My Brother, Part 2

Last Friday, I shared with you the sad story of what my brother’s life is like now. And on Wednesday, I alluded to his time in the service. Here is the rest of that story.

My brother, Tom, served in the US Army from 1965 to 1967. As you may have read in my post from earlier this week, we drove to New York in June 1967 to visit him when he was stationed at West Point.

Somehow, he dodged the bullet which took so many others to Vietnam. But before his cushy job as an MP at the military academy, he was dispatched to the Dominican Republic, where he did dodge bullets.

Ever since I could remember, the only military conflict I heard about my entire childhood was the war in Vietnam. But other places in the world were also embroiled in tension.

The Caribbean paradise of the Dominican Republic was a mess for many years. From 1930 to 1961, it was ruled by a ruthless dictator who used repression, torture, and murder to keep the masses in line. When this guy was assassinated in 1961, you would think things would settle down, but not when his son and other relatives tried to keep control. After several coups and many deaths, the US deployed troops to the island in April 1965 to keep the peace.

And my brother showed up early the following year. His role was that of a driver; whether driving military dignitaries around or picking up the payroll at the airport, it was the job of Tom and his partner to get it done.

As Tom has told the story, one time, they picked up the payroll and were driving back to base with it. The payroll was all in cash, in American dollars, so that the servicemen would have quick access to it. Also, I thought all military bases had their own airport, but in this case, the airport where they picked up the payroll was several miles away.

As they drove out of the airport in their Jeep, local rebels started following them. They could only assume it was because the rebels knew what they were carrying. When these guys with machine guns began shooting at them, their assumptions proved to be correct.

I don’t remember if Tom ever said who was behind the wheel, but one of them drove like a madman back to base while the other kept firing rounds at their pursuers.

They made it safely back to base, and the heavy chain-link gate slamming shut behind them was music to their ears.

Tom even got a commendation for it. Maybe he didn’t serve his country in Vietnam or fight to keep the communists at bay, but he still served the men and women on that base, all of them, just doing their jobs in the name of freedom for someone.

But what is heartbreaking is that we had to take away his truck to keep him from ever driving again.