Capt.
William A. Branch
The
Greatest Man I Never Knew
In a black Army footlocker kept
in the attic, the treasures of my artist father were found. His
paintbrushes were brittle and decaying. His medals lay neatly in their
presentation boxes. His pipes lined up like tired soldiers. There
were musty letters, crumbling art gum erasers, black and white photos and inks
drying up in colorful tubes. These were the poignant reminders that a
creative soul had once lived in the midst of war and death. And I could
not remember his smile.
I lived without him for the first half of my life. Vietnam was the word
we only whispered. I was very small when he died on what was to be his
last mission over Dau Tieng, a place I couldn't find on a map. I could
not put to words, the angry images that filled my young heart. Twisted
metal. Machine gun fire. A yellowed telegram. I longed to
see my mother miss him, but I could not bear to ask her to go back. I
had always known how he died. What I wanted was to know how he lived,
and how he loved. I have spent my lifetime exploring his attic.
This is the story of my search.
I drove up GA 400 at
eighteen, and entered
North Georgia College,
the military school where my parents first met. I went on a scholarship
named after him. I found that same name etched in stone on a memorial
there and at once all my roads led to granite, shining and solid.
On campus, I saw his green uniform every day. I heard his deep voice
call cadence through the mountains in the morning. I felt his presence
in the proud sounds of taps each night. I found his drawings in the old
yearbooks. Professors and alumni remembered him well. Creative
spirit. Military bearing. "Hey little girl don't forget me."
In dreams. In crowded rooms. In faded photos of my mother
smiling...happier than I had ever seen. Boyd, Mitchiner, Scholes, Lord.
These were the men who first outlined the man. This was the place that
made me feel like my father's child.
Now I am meeting
the men who were with him in Vietnam. Esler, Levy, Gorman, Shields.
There are too many to name. They watched his back during combat.
They touch his name in Washington.
They call him "the good captain." They tell me that he cared about his
men. That his maps were detailed and amazing. That his artist's
eye helped gather the intelligence others failed to see. Many say he's
responsible for getting them home. They tell me of a decorated soldier
and a wise leader. A man who honored life. Silver star, Bronze
star, Purple hearts. They say he had good instinct, a quick wit.
They say I can be proud.
The hero they remember is
just a man though . . . an honorable man who loved my mother and my country
deeply. Maybe that is what heroes are. The photos I have of him
holding me are treasures. His loving letters to my mother are really
gifts to me. Lessons on how a man should treat a woman. The day I
heard his voice on reel-to-reel, it felt so soothing and soft. Like I
had heard it a thousand times in my heart. Strange familiar. He
loved this country enough to protect it. He loved me enough to leave me
a legacy I can be proud of. As I outlive him, I am in awe of him . . .
that quiet, creative man who was my father.
We buried him thirty years ago on June 19th at Fort Benning. Just a few
years before the U.S. pulled out of Saigon. More than a decade before I
watched the Berlin Wall crumble. This Father's Day, Mom and I will say
goodbye together at The Vietnam Veteran's Memorial in Washington, with
hundreds of other families affected by that war. Vietnam is not the word
we will whisper anymore. Death kills only people, not relationships.
Not legacies. Not heroes. Hello Dad, remember me? I will
remember you.
1st Tour Photos: Advisory Team 99 2nd Bn 46th ARVN 66-67 in Duc Hoa
2nd Tour Photos: 2nd Bn 14th Inf, 25th Inf Div 69-70 in Dau Tieng
Details about the crash
Places that remember Dad well... Memorials
There is much to be learned
from war. Take a moment to sign in, speak your heart or pass on your
story. Be proud and not sorry. If you are a veteran . . . welcome
home. You answered the call my father also heard, and I thank you.
Your memories of that long ago time and place are lessons. If you are a
father, be a good one. Live a legacy your children can learn from . . .
it is never too late. Sincerely, Jen
Freedom and life are
precious gifts. This site is dedicated to all who have paid, to families
choosing to heal, and to those who pass the lessons on.