People

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Saving David
© 2008

by

Stephen A. Peterson


To Sister Rita Clare Broecker, a Franciscan nun, her English Composition and Grammar class of 1966, appeared to be an eclectic mix of high school students. Standing in front of her classroom door, she welcomed her tenth class of seniors with: “Quickly, quickly, my students! Time is wasting! You must remember there’s eternity in every second! You must use time well! Quickly, quickly now! Take any available seat for now! We will organize class as soon as you are seated!” Like a soldier on guard, Sister, as she was called, made this her daily routine to greet, impart wisdom and organize those who would enter her teaching domain.

Although this was the second year I was assigned to have Sister as a teacher, her aura continued to intimidate me as I believed it did most of us. Within minutes of being seated, our initial assignment was to write a précis regarding any event that occurred during our summer vacation.

Chewing on the end of my Papermate pen, I tried to think of what important event or events happened during the summer of 1965. My mind wonders, and so does my eyes away from the blank sheet of blue lined white paper. I looked over to Tom Moreman’s paper—nothing. Then to Mike Piggott’s who was bent way over almost as though he was asleep. I then looked over to Jeannie Davidson’s shoulder. Even one of the smartest girls in the entire school seemed perplexed. She poked a pen in and out of her golden blonde hair, and I thought in a few minutes she’ll heat the end of her pen to such a degree her hair would be tinted to that of the blue of the American flag hanging lifeless in our classroom.

In utter desperation for a topic, I slouched down to get a look at what David O’Connor might be writing. Counting down—four, three, two, one—His head rests on his left hand as he fights hard to come up with words, any words. Watching Dave struggle, I thought Dave would come up with a few choice words. He’s bright who liked Biology, baseball and race car driving. Neat! He surely has something to talk about.

I thought in a few minutes he’d probably cuss in a low tone of voice. When he did, I’d laugh. It was one of those circumstances when you know another person better than you know yourself. And, lately, I, at the time, found myself observing him more and more.

The look on his face seemed to mirror my own—our faces were filled with stress, frustration, and bewilderment over a composition we seemed to have no earthly idea as to how to commence. We were both seniors even though Dave was two years older than I was. He was an excellent baseball player. I was lousy. Dave would more than likely go to college on an athletic scholarship. I might go to college if I can continue to do well in the first semester of this senior year. I had been told one’s junior and senior years count the most for college. Okay.

I rested my head in my hands and watch him. Nothing comes to mind regarding my summer vacation. At this stage in our lives, I have known Dave one whole year. We were in the same Junior English class, the same physical education class and the same period for lunch. In that Junior year, I found out that Dave was someone you could talk to and get a laugh or solve a pressing problem. Whoever knew him called him “friend”—not just a good guy—a great guy!

As I watched him on that first day of our senior year, a tear rolled from his stressed out eyes along with a cough. I was concerned for him as he was one of the few guys or gals who would even talk to me. I was shy. Dave was shy. I was afraid about my future. Dave was afraid about his future. I did not know why. He never said. But I did think that maybe Dave would play professional baseball in either the American League or National League. Then I could say to my friends: “See that guy, Dave O’Connor, I knew him as a kid in high school. I watched him play baseball then. He was really good then, too!”

Without looking up, Dave said: “Say, Pete, stop staring at me! What’s wrong with you?”

Not moving a muscle, I replied, “I’m not staring at you!”

“Mr. O’Connor and Mr. Peterson what is so important that you two would rather chat? Do you two mind sharing with the rest of the class what your discussion is about?” Sister boldly announced to everyone present. “Which one wants to go first?”

“Well,” I said. “Dave thought I was staring at him but I told him I wasn’t. Actually, I imagined Dave playing baseball in the American League for my favorite team—the Chicago White Sox. I imagine telling people that Dave and I went to the same school and that we were in the some of the same classes. That’s all that was going on Sister.”

“And you, Mr. O’Connor,” responded Sister.

“I just told Pete to stop staring at me. That’s all I said Sister.”

Dave just looked over and smiled as though to say “hey, thanks!” We talked, as senior do throughout year. Nothing serious, really! Then in June, 1966, we graduated. I learned shortly that rather than go to college Dave joined the military. I went on to college at Indiana University. Then the two year friendship was over. It is though Dave disappeared off of the earth itself—not a letter, not even a telephone call or a Christmas card.

35 years later while serving on military duty, I received an e-mail from a classmate, Donna Jones Monaghan. A classmate I barely knew but she remembered me for some strange reason. She told me she had read some of my writings and thought by chance I may have been a classmate of her. She had seen a picture of me in our school yearbook. After comparing notes, we affirmed that we were classmates. I was informed by her of classmate updates. She told me that one of our classmates, Dave O’Connor, was among the dead. How, why, what! Dave had died in combat action in Vietnam. I was stunned, shocked and saddened to the point I cried.

I’m angry, too, but for selfish reasons. With more than 50,000 military personnel to talk to I feel I actually have no one to talk. No one will understand me. I have lost a high school chum who sacrificed his life for mine. Why did he die instead of me? We both went to Vietnam. He was a great person. I am just an ordinary, unsure person void of a friend who just can’t be dead but apparently is.

I feel a tear slide down the right side of my face, but make no move to wipe it away. I don’t want to look up from my command chair to have one of my soldiers see my crying. I’m usually good at keeping in my tears. At that point, I am thrust back to that time went we were confronted by a teacher and my dream for a great guy. A dream, it would seem, that was never to be fulfilled. Then maybe so.

Before we went our separate ways on June 8, 1966, Dave talked about fulfilling his destiny and living life to the fullest. What did he mean by that, I wondered thirty-five years later? Did he mean learning to appreciate America after living and seeing what many other societies yearn for? Did he believe he lived a full life in his twenties when he volunteered for military service? Did he teach little Vietnamese children baseball? Did he save a Vietnamese child’s life? No one will ever know whether or not Dave fulfilled his destiny. Yet, just by the mere fact that he sacrificed his life for the preservation of freedom and liberty for Vietnamese and Americans is worth saving Dave in my heart, my prayers and memory. I will never be able to tell him how much I appreciated his friendship and our years at Scecina Memorial High School as well as his service to this nation. What is saddening is that I never be able to thank him for allowing me to know life, liberty and prosperity in this land of opportunity he sacrificed himself for. And though he never made it to Major League Baseball, he made what we all hope for—to be in the presence of God Himself in complete happiness. The true fullment of one’s destiny.

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