(no subject)
Today is the 150th anniversary marking the establishment of the United States Medal of Honor. I had the distinct privilege of meeting a recipient at ROTC dining out-- it was pure chance, because he was attending a different function, but saw us and decided to come congratulate the newly commissioned officers.
His name is Peter C. Lemon. I believe he is the template from which calm, pure indefatigable badassery is wrought. Why, you ask? Let me tell you how he earned his Medal of Honor...
The date is April 1, 1970 and the day's business is no joke.
Peter Lemon was 19 years old, and fighting for his life. He suffered from shrapnel wounds inflicted earlier in the morning-- a mortar which killed his close friends, the other three members of his fireteam. His Fire Support Base had come under attack, and it was being overwhelmed by nearly 400 enemy soldiers. Their attack focused on the portion of the perimeter Specialist Lemon's unit was defending.
He had participated in fending off two prior attacks, suffered the mortar wound and was in the first aid station after suffering a second wound while carrying a wounded comrade to safety when a third wave attempted to smash through the defenses. While medical personnel furiously worked to evacuate casualties from the first aid station, Peter "acquired" a working machine gun and took a fairly exposed position on the berm surrounding the base camp, continuing to fire as nearly 20 enemy soldiers charged his position.
He suffered a third wound in that assault while fending off the enemy using machine gun and rifle until both jammed. He resorted to hand grenades when the enemy tried to take advantage of the malfunction and attempted to overwhelm him. Dispatching all but one of the enemy, he charged the fleeing attacker and killed him in hand-to-hand combat. Dodging more grenades and small arms fire, he returned to the berm and held the position from the enemy until he passed out.
He awoke in the first aid station, continuing to help defend the station and refusing treatment until more seriously wounded were flown to a field hospital. He did not succumb to his injuries. Every man in his platoon was hurt. Three of his closest friends died. His own wounds required more than a month of hospitalization and yet, when I met him, he seemed vibrant and energetic as he nonchalantly approached our gaggle of lieutenants and wished us good luck in our careers. I remember he wore a tuxedo and his medal of honor and a few other medals on his breast pocket. He carried what looked like whiskey on the rocks and spoke to us with a casual, genial ease that exuded calm confidence.
There are little under 3500 recipients of the medal. They receive invitations to all future Presidential Inaugurations and Inaugural Balls. Their immediate children are guaranteed admission to any of our military academies. Military personnel of *any* rank are encouraged to salute *them.* If you ever want to read about absolutely mind-boggling acts of gallantry and heroism, get lost in the Medal of Honor rolls for an afternoon.
His name is Peter C. Lemon. I believe he is the template from which calm, pure indefatigable badassery is wrought. Why, you ask? Let me tell you how he earned his Medal of Honor...
The date is April 1, 1970 and the day's business is no joke.
Peter Lemon was 19 years old, and fighting for his life. He suffered from shrapnel wounds inflicted earlier in the morning-- a mortar which killed his close friends, the other three members of his fireteam. His Fire Support Base had come under attack, and it was being overwhelmed by nearly 400 enemy soldiers. Their attack focused on the portion of the perimeter Specialist Lemon's unit was defending.
He had participated in fending off two prior attacks, suffered the mortar wound and was in the first aid station after suffering a second wound while carrying a wounded comrade to safety when a third wave attempted to smash through the defenses. While medical personnel furiously worked to evacuate casualties from the first aid station, Peter "acquired" a working machine gun and took a fairly exposed position on the berm surrounding the base camp, continuing to fire as nearly 20 enemy soldiers charged his position.
He suffered a third wound in that assault while fending off the enemy using machine gun and rifle until both jammed. He resorted to hand grenades when the enemy tried to take advantage of the malfunction and attempted to overwhelm him. Dispatching all but one of the enemy, he charged the fleeing attacker and killed him in hand-to-hand combat. Dodging more grenades and small arms fire, he returned to the berm and held the position from the enemy until he passed out.
He awoke in the first aid station, continuing to help defend the station and refusing treatment until more seriously wounded were flown to a field hospital. He did not succumb to his injuries. Every man in his platoon was hurt. Three of his closest friends died. His own wounds required more than a month of hospitalization and yet, when I met him, he seemed vibrant and energetic as he nonchalantly approached our gaggle of lieutenants and wished us good luck in our careers. I remember he wore a tuxedo and his medal of honor and a few other medals on his breast pocket. He carried what looked like whiskey on the rocks and spoke to us with a casual, genial ease that exuded calm confidence.
There are little under 3500 recipients of the medal. They receive invitations to all future Presidential Inaugurations and Inaugural Balls. Their immediate children are guaranteed admission to any of our military academies. Military personnel of *any* rank are encouraged to salute *them.* If you ever want to read about absolutely mind-boggling acts of gallantry and heroism, get lost in the Medal of Honor rolls for an afternoon.