Ronnie Eugene Norris and Stanley Norris Green - Their Names Are on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall

 Ronnie Eugene Norris was a native of Greer, S.C.

I have never visited the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. I was near it in 1997 when I attended a Promise Keepers’ meeting in D.C., but the crowd attending that gathering was large and my time limited; I decided not to try to visit the memorial that day.

According to “Wikipedia,” the Vietnam Veterans Memorial honors service members of the U.S. armed forces who fought in the Vietnam War, service members who died in service in Vietnam/South East Asia, and those service members who were unaccounted for (Missing In Action) during the War.

The Memorial Wall, designed by American architect Maya Lin, currently consists of three separate parts: the Three Soldiers statue, the Vietnam Women's Memorial, and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall,’

Stone for the wall came from Bangalore, Karnataka, India, and was chosen because of its reflective quality. When a visitor looks upon the wall, his or her reflection can be seen simultaneously with the engraved names – an effect intended to symbolically bring the past and present together. As of May 2011, there were 58,272 names (including eight women’s names) engraved on the wall.

During the 1980s, I saw the traveling version of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall in Greenville, S.C. That “moving wall” is a 3/5-scale replica of the permanent memorial wall in Washington, D.C.; it stands six feet tall at the center and covers almost 300 feet from end to end (www.themovingwall.org).

Many people who visited that touring wall touched names on the wall; some laid flowers and notes at the wall’s base.

I served in Vietnam for almost all of 1971 as an U.S. Army GI – “GI” stood for “Government Issue,” but by World War II “GI” had become a nickname for military personnel. I never saw combat and experienced an easy “tour of duty.”

I knew at least two men whose names are engraved on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall.

I attended Greer High School (Greer, S.C.) with Ronnie Eugene Norris and his brother Tommy, both likable fellows. Ronnie was in one of my high school gym classes. I remember seeing Ronnie adjust his glasses with a sweaty hand before serving as we played volleyball outside the gym on a spring day. He put the ball over the net. We were just boys, goofing around, having fun.

Shortly after his high school experience, Ronnie ended up in the army. When I heard of his death in Vietnam, I envisioned his laughing face as he served during a volleyball game. According to available records, “RONNIE EUGENE NORRIS” is honored on Panel 13E, Row 85 of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Born in 1945, Ronnie died on December 27, 1966, in Binh Dinh Province, South Vietnam. He reportedly died “outright” as a “ground casualty” of hostile “gun or small arms fire” as he participated in an “unspecified operation.” His body was recovered. Ronnie served as a private first class (MOS 13A10: Field Artillery Basic) and as a member of C Battery, 6TH BN, 16TH Artillery, 1ST CAV DIV, USARV (U.S. Army Republic of Vietnam).

I met Stanley Norris Green from Macon, Georgia, at Bob Jones University in Greenville, S.C. I didn’t know Stan well, but he and I were art students at BJU and members of the same school “society.” The university had no sororities or fraternities, but it required that every student be a member of one of many “literary societies.” Those societies met weekly (on Wednesdays) around noon and served as social and service organizations and sponsors for intramural sports teams. Stan and I belonged to “Lanier,” a society named for Sidney Lanier, a Georgia poet.

The son of an evangelist, Stan was a handsome young man who possessed a friendly, outgoing personality. He did well in art, but for some reason he seemed restless and enlisted in the army.

Stan served for a year in Vietnam and returned to BJU for a visit (I think he visited the school in the spring of 1967). Our societies met in university classrooms, and when Stan visited our Lanier meeting, he sat on a professor’s desk and related some positive things about his Vietnam experiences. He seemed relaxed and proud of his service in Southeast Asia. He appeared to have found a “cause” and seemed happy and at peace. He told us he had reenlisted.

