His given name was Robert. His family called him "Bobby Joe," but he went by "B.J." He grew up in the Oxnard and Ventura area of southern California, where his ancestors settled before the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock. B.J.’s people were not among the aristocracy of Old Mexico, but were farmers and ranchers. They were Americans before there was an America. They would raise sons to serve their country.

B.J. was one of my best friends in Vietnam. We were there during the worst of it. Together we volunteered for an additional tour of service in Vietnam. We wanted to be a part of America’s victory over communist aggression in Southeast Asia. We knew we were winning on the battlefields, despite the grim death tolls. We wanted to see democracy get a foothold in South Vietnam, even if tenuous. We believed and were willing to make the sacrifice.

We believed in our Commander in-Chief, President Johnson. We respected the public debate that questioned the conduct of the war, though we were puzzled by the hostility, even hatred, that more ‘privileged sons’ directed towards our brothers in uniform. It was still possible for a patriotic young man to believe in America in 1968, though it was getting more difficult.

We took leave at the same time and went home that summer for a few weeks with our loved ones. B.J. hosted me for a time at his home, where I met his younger brother, Ricky, who had recently joined the Army and was also on leave. Their family immediately embraced me as if I were one of their own. They insisted I call them ‘Aunt’ and ‘Uncle’. It was a precious honor to be treated so dearly. They introduced me to all their extended family and friends, some of whom could not understand my English anymore than I could understand their Spanish, but we understood that America’s arms held us all.

B. J. and I went back to Vietnam together. Our parting from B.J.’s family was very heart-rending. We were uplifted, though, by the news that Ricky would be coming to Vietnam and would be based with us at Bien Hoa. He was a door-gunner on a Huey helicopter. We had a great reunion when Ricky arrived in September. The war was still horrific.

When my extended tour ended, I was ready to leave. It was 1969 and Richard Nixon was President and he had begun the ‘Vietnamization’ of the war, commencing the withdrawal of U.S. forces. It was clear to me then that America had lost the will to win. B.J. did not want to leave his brother, Ricky, and so he further extended. We bade farewells with the same heartache as we did when leaving the States the prior year.

We corresponded and my adopted Aunt was a regular writer. I was finishing my military commitment in Oklahoma when the call came. On June 19, 1969, Ricky had been killed in action. He was 20 years old and now belonged to the ages. This son of America had given all that could be given. He was no child of privilege, but walked with a dignity and honor that came from wearing the uniform of the United States. His last breath was taken 10,000 miles away from his home, fighting for a cause that would soon be abandoned.

At the same time that Ricky lost his life, another young American was walking arm-in-arm with communists in Moscow, parading in protest against his own nation, and encouraging the Soviets whose rockets, mortars, and other weapons enabled the Vietnamese communists to kill Ricky and 50,000 other American boys. That American in Moscow would return to the United States and become President. And so it goes, in this, the American Age.