The Irish love to talk. Telling stories is even more fun. When I first met Lance O’Toole, he said, “I’m glad to have a “Mick” on my side, even if you’re not a Marine!” The “Mc” on the front of my last name and “O” on his immediately told us we were countrymen of some sort from the Ould Sod. Mick, from Mc, has become a slang term for Irish(sometimes derogatory, if you’re English) and O-anything is a dead giveaway. Everyone in this amazing country has roots somewhere in the world but some of us feel the ties more than others. The two of us never stopped talking from the day we met.
Lance and I were learning to be field artillery officers together in Ft. Sill, Oklahoma. We were far away from families, in our 20’s and newly married. He had already done his “Boot Camp” and I had done my “Basic”. We reported for duty on July 4. Jane and I had changed our wedding date to June 29 after my orders came and we had five days to drive from DC to Ft. Sill. Lance had come in on 4th too and we met at PT (physical training in military speak) the next morning.
We always argued about how “Irish” each of us were and I have to say that his red hair gave him a distinct advantage. The stories we told each other about our families and childhoods filled the long hot days of summer that were full of classroom work in sweltering Quonset huts, days and nights on the firing range with the 105mm and 155mm howitzers being used in Vietnam and endless forays into the countryside to practice being forward observers who direct the artillery fire onto the enemy targets. “FO” was the pre-determined job for most 2nd Lieutenants so, believe me, we paid very close attention to those drills.
Lance always wanted to be a Marine. Some fall into it but he had thought about it a lot and as soon as he could enlist, he did. Becoming an officer was a very proud moment for Lance and we talked about what it meant and would mean to our lives. My dad, who spent his life in the military, couldn’t be there when I was commissioned but, years later, he told me how much my being an officer during Vietnam had meant to him and that filled a void in me that to this day is very satisfying.
It wouldn’t be the last time but I was the odd duck in my gunnery school class. Because of the war, the Department of Defense was running all the services with ground troops through the same schools. As luck would have it, I was in a class of Marines with only two other Army officers so we were constantly being verbally abused. My ace in the hole was Lance P. O’Toole. He called me “Mick” and I called him “O” and we stood back to back when we were in the field ready to take on anything they could throw at us. It was good-natured but you know as well as I do that boys will be boys.
Our orders came in late September. As I opened the envelope, I remember that for the first time since we’d been in Oklahoma we had opened the windows of our apartment to let in some “cool” night air and I could feel it. I had been levied overseas but was being temporarily held back to be a gunnery instructor at the school. The next day I learned that all the Marines were headed for Vietnam.
Lance and I spent those last few days before they left talking about plans for the future. What were we going to do when we were discharged? What kind of jobs would we be looking for or even be qualified for? Where would we call home? That summer on the plains of Oklahoma was our first step out into the light of our own lives. Like our troops today, we were doing what our country asked us to do. In spite of what your mind tells you, your heart says being a patriot is the right thing.
The day Lance left, I helped him pack the car because he had stored some of his gear at our place overnight. “Good luck, Oh, it’s been great getting to know you” I said. “Mick, I’ll see you on the other side.”
Two months later, I had just been assigned to the Agent Orange project and was stationed at Edgewood Arsenal outside of Baltimore. Another Marine from our class called to say that Lance had been killed in a firefight less than a month after arriving in country. He wasn’t the first friend I had lost to that war, nor would he be the last, but we were Irish and we’d made a connection that was hundreds of years in the making. In the boxes that we shipped cross country from Ft. Sill was something that Lance had left behind. It’s a simple Army-issue green canvas camp stool. I still use it today to sit on while I shine my shoes. Stamped on the leg in true Marine style, it reads “Lance P. O’Toole”.
Each Memorial Day, I pull out that stool and the picture of Lance and me that Jane took on the day of our graduation from gunnery school. My memories of him and that summer in Oklahoma paint a brilliant picture of life, of freedom, of ancestry, of country. To me, wars are much less about ideology, nationalism, religion or politics than they are about the people who fight them. I long for a time when we can find peace in this world…when the “Oh’s” and “Mick’s” don’t have to be “good soldiers”. That time can’t come too soon. I miss you, Lance. I’ll see you on the other side.
