Captain Wendell L. (Lee) Brown was born September 8, 1941, in Greenwood, South Carolina. As a pilot in the Air Force, he served as an Issue (radio call sign) Forward Air Controller (FAC) and flew out of Chu Chi in Hau Nghia Province, South Vietnam. He was assigned to the 19th Tactical Air Support Squadron, supporting the 25th Infantry Division. During take-off, he crashed four miles southwest of Chu Chi. His co-pilot, First Lieutenant Jose Hector Ortiz, was also killed. Lee, my father, was twenty-eight years old and married with three children. My sister, Dianne, was fifty-seven days old, which is the saddest fact of all.
My birthday is September 9, the day after my father’s. I think I connect September and our birthdays with his loss. Throughout my life, I heard, “You’re smart, just like your father.” He was always at the top of his class, including Chinese Language School at Yale University and pilot and military training. He was awarded USAF Pilot Wings, The Purple Heart Medal, The Air Medal with Multiple Oak Leaf Clusters, The Vietnam Service Medal, The Republic of Vietnam Campaign Service Medal, The National Defense Service Medal, and The Good Conduct Medal for his military service.
I’m friends with a few Vietnam Veterans. Don Nau, his buddy, says he was known as “Brownie” and a brother. He said in Vietnam, FAC meant “badass.” This fact didn’t sit well with me at first. But I’m sure that Dad didn’t mindlessly sign up to die. He did what he needed to do and passionately. Dad gave everything to the cause and paid the price. He wasn’t alone. I thank him and all the other men and women who have served and sacrificed for us.
Dad loved Mom completely. I’ve listened to his recorded love letters to her on cassette. I heard his voice on those tapes telling me to be good, care for my brother, and play piano for fun. His Southern accent always surprises me. If he’d lived, I wonder if I would have one too.
Dad died when I was five years old. After he died, I wondered for many years when he was coming back. They told me “his plane got shot down” and “he’s in heaven now,” but I still waited. Mom remarried in 1973. After that, we called my stepfather, Dad, and Dad, Daddy Lee. I thought naming my stepfather, Dad, was a huge betrayal. Until I was a parent, I didn’t see the hole Dad would have left without Wayne’s love, support, and guidance. That recognition grows deeper and deeper as I age. I had nightmares that Daddy Lee would return and be upset about Mom remarrying. I imagine someone talked to me about how completely wrong these ideas were, but I didn’t believe them. It comforted me to think he was alive, even if he couldn’t make it home.
I thought I missed him for a long time because we were born close together. We had a special bond, and he took me everywhere. Even though he died when I was five, we had unique and memorable experiences. I’m grateful for those memories. They keep him alive.
Dad took me to the airport to watch the Thunderbirds, the Air Force version of the Blue Angels, practice. I remember they were loud. He took us up with him to fly on Sunday. My brother screamed most of the time because his ears hurt. He was too small to chew gum.
Dad rode a motorcycle. One afternoon, we rode together to buy clothes pins and bring them back from the store for Mom. Dad drove his bike into the backyard under the clothesline. When he stopped the bike, I handed him the bag of clothespins. It was mostly empty. Still sitting on the bike, he turned around and laughed when he saw the trail of clothespins behind us.
A Volkswagen bus almost ran him over on his motorcycle. In my parent’s bedroom, sitting on the bed, the one with the blue-satin bedspread, he showed us the stitches in his thigh. My brother, who was probably two then, ran around screaming, “Spiders, spiders.” He was terrified.
We went to a Rattlesnake Rodeo in Texas. If I listen, I can hear the sound of those rattles here in my bedroom. This type of rodeo includes captured wild rattlesnakes, which they sell, display, and often kill for food or to create snakeskin. When we walked into the main building at the rodeo, on the left side, a man stood in a pit filled with wood shavings surrounded by plexiglass walls. He held a rattlesnake in one hand and a mesh-covered cup in the other. The rattlesnake lunged for the cup and bit down, releasing its venom. The cowboys captured the venom to make anti-venom. The pit occupied a small portion of the room. The main attraction was a giant skillet the size of a pool table, frying tons of snakes. “Do you want to try some snake?” Dad asked. Both Mom and I said, “No way!”
Dad took me to the desert to shoot tin cans with a revolver. It was a pearl-handled revolver in a leather holster. Today, it’s in my mom’s closet. I saw it more than once while liberating her clothes for personal use. He let me “help” him shoot a can. I stood in front of him. I held the handle with two hands. He put his hands on mine and pulled the trigger. The gun was heavy, and when we missed, he laughed.
Dad said on a visit to the Grand Canyon, “I want to ride the trolley.” Mom said, “I’m not riding that thing.” So Dad said, “I want to take Lora with me.” After thinking a minute, Mom said, “Okay.”
I don’t remember going to the beach as a child. Pictures show that we went regularly. We lived on the Florida coast. Visiting the beach was routine, so I guess they didn’t register as memorable. Even so, I feel more peaceful, safe, and content at a quiet beach than anywhere else—watching waves, smelling the salt air, and feeling sand between my toes. The ocean can restore my faith in humanity and God.
What a gift to have such memories! For a long time, I thought they weren’t real. They were outside the realm of my experience growing up in West Virginia. Mom says she was at home cooking and caring for my brother, so my memories are secrets between Dad and me.
Dad was missing the fear chromosome. I think it’s touching he wanted me with him. Although I’ve been raising children for twenty-eight years, it has never occurred to me to allow them to ride motorcycles, shoot pistols, or do anything involving rattlesnakes or any kind of snakes. But I was raised differently at a different time. I’m not a Southerner. Mom says they raise Southern boys to protect and serve their families and country. Still, I’m eternally grateful for these vivid memories. Experiences that do not fade with time.
For information on grief therapy and PTSD, see Grief Therapy: All You Need to Know on PsychCentral or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from the National Institute of Mental Health.