http://www.bing.com/videos/watch/video/chet-atkins-i-still-cant-say-goodbye/57692fdc4f03e177251757692fdc4f03e1772517-102786073940


(I Still Can’t Say Goodbye – Song by Chet Atkins) Please play above before reading the rest)

My Father is my hero, and he always will be. Milton F. Gregory Sr., my father and my hero who raised me on the principles that that made this country great, that made it America. I still can’t say goodbye to the man who raised me to love my country, to take pride in all that is American. My first recollections of his teachings were when I was only 4 years old, yet I remember as if he was whispering in my ear those wonderful words, “Always love your country son, never fail her, never betray her trust in you, or me, your father”. Some of you will consider that I was too young to recall such powerful words, with such powerful meaning, but as I go on you will understand why it was easy for this young man, Milton F. Gregory Jr., always to remember the importance of my father’s words, his teaching, his most of all, his love. When I was four years old, we lived in Vienna Austria, in a small apartment building with two floors and about apartments, if I recall correctly. The Apartment had a small garden that was maintained immaculately. There was a small stump in the garden my father used to sit me on and teach me how to properly salute the flag, something he took great pride in and something he love to do, salute our nation’s flag.

Many of my friends told me that their father’s never talked about the war (World War II). My father served in the Pacific, and was one of the first officers who landed on the island of Iwo Jima, with the Air Force, to set up the landing trip for the supporting aircraft. I thank God every day that he told me of the heroes who fought, lived and died there. It was always difficult for him to tell my sister and I (and later the other four children he would father with my mother) stories of the horrors of war, and the sacrifices men, and women, made to keep our country free, the country that meant everything to him. Glenn Beck often asks during his hour of teaching on Fox News Channel, “Who will be the next George Washington?” Well, to me, my father was the “Next George Washington” or any of the founders who help shape our country. So were each man or woman who put on their uniform during time of war, where our country was involved, after all, each of them would sacrifice or risk sacrifice without expectation of personal reward, other than knowing that they would be contributing to securing the destiny of America’s future. Each year millions of Americans will go to parades, cook out or visit family, to “celebrate” the fallen, or better said “Remembered” those who paid the ultimate price. My father would always spend this day telling us, the Gregory kids, about all those he knew in the military, how they lived and how many of them died for their, and our, country. He always emphasized that those who lived should never be forgotten as they only lived because that was God’s will, and those who died, were called home to their creator. His explanation for those who lost limbs or suffered other injuries, that included a tortured mind, were also decisions only God could explain, and God owes no one an explanation, that we must just believe and trust that he had his reasons. It was always easy for me to do that, as I have always had a special relationship with my creator.

My father never demanded any of his children to enlist into the military, but the example he set for all four of us boys made enlisting into the military an easy decision or choice. My father enlisted into the Army when he was very young, not long after running away from home at the age of 15 to serve his country. He told us that he was drawn to the military from a very young age and was all he ever wanted to do; after all, he knew in his heart that as long as this country was going to remain a free nation, it was going to need a standing army to protect her, and he wanted to be a part of those special men called “Soldiers”. That’s why on the brass plate attached to the wooden box (his request) after giving his name and period of life on earth, you see only “Soldier”. You don’t see Air Force, Army, or Army Air Corps, but “Solder” and that said it all as far as my father was concerned. To my dad, every man or woman who served their country, in the service of their choice, “Soldier” covered it, told anyone who knew them that is who they were, a soldier, proud, special patriots of this country who only wanted to serve by putting their lives into the hands of the country they took their oath to defend and protect. He always told us boys that to be a soldier was the greatest testament to any man or woman’s love of country. I will always remember my father for the deep and incredible love he had for the “United States of America”, a country born from the same kind of love he held sacred. A total commitment, ready to sacrifice his life without regret, only pride, only knowing that his service would mean others could seek out their American Dream and live it out, was enough. Every chance my father had he would spend taking us to various points of interest across America so that he could show us what made America so special. His repeated stories of Davy Crocket, Denial Boon, and any story of American heroes, some well known and others not so well known, but all a part of ensuring that this country would have the chance to grow into the “Republic” that promised every American their shot at the “American Dream”, the same dream he had the opportunity that was given to him, and that he realized. His dream, you guessed it, was only to be a soldier, to serve his country and protect it. His American dream was a simple one, but how incredibly important that dream was to him.

