Maybe you should research before typing sir.

There are times when you receive an email that draws such raw emotions out of you that it’s possible to cry over your keyboard. This past July, I opened my mailbox to read one of those emails, and it was titled A burial at Sea (hyperlinked here) by LtCol George Goodson USMC (Ret). This article was written around 2004, not long after the war began and I wondered if this was a true story or just another well-written Internet piece that was circulating in the ethersphere from one mailbox to another, constantly forwarded, for good reason, as people recognize a well put together memoir from long ago. I felt the power of his message so much, that I published it right away.

I experienced emotions buried deep in my conscious from over twelve years ago when I, too, was tasked to deliver the news to the spouse of one of our Marines who was killed the night before in an auto accident. You never forget putting on your Dress Blues, rehearsing what you will say to his wife or the gut punch as his young son opens the door to greet you while you stand there in Uniform. George’s article brought all that to my forefront as I sat weeping in front of my computer.

I felt the urge to track him down one morning and talk to him about his time in the Corps. Putting on my past hat as a private investigator, I found him at home with his wife enjoying a nice cup of coffee, oblivious to how his piece had affected thousands across the nation. I have to admit that I was a bit tongue-tied as I stumbled through my introduction as to why I was cold calling him. He was very humble about his service in the Corps and receptive to my call. I set up a time to call him back that afternoon to catch up. The hours slowly passed as I tended to our sick kids suffering from Strep throat and later while they napped, I dialed his number.

Now we are the same rank, but somehow I feel as though I’m speaking to a former General thus my conversation is laced with “Yes Sir’s” etc. to which George says, “Quit calling me Sir, you can call me George.” This makes me smile, and I reply “Ok George, you can call me Taco, all my friends do and it’s better than Tinker Bell.” George is 81 years old now and has had some rough patches with his health but I imagine a man 6’4 who is still in great health in my mind’s eye. He laughs and reminds me he is about 5’9 and not a superman but his wife is, as she teaches water aerobics every day.

George grew up in the rural south, in a depression era family where one child was the norm and comes from a long line of Americans as one of his ancestors arrived in 1656. His father, a machinist, had a strong influence on his upbringing, making George the man he is today and unfortunately he died from a heart attack shortly after George joined the Marines in 1951. I asked him what the deciding factor was leading him to service in the Corps. Was it a family member, or growing up watching John Wayne movies? George was quick to point out that he just wanted to shake the dust of that tiny little town off of his legs and see the world. He despised John Wayne because he never served in the Great War but he did admire the stars like Jimmy Stewart and Ty Powers who fought in combat. (I too despise some of the stars of Hollywood today for their lack of backbone and apparent greed, and love the few that go support our troops in the war).

As we spoke, George reflected on his “I Love Me Wall”, (most of us have such a spot in our offices where we display awards and unit plaques). His first MOS was in demolition and he attended school in Camp LeJeune followed by an opportunity to serve in more specialized warfare. He attended Army Special Forces training in the fifties and rates both the Army and Marine Jump wings, with over 139 jumps, many in combat, and has earned several awards including the Legion of Merit, Bronze Star with Combat V, Purple hearts and even an Air Medal.

I asked about some of his wounds and if they all came from Vietnam. He then told me about an operation in 1965 when President Lyndon Johnson sent 42,000 Marines and Soldiers down to the Dominican Republic to restore peace and ensure there wasn’t a second “Cuba” on the doorstep of the United States.” It turns out that he was shot in the head and the bullet didn’t penetrate that deep in his skull because the fella that shot him was in the surf on the beach and his gun was half submerged. The Surgeon used a pair of pliers to remove the bullet and sent him on his merry way to rejoin his unit. (with a splitting headache I imagine)

This wasn’t the first time he had been shot or blown up. While he was attached to the U.S. Military Assistance Command (MACV-SOG) Special Operations Group, he was billeted at the Victoria Hotel in downtown Saigon. The VC detonated a bomb at the hotel on April 1st 1966 while he was asleep. A combination of luck and his own strength allowed him to make it out of the hotel and to the US Embassy not far away, where his wounds were treated. He wrote a story titled “September Song” detailing that experience. He read some over the phone and after I type it up, will publish a few excerpts which will be in a future post.

He and his wife have children from previous marriages, and felt that it was important to put some of his experiences on paper so they would understand what war was about and the emotions he still feels today. Especially when he looks at the pictures on the wall in his study which include one of two crying Marines, sitting on “G.I.” cans. He has it on the wall to remind him what war is about, and in his words, “it sucks!”

