A father’s sacrifice: Daughter gives thanks on Veterans Day

I often wonder what went through my father’s 19-year-old mind in the jungles of Vietnam. The tiniest of sounds, down to the smallest leaf hitting the moist earth, must have sounded like a brick through a window. That, coupled with never knowing who the hunter was – or when or where you became the hunted – is more terrifying to me than any nightmare I could possibly conjure in my head.

Dad survived, but, like many surviving veterans, left less than whole.

James Moore volunteered for the Marine Corps shortly after his 18th birthday. Coming from a family with eight brothers and sisters, I’m sure he was ready to embark on something that he didn’t have to share or compete over with his siblings – something that was his and his alone.

Careful what you wish for.

After boot camp, Dad flew to Vietnam and was stationed at Quang Tri – just miles away from the DMZ. He was assigned to the Magnificent Bastards and for the next six months, he learned to patrol, to fight and to dig foxholes – he learned how to survive.

And while people back in the States prepared for the traditional Thanksgiving apple pie, my dad ate peaches out of a can. People gave thanks for the bountiful feasts they were about to receive – my dad gave thanks to be alive.

Maybe it’s because I’m his daughter, but Dad has always been quiet about his wartime experiences, so I’m not quite sure what happened Nov. 21, 1967. I know he was hit – a grenade or mortar, he never found out which; I guess it really doesn’t matter. When blown to bits, metal is metal – becoming thousands of miniature daggers that pierce and tear through flesh, leaving behind the remnants of what once was – unrecognizable faces, gaping holes and gashes, and severed limbs. Dad was left with a stump.

And though I became familiar with the correct term for this destructive metal – “shrapnel” – it meant nothing more to me as a child than long hospital stays, multiple surgeries and agonizing pain. Initially, he had lost only his right leg, below the knee. But he was severely wounded. He endured 47 major surgeries as doctors in San Antonio tried for 15 years to save as much of him as possible. Eventually, it was too much, and they had to take the left leg as well, and he became an above-the-knee double amputee.

Through surgery after surgery, long hospital stays, losing the left leg, the recovery, the pain – everything seemed surprisingly normal for my brother and me. Mom insisted we would not be affected by this and, while she managed this task beautifully, she also ensured Dad’s spirit remained intact.

Most of the time, Mom’s magic worked. Despite his injuries, despite the wheelchairs, cumbersome prosthetic legs made of heavy wood and plastic – he was first and foremost my dad. A great one at that. He continues to accomplish any task, meeting – in many cases, exceeding – what a “whole” man could do.

As far back as I can recall, my dad has been my hero. As a child, he was like my permanent show-and-tell piece. Other kids brought collectible stamps or medals to school – I brought my dad.

He instilled in me – and probably several classrooms full of children throughout the years – knowledge of the sacrifice it often takes to live in America. Not with words, but with wounds. As strange as it sounds, his wounds conveyed more eloquence and respect than any hundred-dollar speech I’ve ever heard.

So what does Veterans Day mean to me, a person who never has been in the military, never fought in a war, never been hunted or shot at, and never experienced a grenade or roadside bomb that exploded and left men and women far from whole, regardless of whether or not they were physically injured?

It means acknowledging, recognizing, honoring and remembering the veterans who fought for our freedoms while we remained safe at home, worrying about our jobs, school, what’s for dinner. Yes, I know I simplify; but for most of us, worrying on a day-to-day basis about losing our lives isn’t really necessary. It is always top-of-mind for our soldiers – and sadly, even today, our veterans.

They deserve our thanks – regardless of any personal political positions – and many need our help, too. The good news is that it’s easy to offer assistance to veterans in need. One of my favorite organizations is Operation Gratitude, which sends more than 150,000 care packages to active-duty military personnel and veterans annually. Its website is www.operationgratitude.com. Another great way to get involved is to call your county veterans services office and ask about organizations that need volunteers.

My dad is 65; he is now, and always will be, my hero – as are the majority of veterans I’ve met. Dad helped me realize at a very young age that the defense of freedom might not always cost lives, but the price that many are forced to pay results in changes that never go away. And for that, when you see a veteran, a simple “thank you” goes a long way.

I still try to emulate Dad. That he is a double amputee, the irony does not escape me when I say I hope to become half the person he is. He always has stood tall, and I find myself standing taller when I walk beside him.

This story was originally published November 10, 2014 at 6:48 PM with the headline "A father’s sacrifice: Daughter gives thanks on Veterans Day."