Freedom Rock

There was no fanfare when I returned home from Vietnam in 1970. Just my family. Not even my friends knew what to make of me.

I'd been shot up pretty bad. I'd served with the 134th Aviation Company near Cam Ranh Bay, flying troops into combat zones. One night a mortar round landed on the base-camp barracks. The whole place exploded. I felt like I was on fire.

I crawled out of the rubble with metal embedded in my face, under my eye, in my neck, shoulders, arms, chest, stomach, hips, legs, feet. I spent the next six months in and out of hospitals. The VA rated me 60 percent disabled. I was 20 years old.

I kept to myself when I first got home. I'd go for long rides on my motorcycle. I didn't want people's pity. Just some understanding. You fight for your country; you expect some kind of acknowledgement.

Like a lot of Vietnam vets, I learned not to talk about the war or my service. It was a different time. I went to work for John Deere, got married, had kids. I tried to move on. But it's hard when there's so much inside you can't say.

Several years ago I joined a group of Iowa vets called the Vietnam Veterans Motorcycle Club. There are about 15 of us in our chapter. We take rides together and raise money for veterans causes.

But what I like best are our monthly meetings at someone's home. We sit and talk about what's going on in our lives. 

One night two years ago, we were shooting the breeze when a guy we called "Rabbi" started talking. "The Memorial Day ride is coming up," Rabbi said. Each Memorial Day, we meet in Des Moines and ride our motorcycles in formation to the state capitol building.

"I have an idea," he said. "There's this 19-year-old kid I heard about in Greenfield, about three hours away. Outside of town there's this huge rock, and he's painted it over with veterans themes. You've gotta see it. He named it Freedom Rock. I talked to him. He's never served. But it's his way of saying thanks. This year, I think we should start our ride from his rock."

At 5:00 a.m. on Memorial Day 2004, I hit the road on my black Softail Deuce. I didn't know what to expect. A painted rock in the middle of nowhere didn't sound like much. I arrived in Greenfield at 8:00 a.m. We all stood there, staring. Painted on the rock was an homage to our soldiers in Iraq with the message: "Giving their tomorrows for our todays."

"Every year," Rabbi said, "the guy repaints it with a different theme: World War II, Gulf War, Nam." Memories came flooding back. A lot of bad things. But some good things too. Incredible bravery. Friendships that have lasted a lifetime.

I started to snuffle. "It's okay," someone said. We circled the rock and held hands. We stayed like that for some time.