George is extremely proud of his time in uniform and his service throughout the world and doesn’t regret anything. He is an icon in the internet world of electrons and doesn’t even realize it. His prolific writings resonate with so many of us who have served in the military, and will be a timeless reflection on the price of war and what it extracts from our men and women. LtCol Goodson, your service in the Marine Corps for our country will be remembered in the words you so eloquently expressed when you penned A Burial at Sea and will be for many generations to come. For that, I think I can speak on behalf of the thousands of readers out there when I say, “we thank you Sir!!”

It was a real honor to speak with him, and I look forward to more conversations with this Great American! I hope all of you deployed overseas have a calm and peaceful day on the 25th and I want to wish all of you reading this a very Merry Christmas and God Bless you all.

Semper Fi,

Taco

Taco...

You wrote....."George is 81 years old now and has had some rough patches with his health"
and "shortly after George joined the Marines in 1951."

I too, joined the Marine Corps in 1951.....When I was 17. I am now 84....How did LtCol George Goodson manage to join when he was only 14??? (Yeah I know you will dream up a good excuse like “He was 81 in 2004" .

Btw., I never saw Marines cry, ever. And Korea (the Frozen Chosan and worse times were no picknic, but no crying) not even from the Doggies (though some of them had track shoes ("bug out shoes") on.

Please stop pulling my heart strings.

This made me cry:

by Lt. Col. George Goodson, USMC (Ret)

It was late 1967. I had just returned after 18 months in Vietnam. Casualties were increasing. I moved my family from Indianapolis to Norfolk, rented a house, enrolled my children in their fifth or sixth new school, and bought a second car.

A week later, I put on my uniform and drove 10 miles to Little Creek, Virginia. I hesitated before entering my new office. Appearance is important to career Marines. I was no longer, if ever, a poster Marine. I had returned from my third tour in Vietnam only 30 days before. At 5'9", I now weighed 128 pounds - 37 pounds below my normal weight. My uniforms fit ludicrously, my skin was yellow from malaria medication, and I think I had a twitch or two.

I straightened my shoulders, walked into the office, looked at the nameplate on a Staff Sergeant's desk and said, "Sergeant Jolly, I'm Lieutenant Colonel Goodson. Here are my orders and my Qualification Jacket."

Sergeant Jolly stood, looked carefully at me, took my orders, stuck out his hand; we shook and he asked, "How long were you there, Colonel?" I replied "18 months this time." Jolly breathed, "You must be a slow learner, Colonel." I smiled.

Jolly said, "Colonel, I'll show you to your office and bring in the Sergeant Major. I said, "No, let's just go straight to his office." Jolly nodded, hesitated, and lowered his voice, "Colonel, the Sergeant Major. He's been in this job two years. He's packed pretty tight. I'm worried about him." I nodded.

Jolly escorted me into the Sergeant Major's office. "Sergeant Major, this is Colonel Goodson, the new Commanding Officer." The Sergeant Major stood, extended his hand and said, "Good to see you again, Colonel." I responded, "Hello Walt, how are you?" Jolly looked at me, raised an eyebrow, walked out, and closed the door.

I sat down with the Sergeant Major. We had the obligatory cup of coffee and talked about mutual acquaintances. Walt's stress was palpable. Finally, I said, "Walt, what the hell's wrong?" He turned his chair, looked out the window and said, "George, you're going to wish you were back in Nam before you leave here. I've been in the Marine Corps since 1939. I was in the Pacific 36 months, Korea for 14 months, and Vietnam for 12 months. NowI come here to bury these kids. I'm putting my letter in. I can't take it anymore." I said, "OK Walt. If that's what you want, I'll endorse your request for retirement and do what I can to push it through Headquarters Marine Corps."

Sergeant Major Walt Xxxxx retired 12 weeks later. He had been a good Marine for 28 years, but he had seen too much death and too much suffering. He was used up.

Over the next 16 months, I made 28 death notifications, conducted 28 military funerals, and made 30 notifications to the families of Marines that were severely wounded or missing in action. Most of the details of those casualty notifications have now, thankfully, faded from memory. Four, however, remain.

MY FIRST NOTIFICATION
My third or fourth day in Norfolk, I was notified of the death of a 19 year old Marine. This notification came by telephone from Headquarters Marine Corps. The information detailed:
*Name, rank, and serial number.
*Name, address, and phone number of next of kin.
*Date of and limited details about the Marine's death.
*Approximate date the body would arrive at the Norfolk Naval Air Station.
*A strong recommendation on whether the casket should be opened or closed.

