A Troop
3/17th Air Cavalry
Silver Spurs

For many on that bus, there would be no similar trip home. This was not a good time for joining the Army and an even worse time to be a helicopter pilot.

Today, ever thirty years later, remembering those days is at once sad and comforting. And, each Memorial Day, as spring finally gives in and yields to another summer, I can't help but think about one of those young men who became a part of me forever.

I met Buddy -- Harold Ketner, Jr. -- that day in October when we all boarded the bus to begin our trip to "the Army." He was very shy and very calm, and we made fast friends as exact opposites often do.

We had already endured the seemingly endless battery of physical and mental exams, already enlisted, and were now on our way to become teen-age helicopter pilots. Back then, a high school diploma, 20/20 vision and the ability to walk and chew gum at the same time gave you a pretty good shot at being accepted to flight school. The next few months together were nothing short of gloriously hysterical.

Neither Buddy or I were what you might call "worldly." When confronted with enormous pressure from a screaming sergeant and a restroom crowded with extended lines of recruits from all over Virginia, our choice to use the sinks as urinals made complete sense. The idea was an immediate hit with the other recruits, and we all made it on the train on time.

The sergeants were less impressed. To show us just how unimpressed they were, we were all required to memorize our brand-new serial numbers by the time we arrived in South Carolina. RA13876228, RA13876228 , RA13876228, RA13876228, RA13876228, RA13876228 -- do you know how many times you can repeat that in a couple of hours?

Over the next year, Buddy and I spent a lot of time together, laughing, marveling how just how goofy life could be and, on occasion, thinking. We carried sticks around in the dark and bitter cold nights at Ft. Jackson, performing the ritual duties of "fire guard." We drank coffee every morning (both for the first time) just to be accepted by the other soldiers, but always washed it down with at least two glasses of milk. We would mindlessly burn rubber in a friend's "65 Chevelle" until the lights in the barracks came on, then park and sneak back to our rooms.

We could never figure out why our flight school comrades got so worked up when the school cadre (whose only mission in life was to make yours miserable) would toss our freshly starched uniforms out the window during wall locker inspection. Buddy and I always thought it was so cool. It was part of the game.

I guess we were either too young or too stupid to know better. I suspect the latter.

Time off for us was an odd mix of activities. A couple of hours spent sitting in the dirt at a drive-in movie in Dothan, Ala., telling lies about our experiences with girls. Drinking far too many Bloody Marys (our first exposure) and nearly missing our Christmas leave flight home. Conjuring up images of what our lives would be like after we finally graduated from flight school. And, as tight as Buddy and I had become, he had no trouble making room for Sandy DeBlasio, my fiance.

In fact, Buddy would be best man at our wedding in 1966, just before leaving for Vietnam. It would be the last time we saw him.

In March 1967, Harold Ketner, Jr. died in the crash of his UH-1 "Huey" helicopter after completing a routine refueling stop. His grave side service was conducted at the Hampton National Cemetery (where his dad would be laid to rest years later).

At his closed-casket funeral, and knowing I had orders for Vietnam, Buddy's mom came to me and begged me, "please don't go there." Like all of us present that day, she knew that the price of this thing we called "duty" had just gone up.

Writing about Buddy is particularly tough at this time of year, because it was during the spring and summer months that our friendship became rock-solid. It was then that we experienced so many firsts together. It was then that our dreams about the future started looking like they had a chance of coming true. Fond thoughts of Buddy will always be a part of me, his memory held dearly in my heart forever.