Every morning during my ride in to work I travel east on Olympic Boulevard. After crossing Normandie, I look northward, allowing myself a momentary glimpse of the upper portion of the Ambassador Hotel located on Wilshire. This brief sighting did not come about accidentally but rather was quite intentional, for some time back I had calculated that there should be one or more points on Olympic where a person can spot the now aging LA landmark. There are, in fact, two such spots, the second being at the corner of Fedora Street.
So why do I this? Why do I actually take the time to glance from afar at this particular building whenever possible?
For those unmindful of history, it was at the Ambassador Hotel where on June 5, 1968, following victory in the California primary, Senator Robert F. Kennedy was shot multiple times by Sirhan Sirhan. Mortally wounded, Kennedy was rushed to nearby Good Samaritan Hospital, where he died the following day. He was 42 years old.
Somewhat gruesome though it sounds, part of me wishes I had taken the time three years back to determine -- to the day -- when I would have been the exact same age Kennedy was upon his passing. My reason for this is tinged with regret, for if there is a single figure in history to whom I find myself drawn it is Robert Kennedy, and while many – and for good reason -- still mourn the loss of his more famous brother, in my mind, “Bobby” is the more fascinating of the two, if for no other reason than that he showed the glowing promise residing within individual change.
In numerous biographies, a younger Kennedy is frequently portrayed as a ruthless pit bull of a man, both while serving as campaign manager for his older brother and later as U.S. Attorney General. His own father once boasted, “When Bobby hates you, you stay hated."
But time changes things. And people. Tempered by the tragedy of Dallas, the realization of his own culpability in the quagmire that Vietnam was becoming, and perhaps the wisdom that comes with age, Kennedy began to blossom, both as man and politician. This is never more evident than during an extemporaneous speech he gave on April 4, 1968, informing an unknowing Indianapolis audience of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. In a somber voice echoing the pain of his own loss from November of 1963, Kennedy -- in what I believe to be his finest hour -- called anew for "love and wisdom, and compassion toward one another, and a feeling of justice toward those who still suffer within our country," asking this of a society torn once again by the very same violence that would bring about his own death two months later at, yes, the Ambassador Hotel.
Whenever I see this now sad looking structure, I experience not only the stir of regret over the passing of a man seemingly on the road to greatness, but an undeniable tug deep within, warning me that in many ways we are either losing or, worse, forsaking the understanding and compassion of which Robert Kennedy so eloquently spoke. Perhaps this is the inevitable result of the brave, new post 9/11 world in which we find ourselves, or maybe we've been on this path all along, only too self-absorbed and fearful to recognize it. Either way, I now feel that far too many Americans are losing touch with what Robert Kennedy fundamentally believed in: that we, as individuals and as a nation, are by and large good, and that from that goodness lies the cure to whatever ails us, both at home and abroad.
The Ambassador has thus become my talisman and, though fence-enclosed, it is there for my eyes to see, if only briefly, each weekday morning as I begin my day. In all its near-dilapidated glory, it reminds me of what one man longed for us to become and what I still hope we might one day be.
When eulogized by his brother, Ted Kennedy spoke of this by quoting something Robert F. Kennedy frequently uttered: “Some men see things as they are and say why? I dream things that never were and say why not?”
BILL
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
ESSAY: Who is Joseph Puggi?
Who is Joseph Puggi? Middle name: David. Born: November 26, 1946. Hometown: Pleasantville, New Jersey.
So who is he and why am I writing about him?
Last year, during the start of the Iraq War, I read an op-ed piece in the Los Angeles Times written by one Philip Caputo. It was entitled “The Smell of War,” and in it he lashed out at the Bush Administration, asserting that “You don't attack another nation that has not attacked you and that does not pose an imminent threat to your national security or vital national interests.” The actual smell of war, of course, being those unforgettable smells the likes of which one can only imagine, all of them culled from the writer’s firsthand memories of war, up close as an Infantryman in Vietnam as well as from his many years spent as a war correspondent. With a single article, Philip Caputo knocked me off my fence and convinced me that the United States was wrong in declaring war on Iraq.
But this piece isn’t about Iraq; it’s about… Joseph Puggi.
I knew that when Philip Caputo, who volunteered into the Marines so he could fight in Vietnam, returned to the United States, bitter and disillusioned, he poured out his litany of dark tales of what it was like to fight in Southeast Asia, entitling his work “A Rumor of War.” It was a critical success, was turned into a mini-series, and is the finest book I’ve ever read on what it was like to be a soldier fighting on the ground in Vietnam.
But what does all this have to do with Joseph Puggi?
After reading Caputo’s book, and being given a glimpse as to how the adage “war is hell” was born, I had a newfound appreciation for the soldiers who had fought not only in Vietnam but in any other war for that matter.
I also recalled that in the early 70’s, my mother began wearing a POW bracelet. I don’t recall exactly when she started wearing it; can’t say when she stopped. Perhaps she wore it intermittently after awhile and then stopped wearing it altogether upon concluding, quietly and to herself, that all hope was lost for the safe return of the one soldier whose name was engraved upon the bracelet she wore. That soldier, of course, was Joseph Puggi. Either way, Mom never threw it out. And how do I know that? Well, because I’m wearing it. It reads “Spec. 5 Joseph Puggi, 2-2-68.”