The boy's family lived over the border in North Carolina, about 60 miles away. I drove there in a Marine Corps staff car. Crossing the state line into North Carolina, I stopped at a small country store/service station/Post Office. I went in to ask directions.Three people were in the store. A man and woman approached the small Post Office window. The man held a package. The store owner walked up and addressed them by name, "Hello John. Good morning Mrs. Cooper."

I was stunned. My casualty's next-of-kin's name was John Cooper!

I hesitated, then stepped forward and said, "I beg your pardon. Are you Mr. and Mrs. John Cooper of (address)?

The father looked at me - I was in uniform - and then, shaking, bent at the waist, he vomited. His wife looked horrified at him and then at me. Understanding came into her eyes and she collapsed in slow motion. I think I caught her before she hit the floor.

The owner took a bottle of whiskey out of a drawer and handed it to Mr. Cooper who drank. I answered their questions for a few minutes. Then I drove them home in my staff car. The store owner locked the store and followed in their truck. We stayed an hour or so until the family began arriving.

I returned the store owner to his business. He thanked me and said, "Mister, I wouldn't have your job for a million dollars." I shook his hand and said; "Neither would I."

I vaguely remember the drive back to Norfolk. Violating about five Marine Corps regulations, I drove the staff car straight to my house. I sat with my family while they ate dinner, went into the den, closed the door, and sat there all night, alone.

My Marines steered clear of me for days. I had made my first death notification.

THE FUNERALS
Weeks passed with more notifications and more funerals. I borrowed Marines from the local Marine Corps Reserve and taught them to conduct a military funeral: how to carry a casket, how to fire the volleys and how to fold the flag.

When I presented the flag to the mother, wife, or father, I always said, "All Marines share in your grief." I had been instructed to say, "On behalf of a grateful nation...." I didn't think the nation was grateful, so I didn't say that.Sometimes, my emotions got the best of me and I couldn't speak. When that happened, I just handed them the flag and touched a shoulder. They would look at me and nod. Once a mother said to me, "I'm so sorry you have this terrible job." My eyes filled with tears and I leaned over and kissed her.

ANOTHER NOTIFICATION
Six weeks after my first notification, I had another. This was a young PFC. I drove to his mother's house. As always, I was in uniform and driving a Marine Corps staff car. I parked in front of the house, took a deep breath, and walked towards the house. Suddenly the door flew open, a middle-aged woman rushed out. She looked at me and ran across the yard, screaming "NO! NO! NO! NO!"

I hesitated. Neighbors came out. I ran to her, grabbed her, and whispered stupid things to reassure her. She collapsed. I picked her up and carried her into the house. Eight or nine neighbors followed. Ten or fifteen minutes later, the father came in followed by ambulance personnel. I have no recollection of leaving.

The funeral took place about two weeks later. We went through the drill. The mother never looked at me. The father looked at me once and shook his head sadly.

ANOTHER NOTIFICATION
One morning, as I walked in the office, the phone was ringing. Sergeant Jolly held the phone up and said, "You've got another one, Colonel." I nodded, walked into my office, picked up the phone, took notes, thanked the officer making the call, I have no idea why, and hung up. Jolly, who had listened, came in with a special Telephone Directory that translates telephone numbers into the person's address and place of employment.

The father of this casualty was a Longshoreman. He lived a mile from my office. I called the Longshoreman's Union Office and asked for the Business Manager. He answered the phone, I told him who I was, and asked for the father's schedule.

The Business Manager asked, "Is it his son?" I said nothing. After a moment, he said, in a low voice, "Tom is at home today." I said, "Don't call him. I'll take care of that." The Business Manager said, "Aye, Aye Sir," and then explained, "Tom and I were Marines in WWII."

I got in my staff car and drove to the house. I was in uniform. I knocked and a woman in her early forties answered the door. I saw instantly that she was clueless. I asked, "Is Mr. Smith home?" She smiled pleasantly and responded, "Yes, but he's eating breakfast now. Can you come back later?" I said, "I'm sorry. It's important. I need to see him now."She nodded, stepped back into the beach house and said, "Tom, it's for you."

A moment later, a ruddy man in his late forties, appeared at the door. He looked at me, turned absolutely pale, steadied himself, and said, "Jesus Christ man, he's only been there three weeks!"

Months passed. More notifications and more funerals. Then one day while I was running, Sergeant Jolly stepped outside the building and gave a loud whistle, two fingers in his mouth....... I never could do that..... and held an imaginary phone to his ear.

