This was printed circa 1996 in the Clemson World Mag, nearly 26 years ago. There are times when the greatest of people pass through your life and you do not even know it. I was fortunate.

A few weeks ago I received the Clemson World magazine that seems to find me everywhere I go. Having been a married student most of my college years, I didn't have the great number of friends that fraternities and other organizations can create, but I gave it the usual scan just in case someone I remembered made the news. A quick look verified that nobody I knew died or became a parent, and then I saw the article entitled "Answering the Call" about Clemson's World War II participants. Something was familiar about one of the young men pictured in the piece, so I read on. The story was interesting enough, recounting patriotism by members of the Clemson Family, but when I read the experience of Professor Skardon during and after the Bataan Death March, lightning struck.

The article told of hardship, sacrifice and heroism, things that the participants don't often speak of themselves. Dr. Skardon had written a few lines describing for public consumption what was surely private horror. He told briefly of the deprivations of being a POW during the Second World War, and how his life was preserved at the hands of his friends. Being a veteran of a different war, I knew that he had summarized the experience, leaving the more unsavory parts for his own reflection in the still of the night.

Either I looked pretty rough as I stepped up to register as a sophomore in January of 1972, or my face told something. I had only been absent from Clemson for two years, but those two had soured me on lines, and dealing with anything remotely bureaucratic. By now my hair had grown a little longer, in keeping with the trends, and I'm sure my blue jeans were properly ragged. I wore a green army jacket that day, much like the ones that could be purchased surplus at any army store and seen all across campus. The difference was, my fatigue jacket had been issued to me. Several patches were sewn on, identifying the units in which I had served. On the front above the left pocket was a combat infantry badge, a long rifle outlined in black with an olive drab background. Commonly referred to as a CIB, it was awarded to infantrymen who had been under fire. Of all the commendations a grunt could receive, this one usually meant the most.

Some people wore army jackets as an expression of disdain for our country's waning military involvement in Southeast Asia. To most folks, it was just an inexpensive way to keep warm while dressing down. My fatigue jacket kept me warm, but also served as a periodic reminder of a defining time in my life. I had come back to school that year a much more liberal thinker than I had left, also in keeping with the times. This was quite a shift from my politics of several years earlier, when I had hooted and jeered at students holding a candlelight vigil for the slain. "Pinko Commies!" we had shouted. These days I mostly just kept to myself, quietly observing the changes that had taken place and inwardly trying to balance it all.

That's why it surprised me a little when the man sitting across the table signing students up for class stopped what he was doing and studied me for a moment. He seemed more interested in me than all the others, a sure sign that some hassle was about to develop. "Why me?" I thought. After several penetrating moments, this representative of the establishment spoke. "Young man," he asked, pointing to the rifle on my coat, "did you earn that badge?" How many responses passed through my mind just then, I can't remember. Judging from my general attitude at the time, the dominant one probably was, "who wants to know?" or "what's it to you?" At that time I wasn't ready to open any friendly avenues of discussion, particularly with strangers who couldn't relate. Nevertheless, my respectful southern upbringing carried the instant and I answered, "yes sir." He stood up, still looking me in the eye, and reached his hand across the table that separated us. "Then I would like to shake your hand," he said softly. Nothing else was said that I recall. I returned both his handshake and his gaze firmly, and then filled out the punch cards that would enter me into classes.

Several college years passed, and before I knew it I had earned a degree in management. More years were spent following job opportunities and career changes across the country and back. Almost twenty four years after re-entering Clemson, my politics have migrated much farther right than I ever would have supposed, I am still trying to find balance in some things, and it amazes me at how long it can take for certain important lessons to sink in. When I recognized that the young man in the picture was Professor Ben Skardon, I realized it was he who had offered me his hand on registration day.

My generation returned from answering our country's call with many of us wondering at our homecoming. Besides "welcome home" written on the chamber of commerce signboard, little else was said that indicated our nation's gratitude one way or the other. As we re-entered society, there were times when it seemed that nobody appreciated our contribution, and for years I questioned whether anybody could relate to our sacrifice. It took nearly a quarter of a century, but I finally discovered that there was at least one who did.