thedrifter
04-13-07, 08:51 AM
Commentary
Back Channels | Above and beyond the call of duty
By Kevin Ferris
Inquirer Editorial Board
Richard W. Gresko, a 19-year-old Philly kid, was first nominated for the Medal of Honor on March 12, 1970, the day after he jumped on a grenade to save three other Marines.
Gresko is 56 now, living in Newtown, Bucks County. He and his wife, Katie, recently celebrated their 38th wedding anniversary. They have three daughters and two grandchildren, one about eight weeks old.
The wounds Gresko received in Vietnam made working difficult, but he kept at it. For a time he was a boilermaker, just like his grandfather, and he worked other jobs until the mid-1990s, when he finally had to go on disability. He walks with difficulty. When the pain is overwhelming, he simply stays in bed.
The pain courses through his lower body, almost like electricity.
"The shocks go through your foot, down to your toes and your heel," he says. "Sometimes it's constant. It's very strong, very draining. But you've got to live, and I can't give up."
For a variety of reasons, all petty and bureaucratic when weighed against his sacrifice, he never did get that medal. He was awarded the Navy Cross, but only after the military took six years to reject him for the Medal of Honor.
Gresko never made a fuss, but others have worked on his behalf. Most recently, the case has been pursued diligently by two Marine combat veterans: Jerry Jonas, a columnist for the Bucks County Courier Times, and Dan Fraley, the county's veterans affairs director.
The two vets have been dismayed at how easily paperwork is ignored and misplaced, how appeals that take years to pull together are quickly dismissed, and even how arbitrary the system is.
For example, why a Navy Cross for Gresko when Medals of Honor often are given for the same actions he took? One medal-winner, a Marine in Vietnam, jumped on a grenade to save his buddies on the same night Gresko was wounded. The most recent Medal of Honor in the Iraq war went to Cpl. Jason Dunham, who died after leaping on a grenade to save fellow Marines. Well-deserved honors, but why treat Gresko differently?
Jonas and Fraley are working with U.S. Rep. Patrick Murphy to reintroduce legislation, similar to a bill sponsored by former Rep. Mike Fitzpatrick, that would help get Gresko his medal.
"This honor is long overdue, and I am going to do everything I can to make it happen," says Murphy, who plans to introduce his bill next week.
The regulations say a Medal of Honor is awarded to a person who "distinguished himself conspicuously by gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while engaged in an action against an enemy of the United States . . ."
Do those criteria apply in this case? Here is Gresko's account of that night, supplemented by eyewitness interviews conducted by Jonas and Fraley:
Gresko was part of the Combined Unit Pacification Program, which protected villages in Vietnam's Quang Nam province. Members often worked in four-man ambush teams that used flares to summon backup when needed.
On the night of March 11, 1970, the four men were Gresko, Don Hughes, Juan A. Galindo and John D. Waterman. Three of the men were facing a village, waiting for the enemy. Waterman watched the rear. The Marines were only a few feet apart from one another.
Things didn't go according to plan. The Viet Cong surprised them from behind, and Waterman started firing. Gresko turned and began shooting in the same direction. Then the enemy opened up in front, and Hughes and Galindo returned fire.
Gresko turned again, moving to his left to get a better shot. That's when he saw the grenade.
"I knew it was over," he says. "I knew my life was over."
He yelled, "Grenade!" and jumped on it. Shrapnel ripped into his face, arms and chest. His legs were blown apart. One was almost severed, and he'd later have to talk doctors out of amputating it. Both legs were split down the middle, from thigh to ankle, creating wounds so wide and deep that the skin grafts are still opening 37 years later.
Yet, he kept firing - "I had to keep the firefight going, keep my people together." And he "popped" the flares that brought reinforcements sweeping in from behind the VC.
Before he was choppered out, Gresko gave a report on the enemy's size and weapons while others tried to staunch the blood flowing from his wounds.
Today, Gresko says he made the right decision, even though his instincts told him to run.
"You have to overcome that," he says. "You know you're gonna die, but you have to protect your men. . . . Sometimes the whole is more important than the one."
This one went above and beyond. Time for the whole to do right by him.
Contact Kevin Ferris at 610-701-7629 or kf@phillynews.com.
