Life has an interesting way of playing out for some among us. On this Memorial Day I remember two of my fallen countrymen.

James Hitchcock:

He was my first cousin and one of three siblings in his family, the youngest son to George and Joanne Hitchcock of Running Springs, CA. Jimmy was born in 1951 and lived with his alcoholic parents, an older sister Polly, and their older brother Frederick, in this mountain town of about one hundred. Later this family moved to San Bernardino, CA, but this was where the formative years played out for my cousins.

My Aunt Joanne was a dedicated beer drinker who could hold down a barstool with the best of them. Uncle George, a WWII veteran who survived, among other notable campaigns, the Battle of the Bulge, an employee of California Department of Transportation, would drink beer like water until a predetermined time arrived (he was the only one who actually knew when that was) he would commence drinking bourbon in copious quantities. He and my Aunt each smoked more than two packs of Camel cigarettes during an average day and it’s a wonder anyone could breath in that smoke-filled house of theirs.

But more than the drinking, the smoking, and the bar stool sitting; George and Joanne were monumental fighters! They fought when they were drinking or simply just to break the silence! For a trio of impressionable youth this was a terrible way to grow up. So, when they were old enough to figure out their own preferred mechanism, each of those Hitchcock kids began to self-medicate.

Freddy drank, Polly ate, and Jimmy got into an assortment of drug use, starting with Marijuana.

Jim’s pot experiences took him into freelance sales, and soon he was the target of a sting operation where low-level dealers were identified and arrested.

Conviction for trafficking was automatic, considering he was arrested with nearly five pounds of pot and several thousands of dollars cash on his person the day he was picked up. The sentencing in those days (1969) was one of multiple choices. In short, Jimmy could go to state prison for several years, or he could voluntarily join the United States Marine Corp and serve his country as a free man. He chose the Marines!

I asked him later why that seemed like the better of the options and his answer surprised me. He told me he knew the Corp would be tough, but it couldn’t be any worse than what he’d grown up with at home, and the prospect of being locked up in prison was more terrifying than being beat up in boot camp or killed in battle somewhere.

In 1969 a marine was just about certain to be heading to Vietnam once he finished up at the M.C.R.D. in San Diego, and a short stay at Camp Pendleton, CA. A 50-caliber machine gunner he became and onto a small riverboat he was assigned. The life expectancy of a riverboat machine gunner was calculated in minutes as opposed to days. It was a very dangerous assignment and he definitely felt he would not return home alive.

But, he did survive and he did come home. He didn’t, however, give up his penchant for drug use. Once back in the U.S. he continued his old drug habits, and also joined a motorcycle gang, which effectively replaced his fighting parents with guys who lived to fight. Things were definitely spiraling downward very quickly for Jimmy Hitchcock.

Then, at a party one night in 1972, in the most ironic stroke of his young life, a rival gang member stabbed my cousin Jimmy to death. He had survived one of the most dangerous assignments of the Vietnam War only to come home and be killed on the mean streets of San Bernardino, CA.

Stanley Behm:

The Behm family (pronounced; “Beem”) was a quiet three-some of Seventh-day-Adventists. Father was a Korean War vet who served in the United States Navy. Dick Behm was a strict father and a loving husband. Stanley was one of the nicest kids I knew while growing up. His mother was a dear friend to my mom and we would visit their home a couple times a month.

Although Stanley was five years older than me, he always made me feel welcome despite our age difference. He allowed me to play with his toys, some of them containing many small parts and pieces, without concern that I would loose or break any due to my age. That was something older boys never did, especially when everything we had in the 1950’s were cherished treasures. I considered Stan Behm a rarity and someone who would do very well in life because of his warm personality and gracious way.

He attended Adventist school his entire elementary and high school years. I always wondered what a private school education would have been like, and how it felt to live in a neighborhood and not go to school with the kids on your own street. But Stan had no problem getting along, partly because he played Little League Baseball, and partly because he could get along with anyone, and everyone thought he was great kid.

Then, in 1968 he received a letter from Uncle Sam instructing him to report for his pre-induction physical to be conducted in L.A. as preparation to be brought into the United States Army. However, due to his religious beliefs, he considered himself unable to participate as a regular soldier, and the Army must have agreed because, instead of issuing his a rifle, they trained him as a field medic.

In 1968 Stanley Behm was sent to Vietnam and served as a battlefield corpsman. Running to the aid of a wounded soldier, sometimes witnessing their last breath, and often hearing their last words or cries. Stan was in the thick of this war.

Tall and blonde, gentle and kind, a conscientious objector, Stanley Behm died in Vietnam as a result of a head wound. His parents never recovered from the news of the death of their only child.

Welcome home, Stanley.

R.I.P. Jimmy

By: Greg Calac