remembrance events are reflecting de- mographic change. The audiences and participants are growing long in the tooth, and young faces are not appear- ing as much as they did back when family traditions kept the memories alive of those who died in service to our country.
On a trip last weekend to an old stomping ground from my Air Force days, my soul was touched by a simple park monument at an old, abandoned Air Force base. It made me reach deep into my soul to make sense of a man, veteran, father, and war hero who is fading away, like the young people no longer seen at the events that mark who this monument memorializes.
Yes, there was a time when schools did class projects reaching out into communities. The interaction of young and old would bring fresh new faces to Memorial and Veteran’s Day events and keep the passion alive among classmates looking to share family histories and legacies when it came to military service. Monuments like this one in a park would have regular visitors.
The heartache in this essay comes from my recent observations when veteran events become just another mandatory briefing, and the spirit of the event is lost, with dignitaries and others more concerned about their time at the podium than the veterans looking up from their tables and those not able to attend. That may be a harsh statement, but bear with me as I ex- plain where this feeling comes from.
The name Col. Norman Schmidt will not resonate with many of you, and his lone monument at a fading park at the former George AFB in Victorville doesn’t get many visitors anymore. The only thing that greets his legacy regularly are the sprinklers doing their best to keep his small area green. The park is named in his honor, but with passing time and his dimin- ished presence in the public eye, he faces an uncertain future.
No one is picking up his story and taking it to podiums to share his su- preme sacrifice on behalf of a country that has been trying to make amends to those lost in Vietnam for decades. Those troops who survived the war
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ried ... It broke my heart to see him climb into that airplane.’”
“I remember that summer — July, Mojave Desert, my sisters and I com- plaining as we shoveled horse manure into a creaky wheelbarrow, my dad tamping creosote posts plumb in an afternoon wind. I remember touching his shoulder where he knelt to set a tile in his beautiful floor, trowel in hand, the musty odor of concrete and Span- ish brick in the air. I recall us all sit- ting around the table, Dad blowing out the candles of his 40th birthday cake, and the deep silence beyond the tear of wrapping paper and clipped ribbons. I was 11. On the tarmac of George Air Force Base, I breathed in the smell of his flight suit when he hugged me for the last time.
“On Sept. 1, 1966, his F-104 was hit by flak during a mission, and the plane went down. My dad bailed out, drifting toward his last 364 living days, days that separated him so ut- terly from his life as a son, husband, father, and career test pilot. In his final months he was deemed a ‘war crimi- nal’ beyond our desperate love and worry, beyond the protection of the country he served, and excluded from the regard for human safety, dignity, and life inherent in the articles of the Geneva Convention.
“In an audiotape in 1974, Cmdr. Robert Shumaker shared recollections of my dad. They were in a nine-foot- square cell with two other POWs in the Little Vegas section of the Hanoi Hilton in the summer of 1967. It was a harrowing period for the prisoners, in the wake of a communications purge. Shumaker described an incident on Aug. 21: ‘After Norm had finished washing, he was peeking out [a] crack and trying to get a look at some of the other prisoners. Wouldn’t you know it, a guard caught him.’
“For this offense, my dad’s legs were locked in stocks attached to his
the legacy of service
Col. Norman Schmidt
and came home to face various de- mons living in their subconscious at least had one thing many in Vietnam never got: a life afterwards to try to do something with.
Like many others, Col. Norman Schmidt’s life came down to one day in war, when fate dealt him a hand ending with suffering, grief, and a su- preme sacrifice; leaving a family and a nation wondering whether it was worth it.
I recently found a story about Col. Norman Schmidt that his daughter shared with the Glenn Falls, N.Y ., Post Star newspaper in 2005, and I will now share her words as she lived it firsthand.
I think it puts the story right into the heart of every American who needs to understand why we remember our citizen heroes.
“I recently found a letter written by my mother just after my dad left for his final tour in Vietnam. ‘It’s been hectic,’ she began. ‘Norm’s afraid he won’t get things done. He tried to fix up the whole house and the corral be- fore he left. I wanted him to forget it, but he had to keep working. He’s had a severe headache which has him wor-
Photograph by Bob Alvis
Col. Norman Schmidt’s memorial at the former George Air Force Base, Victorville, Calif.
Col. Norman Schmidt’s name can be found on Panel 10E, Row 60 of the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C.
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Courtesy photograph
bed. Ten days passed before guards re- leased him from this confinement and took him away for interrogation. He was never seen again. Shumaker con-
Courtesy photograph
Col. Norman Schmidt
cluded that ‘[Norm] was subjected to torture and succumbed in the process.’ Other prisoners, in cells down the hall from the interrogation room, reported hearing the sounds of torture: ‘a loud scuffle and then silence.’ My father’s remains were disinterred from the Ba Huyen Cemetery in Hanoi in 1974 and returned to us.”
When I read this, tears filled my eyes as his daughter denounced the actions of the American government known to be using torture to extract information from foreign combatants in a current war. She had a family connection to the worst outcome of such action. Janet Schmidt ended her passionate plea with these words that haunted me this last week as I spent some time at that lone monument at a park.
“But I know that we owe it to our soldiers to treat prisoners of war and conflict humanely, no matter the cir-
cumstances that led to their incar- ceration, no matter the label they are given. Our national hesitation and then silence, our lack of outcry for an independent, thorough investigation into illegal detentions and torture, leave me grieving once again, deeper now for what seems the futility and waste in my father’s honorable service and ultimate sacrifice in the name of the highest ideals of freedom and de- cency.”
Colonel Schmidt is buried in Vic- torville and his grave, much like his monument, can only tell only so much of the story about this family man. Programs this month have paid trib- ute with speeches and applause, and as a sea of gray hair covers those in at- tendance, we thank them for their ser- vice but where does the life of Colonel Schmidt and the many more like him find their way into the programs?
Where are the young people and those who should make an effort to attend such events? Why are we not embracing the Janet Schmidt’s of the world, and having them at podiums telling the stories that every American should hear?
The last breath of Col. Norman Schmidt should be the first breath shared at a podium when his story is shared, all other words are meaning- less after the memories of the lost are no longer shared, and more impor- tantly, not embraced by future gen- erations.
Those of us who served, came home, or never went, need to do a better job on behalf of our brothers and sisters who never came home. We were able to live our lives —many more never did, and it’s up to us to make sure that their short lives have more meaning than ours. With that, allIcansayisthisismyhopeand as always,
Peace my friends.
Aerotech News and Review
April 1, 2022