I was 12 years old when my brother Mike was killed in Viet Nam. It was early on a Saturday morning, late November, 1968, when there was a knock at the door. My Dad was upstairs shaving, and my Mom was in the kitchen making breakfast. I answered the door, and there was an Army soldier in his Class A uniform. He asked to see my Mom and Dad. My Dad called out “Who is at the door?” I answered, “It’s a guy from the Army.” I heard the frying pan hit the kitchen floor, and that’s when I knew.
I was 12 years old when my brother Mike was killed in Viet Nam. It was early on a Saturday morning, late November, 1968, when there was a knock at the door. My Dad was upstairs shaving, and my Mom was in the kitchen making breakfast. I answered the door, and there was an Army soldier in his Class A uniform. He asked to see my Mom and Dad. My Dad called out “Who is at the door?” I answered, “It’s a guy from the Army.” I heard the frying pan hit the kitchen floor, and that’s when I knew.