Joe Belardo is my friend. He was an Army Sergeant assigned to the 1st Battalion, 44th Artillery (“Dusters”). His unit was attached to the 3d Marine Division at the height of the Vietnam War and responsible for body recovery under Marine control. This story below is his.
When I was young, my Uncle John would take me to visit his mother, Grandmom Perrucci. We would sit in the dining room and have cookies and milk, laugh and joke, but our conversation would always turn to a picture hanging over the mantle of her son, Anthony, who was killed on Omaha Beach. To the left of the picture was a Blue Star and to the right a Gold Star. We would stay for about an hour and I listened intently to her stories about her son’s life. Even as a young boy I knew the reason for the visits: I looked like Anthony and she needed my hugs.
Like many young Americans, when the call came, I served my country and joined the military. I became a Combat Team Leader on a crazy tank-like weapon called a “Duster.” I don’t know why, but I volunteered my crew for body recovery. We were given a few days of training by our Army medic and the Marine corpsman. Our mission now, in addition to fighting the enemy, was to recover wounded and killed in action.
It was hard duty and one that has always troubled me. As the team leader of a five-man crew, it was my job to attend to the severely wounded, the ones tagged by our medic or the marine corpsman as beyond saving. Holding them close, I asked their names and where they were from. I assured them they would be okay as I gave shots of morphine to ease their pain. Being a Jersey boy, our short conversations took me across America’s Heartland. In the few short minutes, these dying soldiers told me about their mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. They told me their girlfriends’ names and the names of their pets. One guy had a pet pig named Burt. Another had a dog named Ralph. One guy even had a pet rooster. I eased their pain. I promised them everything on earth and that someday, somehow I would deliver their message. While I can’t remember their names, I do remember the eyes of those I held tight in my arms.
Searching for a Connection
Whenever I meet a Gold Star Mom or Dad, Sister, or Brother, the first thing I look at is their eyes, hoping for a connection to my past. When I speak for my dying soldiers, I tell family members that the dying soldiers I held in my arms always ended their lives with two simple messages: Tell them I’ll be okay. Tell them I love them.
In 2023 I was the keynote speaker at the Traveling Wall in Califon, New Jersey. At the end of my speech, I was approached by an elderly couple in their 90s who were accompanied by a couple in my age range along with their six adult children. The elderly women said, we’ve been looking for you for over 50 years. I had no idea who these people were or why they wanted to talk with me. As the woman held both my hands, she introduced me to her family. With tears running down her face and now holding me close she whispered in my ear, you were with my son on the day he died in Vietnam. His Marine friend said you would be speaking here today, and we wanted to meet you. I was not prepared for this and had no words of wisdom to express. We just stood facing each other. Tears flowing down our cheeks, looking into each other’s eyes. My mind kept asking, Do I know this woman? Do I know these eyes? This man of steel just started to fall apart and cry hysterically. As my world was melting and my brain frying, the father joined in on the group hug and squeezed me really tight and said, only you would know my son Jim’s dog was named Ralph. Thank you for taking care of him. No words can express how I felt that day and how heartwarming it was to meet Jim’s family. They wanted to know everything that happened that day and Jim and Ralph are now a permanent part of my memories. Jim’s family needed closure and I was able to give it.