Another call from Headquarters Marine Corps. I took notes, said, "Got it." and hung up. I had stopped saying "Thank You" long ago.

Jolly, "Where?"

Me, "Eastern Shore of Maryland . The father is a retired Chief Petty Officer. His brother will accompany the body back from Vietnam ...."

Jolly shook his head slowly, straightened, and then said, "This time of day, it'll take three hours to get there and back. I'll call the Naval Air Station and borrow a helicopter. And I'll have Captain Tolliver get one of his men to meet you and drive you to the Chief's home."

He did, and 40 minutes later, I was knocking on the father's door. He opened the door, looked at me, then looked at the Marine standing at parade rest beside the car, and asked, "Which one of my boys was it, Colonel?"

I stayed a couple of hours, gave him all the information, my office and home phone number and told him to call me, anytime.

He called me that evening about 2300 (11:00PM). "I've gone through my boy's papers and found his will. He asked to be buried at sea. Can you make that happen?" I said, "Yes I can, Chief. I can and I will."My wife who had been listening said, "Can you do that?" I told her, "I have no idea. But I'm going to break my ass trying."

I called Lieutenant General Alpha Bowser, Commanding General, Fleet Marine Force Atlantic, at home about 2330, explained the situation, and asked, "General, can you get me a quick appointment with the Admiral at Atlantic Fleet Headquarters?" General Bowser said, "George, you be there tomorrow at 0900. He will see you."

I was and the Admiral did. He said coldly, "How can the Navy help the Marine Corps, Colonel." I told him the story. He turned to his Chief of Staff and said, "Which is the sharpest destroyer in port?" The Chief of Staff responded with a name.

The Admiral called the ship, "Captain, you're going to do a burial at sea. You'll report to a Marine Lieutenant Colonel Goodson until this mission is completed..."

He hung up, looked at me, and said, "The next time you need a ship, Colonel, call me. You don't have to sic Al Bowser on my ass." I responded, "Aye Aye, Sir" and got the hell out of his office.

I went to the ship and met with the Captain, Executive Officer, and the Senior Chief. Sergeant Jolly and I trained the ship's crew for four days. Then Jolly raised a question none of us had thought of. He said, "These government caskets are air tight. How do we keep it from floating?"

All the high priced help including me sat there looking dumb. Then the Senior Chief stood and said, "Come on Jolly. I know a bar where the retired guys from World War II hang out."

They returned a couple of hours later, slightly the worse for wear, and said, "It's simple; we cut four 12" holes in the outer shell of the casket on each side and insert 300 lbs of lead in the foot end of the casket. We can handle that, no sweat."The day arrived. The ship and the sailors looked razor sharp. General Bowser, the Admiral, a US Senator, and a Navy Band were on board. The sealed casket was brought aboard and taken below for modification. The ship got underway to the 12-fathom depth.

The sun was hot. The ocean flat. The casket was brought aft and placed on a catafalque. The Chaplain spoke. The volleys were fired. The flag was removed, folded, and I gave it to the father. The band played "Eternal Father Strong to Save." The casket was raised slightly at the head and it slid into the sea.

The heavy casket plunged straight down about six feet. The incoming water collided with the air pockets in the outer shell. The casket stopped abruptly, rose straight out of the water about three feet, stopped, and slowly slipped back into the sea. The air bubbles rising from the sinking casket sparkled in the sunlight as the casket disappeared from sight forever....

The next morning I called a personal friend, Lieutenant General Oscar Peatross, at Headquarters Marine Corps and said, "General, get me out of here. I can't take this anymore." I was transferred two weeks later.

I was a good Marine but, after 17 years, I had seen too much death and too much suffering. I was used up.

Vacating the house, my family and I drove to the office in a two-car convoy. I said my goodbyes. Sergeant Jolly walked out with me. He waved at my family, looked at me with tears in his eyes, came to attention, saluted, and said, "Well Done, Colonel. Well Done."

I felt as if I had received the Medal of Honor!

'A veteran is someone who, at one point, wrote a blank check made payable to 'The United States of America ' for an amount of 'up to and including their life.'

That is Honor, and there are way too many people in this country who no longer understand it.'

I am honored to pass this on and I hope you feel that way too.

I want to say "Thank you" for your service to every Veteran who reads this.
In God We Trust

*************

These knuckleheads that want to kneel because they have a complaint that they think police are being too disciplinary need to enlist in the military and start out by doing THIS job before they ever feel the need to kneel before our flag and our Anthem.

