PFC William Stanton Blessing, USMC

 age 18, Denver, CO - 12 October 1967 (VVM Panel 27E, Row 92) Section P, Grave 1790 at Fort Logan National Cemetery, Denver, CO

 

My Brother

Dear Stan,

It is October again and the Midas touch of autumn has come to this place. The sun glows, the air snaps and a serenity fills me as I sit beside your grave and contemplate how fast the years have past since you left us…sixteen years this October. It seems like only yesterday.

Do you remember when you decided to enlist in the Marine Corps? You were grown a boy-man and that was where all the real men were…Did you know that mother cried and begged, "Please, dear God, keep him safe. I don't think we could survive without him."

Off you went to boot camp to become, "A man, a Marine," you said. Your letters were filled with a little boy's homesickness. (Mom still has all of your letters.) You missed us, you longed for our dog, you yearned for home. The day you were to take a test for engineering school, a dear John letter arrived. You almost washed out of boot camp, but your drill instructor took you under his wing, and pulled you out. With his help, you got into a special unit, "the elite of the Corps," you wrote. The time came for you to graduate from boot camp. Mom, Dad, and our sister Kelly flew out for the ceremony. Much to my regret, I was unable to attend.

You came home on leave that Christmas. That was the last Christmas we had together. My husband picked you up at the depot on Christmas Eve and you had hidden all day. You had wanted to surprise us and boy did you! First, me at work. Sneaking up behind me and saying, "Hey, lady how about a ride?" The dirty look I gave you because I didn't recognize you. How you had changed, had grown into a Marine. We laughed and I cried. You picked me up and swung me around.

Oh Stan, my heart aches with the joy of our memories and the precious moments that we shared that Christmas. You shopped for just the right gifts for everyone. You totally surprised Mom, Dad and Kelly as you walked through the door. All your friends visited you. The time passed as sand falling through a sieve.

Back you went to the Corps to learn how to ski. Your job was to patrol the Russian border. Finland was graced with your presence. The months passed and you were back in the states. Finally you were 18, old enough to volunteer for Vietnam and that is what you did. Home again - your last leave. Did we all secretly know you were not coming back? Did you? Is that why you packed all your things away and erased all the tapes of your voice? We learned later that you told all of your friends goodbye, telling them that you would not see them again. Home again all too briefly - too brief to give you a lifetime of love.

Vietnam, that hell hole, after three days in Okinawa you had arrived. Your letters described heat, sand and loneliness. "How strange," you wrote, "to see sand everywhere and no sea."

October, Mom was home. Two men in uniform came to the door. "Mrs. Blessing, may we come in?"

(Oh God, not - not my son.)
"Mrs. Blessing, we regret to inform you…"
(Oh Lord, not my son.)
One officer goes to Dad's work.
"Mr. Blessing, may I talk to you privately?"
"Tell me here!" (Oh dear Jesus, not Stan.)
"Mr. Blessing, I regret to inform you…"

Dad and my grandmother at my front door pounding.
(Stan, oh Lord, not my brother.)

The shock, the loss, shot through us all. Then, two weeks of agonized waiting. Waiting for them to send you back to us in a box, they had lost your body. During that time we cried, laughed, remembered, and prayed. The people that came - your friends, our friends and relatives - all to give comfort and remember. We thought it would never end.

"Mr. And Mrs. Blessing, your son's body has arrived. The remains are unviewable."
Dad was allowed to see your foot, that's all. The casket was sealed on the day of your funeral. Your service was held in our father's church, performed by our grandfather. People came from all over, and filled the church and grounds. All came to say goodbye and to remember. Grandfather preached, "Greater love has no man than that he would lay down his life for his friends…" they played "Taps" and you were given a twenty-one gun salute. To this day, I cannot hear "Taps" without tears, without pain.

Life goes on and the pain, though constant, eases. We continue to live and to our family comes three more boys, each in his own way reminds us of you. Shannon, Kelly's son, he is almost seventeen, over six feet tall, he has your walk and your love of life. He talks about going into the service to become a man. Kenneth, my oldest son, fifteen years old and six feet tall, he has your voice. He's such a tease, like you. He talks about becoming an Air Force pilot. Eric, twelve, my youngest, has your grin and your compassion. "I want to be a Marine like Uncle Stan," he says. Your nephews, Stan, boys you would be proud of. They love you though they never knew you. "Tell us," they say, "about Uncle Stan." We tell them about you, about your love of life, your joy in giving, about your compassion for others. We try not to sanctify you because you were not a saint. You had too much zest for life to be one. The funny stories we share, the fights, the laughter. Stan, you always lived life to the fullest. You must have known there was so little time for you.

Ten years ago, Stan, I sat down to write you a letter, so I would always remember you. October is here again and it will be 26 years since your death. Vietnam is long over, and people are starting to forget, not all of us, just some. There is a whole new generation of young men who enlist in the Marines and serve around the world, Lebanon, the Persian Gulf, Somalia, they go to protect, to fight, and perhaps to die. Their families still wait at home with fear, with hope, with pride, for word of them; as we once waited for you. In remembering each young man that serves his country, and those that lay down their life, may we never forget you, my wonderful brother, Stan.


Your loving sister,
Kristi


This letter is dedicated to the memory of my brother, William Stanton Blessing, who was killed in action on October 12, 1967, in Vietnam and to all the other young men that served and died for our country.