Ellie
Back Channels | Above and beyond the call of duty
By Kevin Ferris
Inquirer Editorial Board
Richard W. Gresko, a 19-year-old Philly kid, was first nominated for the Medal of Honor on March 12, 1970, the day after he jumped on a grenade to save three other Marines.
Gresko is 56 now, living in Newtown, Bucks County. He and his wife, Katie, recently celebrated their 38th wedding anniversary. They have three daughters and two grandchildren, one about eight weeks old.
The wounds Gresko received in Vietnam made working difficult, but he kept at it. For a time he was a boilermaker, just like his grandfather, and he worked other jobs until the mid-1990s, when he finally had to go on disability. He walks with difficulty. When the pain is overwhelming, he simply stays in bed.
The pain courses through his lower body, almost like electricity.
"The shocks go through your foot, down to your toes and your heel," he says. "Sometimes it's constant. It's very strong, very draining. But you've got to live, and I can't give up."
For a variety of reasons, all petty and bureaucratic when weighed against his sacrifice, he never did get that medal. He was awarded the Navy Cross, but only after the military took six years to reject him for the Medal of Honor.
Gresko never made a fuss, but others have worked on his behalf. Most recently, the case has been pursued diligently by two Marine combat veterans: Jerry Jonas, a columnist for the Bucks County Courier Times, and Dan Fraley, the county's veterans affairs director.
The two vets have been dismayed at how easily paperwork is ignored and misplaced, how appeals that take years to pull together are quickly dismissed, and even how arbitrary the system is.
For example, why a Navy Cross for Gresko when Medals of Honor often are given for the same actions he took? One medal-winner, a Marine in Vietnam, jumped on a grenade to save his buddies on the same night Gresko was wounded. The most recent Medal of Honor in the Iraq war went to Cpl. Jason Dunham, who died after leaping on a grenade to save fellow Marines. Well-deserved honors, but why treat Gresko differently?
Jonas and Fraley are working with U.S. Rep. Patrick Murphy to reintroduce legislation, similar to a bill sponsored by former Rep. Mike Fitzpatrick, that would help get Gresko his medal.
"This honor is long overdue, and I am going to do everything I can to make it happen," says Murphy, who plans to introduce his bill next week.
The regulations say a Medal of Honor is awarded to a person who "distinguished himself conspicuously by gallantry and intrepidity at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty while engaged in an action against an enemy of the United States . . ."
Do those criteria apply in this case? Here is Gresko's account of that night, supplemented by eyewitness interviews conducted by Jonas and Fraley:
Gresko was part of the Combined Unit Pacification Program, which protected villages in Vietnam's Quang Nam province. Members often worked in four-man ambush teams that used flares to summon backup when needed.
On the night of March 11, 1970, the four men were Gresko, Don Hughes, Juan A. Galindo and John D. Waterman. Three of the men were facing a village, waiting for the enemy. Waterman watched the rear. The Marines were only a few feet apart from one another.
Things didn't go according to plan. The Viet Cong surprised them from behind, and Waterman started firing. Gresko turned and began shooting in the same direction. Then the enemy opened up in front, and Hughes and Galindo returned fire.
Gresko turned again, moving to his left to get a better shot. That's when he saw the grenade.
"I knew it was over," he says. "I knew my life was over."
He yelled, "Grenade!" and jumped on it. Shrapnel ripped into his face, arms and chest. His legs were blown apart. One was almost severed, and he'd later have to talk doctors out of amputating it. Both legs were split down the middle, from thigh to ankle, creating wounds so wide and deep that the skin grafts are still opening 37 years later.
Yet, he kept firing - "I had to keep the firefight going, keep my people together." And he "popped" the flares that brought reinforcements sweeping in from behind the VC.
Before he was choppered out, Gresko gave a report on the enemy's size and weapons while others tried to staunch the blood flowing from his wounds.
Today, Gresko says he made the right decision, even though his instincts told him to run.
"You have to overcome that," he says. "You know you're gonna die, but you have to protect your men. . . . Sometimes the whole is more important than the one."
This one went above and beyond. Time for the whole to do right by him.
Contact Kevin Ferris at 610-701-7629 or kf@phillynews.com.
Ellie