'A Warrior For Our Freedom': Man Honors Father On Veterans Day

There are many people in our society who are patriotic. They celebrate the 4th of July and Memorial Day. The relish in patriotic firework displays as tributes to our country, they stand and salute the flag when the National Anthem is played, they are kind to veteran’s and thank them for their service. But they are not patriots. A patriot is a person who not only vigorously supports their country, but is prepared to defend it against enemies or detractors. My father was a patriot in its truest sense. I say “was” because he is no longer with us. He died a few years back.

My father had three brothers and three sisters. They were a poor family who grew up in Bridgeport, Connecticut in the late 1930’s and early 40’s. My dad was the youngest and he knew what he wanted to do with his life. His oldest brother joined the Army, his next two oldest brothers signed up with the Navy. But my Dad had his sites on being a Marine, the branch of the military that he thought, for some reason, was the toughest. He couldn’t wait to drop out of school and head toward the recruitment center and sign his life away to the Marines. He was a typical little brother, three times over, and wanted to desperately contribute to our country like his brothers were. When it was time for him to leave home for Parris Island, South Carolina for boot camp, his father just shook his hand coldly and said, “I’ll see you later,” as he did with his other sons. My grandfather knew when his sons left that he might not ever see them again and kept his goodbye unemotional or distant while my grandmother cried her eyes out.

I must say, my Dad was an extremely handsome young man. And the Marine uniform even more so framed his looks. One day he had duty at the gates of the camp and witnessed a luxurious military car roll up. He greeted the driver who said he was escorting the admiral in the passenger seat to the officer in charge of the recruits. Completely unexpectantly and unconventionally, the admiral addressed my father directly, speaking over the driver. The admiral said, “Son, you look great in that uniform and make for a fine Marine. How’d you like to avoid the war altogether. I have a need for a guard to be permanently posted outside the door to the Ambassador of France in Paris. That guard could be you. What do you say?” My father, still a bit shocked in being addressed directly by such a high-ranking officer replied, “Respectfully sir, my brothers are overseas fighting for our country. And I could never let them do that alone. Sir, I appreciate the offer, but I must decline, sir. But thank you, sir.”

So, he completed boot camp at Parris Island and was off to Korea to join a Unit called Dog 25. My dad entered the Korean War in 1951 as was first demonstrating to be a greater conflict than anticipated. His brothers were already there, fighting for America. He was desperate to get there and fight for his country with them. Dog 25 were ground soldiers on the front lines. My father fought from foxholes for weeks against seen and unseen enemies in the foliage, trees, and high grass. Then one day while his unit was moving position, they were spotted and there was incoming fire from an undetermined direction. A mortar shell went off to the left of my father and blew him off his feet. His left leg was ravaged with shrapnel. It blew him five yards to the right, but he got up and excruciatingly staggered along to stick with the unit. Once they got far enough behind enemy lines, my dad was bleeding pretty badly and his commander called for my father’s transport to the hospital ship on shore.

On the hospital ship he had surgery, but afterward was told that they could only remove a portion of the metal because the rest was too close to the nerve. He recovered fairly well over the weeks on the ship and soon came the day when an officer visited his bed and stated, “You’ve done your service to your country son, you’re well enough now to go home. My father was shocked. This is not what he thought would happen. He wasn’t rehabbing with the goal of getting well enough to go home. He was getting his leg better so he could return to the war. Pleadingly he told the officer, “Sir, no thank you, I would prefer to return to my unit, sir. My brothers are still out there fighting and it wouldn’t be right for me to leave them.” The Marine officer acquiesced and sent my father back to Dog 25 on the front lines. It was there that he saw too many of his friends die. It was there that he fought until his sergeant told the unit the war was over and they were all going home.

My dad practically never talked to his children about the war. It was not until my older brother and I took my father to see the dedication of the Korean War Memorial in Washington that he told us his profoundly personal stories. I remember as we would walk through the mall how South Korean officers would see my dad’s medals on his hat and would stop in their tracks and salute him. It was their way of thanking him for his part in preserving their democracy and saving their country all those years ago. Although they spoke no English; the salute and bow said it all. That trip, my father talked to my brother and I about the war more than he did in the previous quarter century. When he told us a story of his fighting alongside his military brothers and watching them die as he listened to their last words, it was the first time in my entire life I saw him cry real tears. He wanted to stay with them though they were about to pass, but he was a Marine, and Marine’s did what they were told by their commanding officers.

My father fought until the end of the war and earned several medals. Sometimes, as a child, when I would get up very early on a Saturday, I would glimpse him sitting at the table having tea, going through them. He didn’t know anyone was looking. I wondered if he was thinking about what he endured and the fellow Marines whose lives ended fighting for an ideal called democracy.

So, when you talk about patriotism, that is one thing. But if you want to discuss patriots, you are talking about people like my father. You are talking about men and women who risked their very lives to protect their unit, to protect civilians, to protect democracy, to protect their country, and to represent the United States Marines and the United States of America. This is the definition of genuine bravery. They were truly the greatest generation. And my father was one of them; a warrior for our freedom and a hero, championing thousands who will never know his name; Frederick Arthur Hine Sr.