In 1969, as an eighteen year old, I lived for a time in Bangkok. One of the more enjoyable ways to spend time was in the R&R bars on New Petchburi Road enjoying the many cover bands, especially the jazz bands. One night I fell in with three Navy corpsmen who were front line medics attached to Marine units in Viet Nam. When it was discovered who I was, more to the point who Dad was, I was treated to a great deal to drink and more than a little story telling. The one story that really stuck, for a variety of reasons, came up in a discussion of what is and what is not heroism. The "old man" of the trio, perhaps twentyfour, told of rendering aid to two kids in a village hit by "friendly fire." The ten year old boy had twice run into a burning hooch and dragged a sister to safety. The corpsman and other adults made a fuss over the boy only to get a look that was a little bit puzzlement and a lot of disgust and the question "That is what one does, isn't it?" The corpsman, who I know put his butt on the line many, many times, said "Every time I think I'm hot *expletive deleted*it, I think of that kid and cool my jets."
I wonder what Drew Heredia would say for himself, at ease, out of the lime light.