Cold and hard and you will hate me for saying this, but the story above is a bunch of nonsensical tear jerking. Too many things wrong with it.

For example...

1..Notifications are never made by one officer alone.
2..Think...how would YOU react in front of strangers bringing you this bad news?
The parents/relatives all react differently, but fainting and vomiting and running about the yard screaming No!, No!, No!...that never happens. Shock, yes, but not hysterical dramatics. 99 times out of 100 the person receiving the bad news reacts with stolid dignity.

I don't know who wrote the "Col. Goodson" (note even the choice of name), but this is overdramatized propaganda, and an insult to our dead comrades.

Somebody is playing with your head.

I was born while my Dad was with the Marines in Korea and for sure wasn't in the rear with the gear. I was fortunate enough to caddy for him at Eagle Haven golf course on Dam Neck Naval Base where all of these old retired warriors from all branches played every weekend. Though they would never talk about their experiences to the lay for the most part, they relished in talking among themselves. The things I've heard would give you nightmares and they laughed at their exploits at the time except for the deaths, then it got quiet and another beer was ordered and a salute offered.

I don't know what 'sense' has stuck up his ass but he either never served and is lying or has a mental problem and should get help.I was in Vietnam in 1968 with MSTS. I only came under danger twice, once sitting in a home made bar drinking a PBR and rockets screamed over head and blew up a couple of hundred of yards away( I jumped from my lawn chair to run and my much older mate grabbed me and ask where in the hell did I think was I going?). The other time was my fault. I rented a scooter and went to take pictures and wandered too far and got shot at. Luckily I wasn't hit.

You don't have to be in a fox hole on the front line to be considered a veteran. Sense, you claim to be a Marine, did you walk across the Pacific to get to Korea? Did the Navy take you? Did the Air force take you? Who supplied your food? Who supplied your ammo? Who the fuck supplied you with arti? You sir are pathetic individual who should seek help soon and I Pray you live alone and don't have people living with you who have to put up with your negativity. Mike

"Sense, you claim to be a Marine, did you walk across the Pacific to get to Korea? Did the Navy take you?"

No, it was an APA or AKA I foget which, manned by a civilian crew.


“Though they would never talk about their experiences to the lay for the most part”,

“they relished in talking among themselves”.

Right, because they lived through it and shared a knowledge. They have a right to talk about it to each other.


“The things I've heard would give you nightmares and they laughed at their exploits at the time except for the deaths, then it got quiet and another beer was ordered and a salute offered.”

Of course. How else could you handle it.



This is exactly why I feel strongly, that those who didn’t have the experience should leave it alone. Ask any combat vet whether the politicians, with their fake “Thank a Vet” bullsh-t, and those of you who echo their nonsense, make him, (the vet) feel good or bad. Most of us cringe when some non-combat “vet”or
civilian or some crooked politician who wasn’t there use it for their own program. We want to forget it, not constantly be reminded of it by fools who weren’t there.


“You don't have to be in a fox hole on the front line to be considered a veteran.”

Yes you do. If you haven’t eaten the crapiest of ‘C’ rations because the transport guys in the rear stole all the good food.

If you haven’t accidentally put your hand on a piece of hot shrapnel that just missed you.

If you haven’t seen, in the morning when the sun comes up, a 76mm shell that by a miracle didn’t explode, sitting among your amo boxes just ten feet away from you. ( The gooks had everything just a little larger than our stuff, so they could use any of our amo that they captured, but we couldn't use theirs, for example we had 81mm mortar shells, they had 82s, (their 82s wouldn't fit in our 81 tubes, we had 75 mm recoiless rifles, they had 76s)

If you haven’t heard screaming Chinese coming through the valley we called " Berlin Gate" attacking from sundown to sunup, ten or twelve times a night, night after night in an effort to take that lone outpost.

If you haven’t had to smell the rotting corpses all during that time. If you haven’t...oh hell forget it.

Believe it, we weren't thinking of USA, ""regulated Freedom'" or you.

A veteran is a former member of the Armed Forces of the United States (Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps, and Coast Guard) who served on active duty and was discharged under conditions, which were other than dishonorable. Sorry you had a bad time of it, but you are not judge and jury. Vets are NOT only people who fought in combat. Get over it. It's not just about what happened to you. Lots of non-combat service people saw things and came back from war with PTST (nurses, doctors, ambulance, jeep drivers, etc.)

Stop trying to take away glory from others. You need to be talking to a therapist, man. You cannot speak for others who were in the war besides you.