The story that we all asked my father to tell us again and again was how, while serving on Iwo Jima, he was nearly killed, and we would make him drag out the Japanese rifle that the young attacker would leave to my father as a reminder of how God took care of him that day. I still have the rifle, and it still has my father’s blood on it from the wound my father received while fighting for his life until his “First Sergeant” took the young Japanese soldier’s life, by hitting him over the head with an iron skillet, as my father was engaged in hand to hand combat, where my father was losing the fight. My father and his fox hole partner were sleeping when my father told us how he felt what he thought was his partner’s knee in his side. He soon realized that they were both laying, side by side, and it would be impossible for his partner to have his knee pushed into his side, and he “peeked” to see if he could discover who or what it was pushing into his side. What my father witnessed was the young Japanese soldier withdrawing his bayonet from the Airman’s heart laying next to him, and turning to thrust it into his. Just in time my father reach up as the blade of the bayonet was coming down towards his heart, and grasp it, slicing his left hand. The Japanese soldier then tried to use his rifle to strike at my father’s unprotected head. My father grabbed the rifle with his free hand and yelled for help and his first Sergeant came to the rescue and saved my father who was running out of strength as his wound was deep in his hand and thumb, causing pain that would soon have allowed his attacker to win the battle between the two. For some reason all of us children wanted to hear that story every year, as we all remembered those who not only died, but all those who served. My father would never allow us to only remember the dead, dying, wounded and mentally tortured, but all those who were willing to give the same, if called on, as to my father, and then to all of us siblings, would come to understand that even though many gave their lives, the same courage it took to give their lives were in each of those who wore our countries military uniforms and went to any of the wars our country was drawn into. Regardless whether your were or are against any of the wars this country participated in, no one can deny the patriots heroic selfless acts of not giving into their personal fears, but were ready to sacrifice their own life should that decision be made by a power greater than any of us will ever understand. How can any American ever think of not “Remembering” any or all of them, those who died, or those who fought but for whatever reason, survived and are alive to tell the stories of those who can’t. Their gift to us should not be forgotten because no one wants to tell the stories of the horrors of war, the pain of losing someone or having them return to us and remind us of war’s evil by their missing limbs, the blindness due to wounds of war, or the troubled and tortured minds as to what they witnessed or relentless fears all of us felt, only some felt it more than others, but all of us felt it.

My father lived long enough to see all four of his sons and one grandson enlist into one of our military services, one in the Navy, in the medical field as an officer, three of us into the United States Army Security Agency (USASA), later to be renamed the United States Army Intelligence and Security Command (INSCOM), and his grandson (my son, Milton F Gregory III). My brother Mike would serve under me in East Africa, Asmara Ethiopia, go to Vietnam, get out of the Army, go to college, survive ROTC, come back into serve as an officer, and would go through the advanced intelligence school the same time as I did, retire and continue as a contractor at Ft. Huachuca AZ, prior to his succumbing to his second heart attack October 25th, 2001 to join our mom, buried at Arlington National Cemetery, where my father would finally join them August of 2007, after passing May 20th, 2007. My dad, his four sons, and my son, provided the country we love with over 136 years of active duty service. I remember my brother Mike calling me one afternoon from his house in Sierra Vista, AZ and said as I answered, “Milt, I just called to say goodbye and that I love you” When I asked what he was talking about, he just said, “This is the big one Milt, and I won’t see you again so, just know I love you, please let the rest of the family know that I love them all”, and I was on a plane within a couple of hours, but I was too late. I would take him off life support five days later and then comfort my father, who could not believe that the many time he came close to death during the war, he would be burring one of his sons. My father, like any good soldier, went into his son’s, my brother’s, room before they took him off to take the organs they could use, as Mike was an organ donor, and together we stood at attention, along with my other two brothers, and gave Mike the salute he so well deserved. It was my father who took us in to give him his “Military salute”, something only my dad could think of at a time like that, but it meant a lot to him and so that is a memory the rest of us would have and remain a moment where tears shed were tears of proud American Soldiers, saying farewell not to just their son and brother, but a fellow soldier, all who love their country, always willing to never be ashamed to display that pride, even in their grief. That was something my hero taught us, and at my brother’s passing, reminded us, as he always did while he was drawing a breath while living and now in his memory, from his grave. Yes, my father was, is and will always be my hero. Sharing that spot will forever be my brothers and son, who continue to serve, not wearing their uniforms, but as contractors in the Intelligence community. My son and one brother still are serving with the military they love so much, just as civilians. I guess they just could not take being too far away from their fellow soldiers. If I could I could continue to do the same, but as a housebound 100% disabled vet, I can only hope to contribute by helping others never to forget just how wonderful our soldiers are and that they should never be forgotten. I know we remember our fallen on Memorial Day, but one day a year is and will never be enough. We should remember them, all of them, those who are no longer with us here on earth, but those who continue to defend and protect our nation by saying a prayer for them every day. So many are in harm’s way, so many willing to give so much to that we all can enjoy the American dream.

In closing I guess it’s not just my father who is my hero, I could not end without including my brothers and of course my son. But then, as much as those I know and love are my heroes, each member of any of the services, military forces, where we all share a common cause of defending, protecting, and honoring the country that we all love, each are all of our heroes and we should never forget to remember the on Memorial Day, but we should always include them in our daily prayers. Never pass up an opportunity to shake their hand, say hello, buy them a meal, just acknowledge them, as they are America’s finest, the best of what we have, and they are the only thing that stands between our freedom and those who would deprive us of that freedom. So yes, love them, hug them, and never, ever forget them! And I still can’t say goodbye dad, Mike, and my son Wayne. Guess I never will.