February 2, 1968. The day the helicopter in which he was riding crashed in a jungle 12 miles north of DaNang. Yes, Joseph Puggi went missing on February 2, 1968. More than 36 years ago. Wreckage of the chopper was found some time later along with human remains which were classified as unidentifiable but, curiously, only one ID tag was found. And it was not Joseph Puggi’s. Which of course leads to the possibility that he may have been taken prisoner.
Last summer, fresh from reading Caputo’s book, I felt obligated to contact my sister regarding this POW bracelet and, sure enough, she found it in her jewelry collection. I asked her to send it my way and the day it arrived I put it on. I plan to remove it only when a final determination has been made as to what actually happened to Joseph Puggi because I believe that is the least to which this soldier is entitled.
I wear it for a few reasons, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that one of them is to remind myself of my late mother, for I believe this bracelet represents tangible proof of her concern for others. I also wear it, of course, for Joseph Puggi, who if indeed died in that crash in 1968, would have been only 21 years old. Young enough to be my son now. I wear it as a tribute not only to him but to all soldiers who have served when their country called, no matter how they may have felt as to the moral soundness of their country’s position. No, I don’t know Joseph Puggi’s politics or whatever feelings he may have held about the Vietnam War. They don’t matter to me. What does matter is that when his nation called, Joseph Puggi answered, and in so doing gave his life. 21 years worth. So far, I’ve been given over twice that. So I wear this bracelet to remind myself of the life I have, the freedom I enjoy, and the knowledge that what I do with that freedom will, in the end, define whatever character I may or may not possess. My epitaph you might say. The type of epitaph Joseph Puggi has thus far been denied.
So who is Joseph Puggi? He is that quiet voice in the back of my mind whispering to me to make sure that I always do the right thing. And you know what? Sometimes I even listen…
BILL
So who is he and why am I writing about him?
Last year, during the start of the Iraq War, I read an op-ed piece in the Los Angeles Times written by one Philip Caputo. It was entitled “The Smell of War,” and in it he lashed out at the Bush Administration, asserting that “You don't attack another nation that has not attacked you and that does not pose an imminent threat to your national security or vital national interests.” The actual smell of war, of course, being those unforgettable smells the likes of which one can only imagine, all of them culled from the writer’s firsthand memories of war, up close as an Infantryman in Vietnam as well as from his many years spent as a war correspondent. With a single article, Philip Caputo knocked me off my fence and convinced me that the United States was wrong in declaring war on Iraq.
But this piece isn’t about Iraq; it’s about… Joseph Puggi.
I knew that when Philip Caputo, who volunteered into the Marines so he could fight in Vietnam, returned to the United States, bitter and disillusioned, he poured out his litany of dark tales of what it was like to fight in Southeast Asia, entitling his work “A Rumor of War.” It was a critical success, was turned into a mini-series, and is the finest book I’ve ever read on what it was like to be a soldier fighting on the ground in Vietnam.
But what does all this have to do with Joseph Puggi?
After reading Caputo’s book, and being given a glimpse as to how the adage “war is hell” was born, I had a newfound appreciation for the soldiers who had fought not only in Vietnam but in any other war for that matter.
I also recalled that in the early 70’s, my mother began wearing a POW bracelet. I don’t recall exactly when she started wearing it; can’t say when she stopped. Perhaps she wore it intermittently after awhile and then stopped wearing it altogether upon concluding, quietly and to herself, that all hope was lost for the safe return of the one soldier whose name was engraved upon the bracelet she wore. That soldier, of course, was Joseph Puggi. Either way, Mom never threw it out. And how do I know that? Well, because I’m wearing it. It reads “Spec. 5 Joseph Puggi, 2-2-68.”
February 2, 1968. The day the helicopter in which he was riding crashed in a jungle 12 miles north of DaNang. Yes, Joseph Puggi went missing on February 2, 1968. More than 36 years ago. Wreckage of the chopper was found some time later along with human remains which were classified as unidentifiable but, curiously, only one ID tag was found. And it was not Joseph Puggi’s. Which of course leads to the possibility that he may have been taken prisoner.
Last summer, fresh from reading Caputo’s book, I felt obligated to contact my sister regarding this POW bracelet and, sure enough, she found it in her jewelry collection. I asked her to send it my way and the day it arrived I put it on. I plan to remove it only when a final determination has been made as to what actually happened to Joseph Puggi because I believe that is the least to which this soldier is entitled.
I wear it for a few reasons, and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that one of them is to remind myself of my late mother, for I believe this bracelet represents tangible proof of her concern for others. I also wear it, of course, for Joseph Puggi, who if indeed died in that crash in 1968, would have been only 21 years old. Young enough to be my son now. I wear it as a tribute not only to him but to all soldiers who have served when their country called, no matter how they may have felt as to the moral soundness of their country’s position. No, I don’t know Joseph Puggi’s politics or whatever feelings he may have held about the Vietnam War. They don’t matter to me. What does matter is that when his nation called, Joseph Puggi answered, and in so doing gave his life. 21 years worth. So far, I’ve been given over twice that. So I wear this bracelet to remind myself of the life I have, the freedom I enjoy, and the knowledge that what I do with that freedom will, in the end, define whatever character I may or may not possess. My epitaph you might say. The type of epitaph Joseph Puggi has thus far been denied.
So who is Joseph Puggi? He is that quiet voice in the back of my mind whispering to me to make sure that I always do the right thing. And you know what? Sometimes I even listen…
BILL
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