We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another.
~Luciano De Crescenzo
The year I was born, the Vietnam War had been underway for eight years. Many of the men and women who served in that conflict never came home. In an effort to promote awareness for those missing or suffering in captivity, a group called VIVA began the POW/MIA bracelet campaign.
The original, simple cuff bore the name/rank/date of loss of a serviceperson who was missing or possibly captive. They were solemn reminders of empty places at the dinner table, beloved family members unable to return home. They were seen on the wrists of nearly everyone — famous people and regular people alike — hoping the servicepeople would never be forgotten.
At eleven years of age, I was bored. We had been on the road to the annual family reunion, several states away from the Kansas farm where I lived, for what seemed like days. It was hot, and the road looked endless. We pulled into a roadside station for gas and to stretch our legs. I managed to talk my grandmother into getting me a frozen slushy, and I wandered over to the yard-sale items to wait for everyone to finish up.
Just as I was turning around to head to the car, a bracelet, sitting alone on a shelf, caught my eye. I leaned down to try and read it as I was taught not to pick up things. All I saw was a name, and I was curious.
From behind me, a gruff voice greeted me. The proprietor of the station, walking with a cane, put out his hand to shake mine. I pointed to the cuff and asked him what the bracelet was for. He picked up the bracelet and held it up, reciting the name engraved there: CWO Bobby L. McKain. He was a Kansas boy, lost in 1968 at the age of twenty-two.
His voice cracked a bit as he explained there was a bracelet in the world for every missing soldier left behind. When I asked him why we didn’t just go and bring them home, he leaned down and put the cuff on my wrist. He closed it and stepped back carefully. He cleared his throat and nodded his head once to acknowledge the gift as being right and truly given.
“He goes home with you now, little girl. See that you don’t forget him.”
With that, he walked slowly back inside the garage and vanished into the cool darkness.
I made a promise that day that I would not forget this man, and he would be like family to me for the rest of my life. As the years went by, I was true to my word. I wrote letters to the Army to see if there had been any update on Bobby. I was given the option to leave my information for his family to contact me and was able to speak with his mother. She sent me the occasional note, honoring me with stories of her son.
With the advent of the Internet, I was able to learn more about Bobby. I located his younger brother, still in Kansas, and talked with him. He sent me photos of his wall of pride: medals and photos of McKain men all the way back to World War I, standing for their country. I heard more stories: that Bobby was a bit of a jokester, that his big, wide grin was infectious, and that he was well liked.
A couple of years later, out of the blue, I received a letter from the Army. Bobby was coming home. Bundles of bones returned to the U.S. in 1985 were finally yielding DNA matches. Among those identified were Bobby and his co-pilot, Arthur Chaney. They were being laid to rest in Arlington.
In the years since his return, Bobby has been visited by so many people in my name. I am of Diné (Navajo) descent, so my friends and family have left flags, wreaths, roses, an eagle feather, and tobacco at Bobby’s gravestone to honor him for me. He has been remembered as I promised.
I carried Bobby’s bracelet for fifty years. To be honest, I thought this was the end of our story. I was wrong. An article I wrote about him appeared as part of his “legend” on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall page, a great honor. I left my e-mail address for others to share stories with me.
Checking my e-mail one morning, I saw many unfamiliar names. For a moment, I was ready to delete them as junk e-mail, but a small voice whispered in my head, “Look closer.” I opened one and spied the name McKain. As I opened e-mail after e-mail, I began to cry until the words were unreadable on the screen. A new generation of Bobby’s family had found me.
Cousin after cousin had written to tell me that they had read my words. They wanted to thank me for keeping Bobby alive in my heart and the hearts of my readers. They invited me to be an “honorary cousin” in Bobby’s family.
They are part of my life now, and I am hoping to go back to Kansas this coming year. I want to give my bracelet to my cousin so that it can be passed down through his family for many more people to hear of Bobby’s bravery.
If you visit Washington, D.C., you can find our Bobby on panel 54E, Line 027, on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall. He is there along with more than 58,000 others who were killed, captured, or are still lost.
Our tribal customs say that when we take our final journey, every single ancestor is there to greet us and welcome us to then stand and watch over the generations to come.
I have a feeling that a handsome, young man with a big, goofy grin will be right up front.
— Cj Cole —
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