It happened 40 years ago. But I can still feel the knot in my heart when I recall learning that Tommy Bennett had been killed in Vietnam. Suddenly, a distant war that had been an impersonal news event became searingly personal.
With the Nov. 5 massacre at Fort Hood, Texas, a distant war once again was brought home. And, just like 40 years ago, I was reminded of Tommy Bennett.
Some explaining is in order. Tommy Bennett and I attended high school together. Well-liked by everyone, Tommy was one of those people that always smiled wherever you saw him — in the hallway, on the practice field, in the cafeteria. It wasn’t a phony smile, either. In the image-conscious, façade-conducive world of high school, Tommy was a real person, a breath of fresh West Virginia air. The numbing news that he had drawn his last breath on the killing fields of Vietnam buckled my knees.
I couldn’t have known it that day, of course, but the story of Tommy Bennett was not over. Rather, a year later, on April 7, 1970 –– his 23rd birthday –– President Nixon presented Tommy’s parents with the Medal of Honor. It was awarded to him posthumously for “conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity.” Serving as a noncombatant medic, Tommy had shown extraordinary courage by rescuing wounded comrades under heavy fire before he himself was mortally wounded. Later, I learned he was only the second conscientious objector ever to receive the Medal of Honor.
After that, Tommy’s legacy as an authentic American hero was secure. His name is invoked with pride by his hometown and state. On its web site, our high school lists him as one of its “accomplished” alumni. And, in 2002, the W. Va. state legislature named a sizeable bridge across the Monongahela River in Tommy’s honor, marked by an impressive plaque that I rejoice to see whenever I get a chance to visit our hometown.
Now, Tommy’s name and (I’d like to think) his spirit have reappeared in the midst of another misbegotten war, albeit this time as irony. It happened as I was researching Major Nidal Hasan’s deadly rampage last month at Fort Hood. In the process of looking for clues, I stumbled across the existence of a primary-care clinic at Fort Hood; it’s part of the medical facility where Major Hasan worked as a psychiatrist. Its name: The Bennett Health Clinic. Could it be, I wondered? Sure enough, the clinic is a memorial, dedicated in Tommy’s name when it opened in 1997. And it happens to be located just down the street from where Major Hasan cruelly killed 13 people and wounded 30 more.
No doubt, a memorial of some sort will permanently mark the spot of the Hasan massacre just as the Bennett Clinic memorializes its moral opposite, an act of remarkable courage and selflessness. Honestly, though, I’m not sure what to make of the surprising juxtaposition of such morally disparate events and the individuals that gave rise to them.
In case you’re thinking it, “coincidence” won’t fly. Aside from being no explanation at all, an assumption of randomness in the Hasan-Bennett dyad trivializes the mystery of good and evil. Surely, we can do better than that at a time when despair is rampant and hope is in short supply. We owe it to ourselves to seek trajectories in unlikely and perplexing events that can provide on-ramps to a more promising future.
Lessons, though, exist in the pairing of these two events and the men behind them.
First, the obvious: the rippling costs of war through time, in broken societies, broken bodies and — quite plausibly in Major Hasan’s case — broken minds, far, far exceed even their horrendous price tags when measured in dollars and cents. To end this greatest of human follies, we don’t need better leaders. We need better citizens. Until you and I demand that war be renounced as a tool for resolving conflict, we will continue to breed conditions that fuel the Nidal Hasans and destroy the Tommy Bennetts of this world.
Second, the not-so-obvious: the rippling power through time of one good life, however brief, cannot be measured. Consider this: As a conscientious objector, Tommy Bennett did not have to be inducted into the military. Instead, he volunteered to serve as a medic but refused to use weapons. He gave his life trying to save those who did. Serving at the front lines, he worked himself to death to pull his comrades back, literally, from the brink of war’s hell. His sacrifice gave us a metaphor for how war itself can be ended: It will take the life-risking valor of people of conscience to drag us back from its gaping abyss.
Barack Obama, please take note as you seize ownership of the godforsaken war in Afghanistan. Tommy Bennett did his part. Now, in the name of all that’s good, do yours: pull us back from the damnation of war. If you do, you might lose your job; that’s politics. But, in exchange, you will have restored the audacity to hope for a better world. What’s more, I’ll bet we could get a clinic named for you.