Richard M Woynarski was born in 1946. After enlisting in the US Navy he was assigned to VA-164, an A-4 fighter-bomber squadron embarked on the USS Oriskany. In late 1967 the Oriskany was stationed off the coast of North Vietnam. On October 16, 1967 his plane was shot down. He was initially listed as MIA, later as KIA.
That is all I know of this man. This morning I had never heard his name. At lunch time today I went to Steele Park in Phoenix to see a traveling replica of the Vietnam War Memorial. It seemed very appropriate to see the memorial on Veteran’s day.
I have seen the memorial in Washington DC. Back in 1999 I was there in the fall. The remnants of a hurricane were blowing up the east coast, and by the time I made it to the memorial a strong rain was falling. For 20 minutes I slowly walked along the wall, alone in the pouring rain.
I don’t go to these memorials to mourn or remember anyone in particular. In fact, I can find no evidence that anyone named Swaner has ever died in the line of duty. Instead I go to remember people who I didn’t know who died for people they didn’t know.
Today a volunteer asked if she could help me find a name. When I said that I didn’t know anyone on the wall she suggested that I should do a rubbing anyway; to “show those on the wall that they are not forgotten”. I chose a name at random.
As I look at the rows and rows of names my thoughts are focused on a rapid series of “what ifs”. I look at a name and think “He would have been a school teacher”, “He might have been a great writer”, “He might have found a cure for cancer”. My thoughts then turn towards the reality that this wall is a record of loss. Of the 58,195 names on the wall, how many family and friends grieved and still grieved for their loss?
When I was in High School I wanted nothing more than to be a pilot in the US Air Force. During my Junior year I borrowed my father’s Oldsmobile and drove to Hill Air Force Base for a recruiting open house. I stood with a bunch of other teenagers in a hanger between two F-16 fighter jets. After a stern warning about not taking pictures of the cockpit, we were lined up to climb inside one. As I was about to climb the ladder, as captain asked how tall I was. When hearing that I was 6’5” he said “Sorry son, the maximum height is 6’3”, you are too tall to fit in the cockpit. That dream died that day.
A few years later I walked into an Army Recruiting office. I had every line on the enlistment paperwork filled out except for the signature line. Under intense pressure from the recruiter I got feedback from my parents and a professor. Their influence convinced me to back out.
Then, two years after that, at a college job fair I asked the Navy recruiter for the enlistment forms. He asked my major and when I told him that I was studying Philosophy he said the Navy only had openings for doctors and engineers.
I don’t know why I never talked to the Marines, but I think that if I had I would have signed up. I went to see the movie “Jarhead” and it seemed so natural to me, almost familiar. The only thing more powerful than the urge to join up now, before I turn 35 in January and become ineligible is the responsibility and love for my family. As much as I want to sign up and request service in Iraq or Afghanistan, they are far too important far too important and they are my primary responsibility now, not my country.
I have often wondered why I have such a fondness for the military and a deep respect for those who serve, yet am so opposed to war. The answer lies in the rows of names on a wall and the rows of crosses in a cemetery. It brings to mind a favorite poem:
In Flanders Fields
By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army
IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
I am certain that Richard M Woynarski loved and was loved. Now he lies in St. Patrick’s Cemetery in Hartland New York. His life was cut short after 21 years. Now, years later I look at his name and wonder what he would have become. What experiences he was prevented from having. It was an awful fate that he was killed on an October day 28 years ago. Maybe it is fate that I tried three times to join the military and never did, but instead I have the freedom to live the “what-if’s” and experience the joys and sorrows that Richard and so many others never had. It is the least I can do to honor and respect his and their sacrifices.