“STANLEY NORRIS GREEN” is honored on Panel W38, line 26 of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Born in 1947, Stan died on November 21, 1968, in Binh Thuan Province, South Vietnam. He reportedly died of “hostile wounds” sustained from an “air loss or crash over land” when he served on a helicopter (“non-crew”) – meaning that the helicopter he rode was probably shot down. His body was recovered. Stan served as an infantryman, a sergeant (E5) with an MOS of 11D40: Armor Reconnaissance Specialist. Stan served as a member of B Troop, 7TH SQDN, 17TH Cavalry, 1ST Aviation Brigade, USARV (U.S. Army Republic of Vietnam).

I often think of Ronnie Norris and Stan Green. Years ago, I never dreamed their names would be engraved on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial wall. 

 Pictured is The Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C. 

------------------ 
  In October 2013, I (Steve Crain) received the following e-mail from Cindi Engle Bolden:  

October 7, 2013 at 10:55 PM

https://www.blogger.com/profile/17164534915007590315

Sin13 said...

Dear Steve,

Thank you for honoring Ronnie in your post. I have never met him or his family, but I have lived my whole 36 years knowing of him as family.

My dad [Bobby Joe Engle] served in Vietnam with Ronnie and was there when he was killed. My father was also injured, and he has recently passed due to agent orange exposure while serving. It's been almost 2 years.

Last year, we went to the Wall for the In Memory program to honor my father and those who have died from their service but are not eligible to be on the wall. In the end, my father's memorial picture was 2 panels away from Ronnie's name, which I thought was very fitting.

My father talked of Ronnie often and said that he was his best friend. I imagine that their time serving together brought them pretty close as my grandmother and aunts have been in touch with Ronnie's family since the war. Ronnie's death devastated and haunted my father for the rest of his life, it was a big loss to him and for me personally as well. My father never got over that, and the talks we had left me with a lifetime of wondering and imagining.

Our trip to the wall was one of the most emotional things I have ever done, not just because of the loss of my father but because of his stories and my eagerness to learn and understand our Vets and the war. The loss, suffering and flat out neglect of our Vietnam Vets breaks my heart and leaves a heavy burden that I sometimes wish I didn't have to carry, but I always will.

I have several pictures of Ronnie in my dad's Vietnam album that I would like to share with you, I'm not sure how though.

If you aren't already, I encourage you to become involved with the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund. http://www.vvmf.org/.

Thank you again for your post and please know that there is another family out here that regularly honors and thinks of Ronnie.

Proud Daughter of a Vietnam Vet,
Cindi Engle Bolden 

Shown below are photos of Ronnie Eugene Norris, taken by Cindi's father while in Vietnam in 1967. 

 

--------------- 

Linda Passwaters sent to me (Steve Crain) the following e-mail in July 2013:

Dear Steve,

Thank you for posting the photo and article about Stan Green. I met Stan in 1967 while he was at Fort Bragg for several months before he was killed in Vietnam. He was staying with an Army buddy, and I had the opportunity to join them for a day at the beach. He was such a nice young man, so polite and courteous.  My father liked him right away.

We only met once or twice, so I don’t know much about Stan,  but your article filled in several gaps. I do remember him talking about art and how much he liked to draw and also about how he had left college to join the Army.  He talked a lot about his parents, especially his Mother. He told me that she was a speech therapist and preceded to tell funny stories about her. As a Mother of two sons my heart goes out to her for her loss. I  have often thought about him and wondered who he was and what he might have been.

I am sorry about going on and on, but this is the first time I’ve spoken to someone about him since that summer in 1968. If you don’t mind, please go to http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GSln=Green&GSfn=Stanley&GSmn=Norris&GSbyrel=all&GSdyrel=all&GSob=n&GRid=18409329&df=all&  .  There you will find a memorial to Stan with a photo of his grave marker as well as a copy of the photo you posted of him. I am trying to keep his memory alive by maintaining the site. Please feel free to leave a short message there.

Sincerely,
Linda Passwaters 

Shown below is a photo of Stan Green's grave marker as displayed in the Mount Hebron West Cemetery, Elmore, Elmore County, Alabama, USA: 
 

 

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In February 2014, Stephan Howard, who attended church with Stan Green when Howard was a boy, e-mailed me and said, “Cliff Welding was the oh6 Loach helicopter Pilot with Stan Green in the aircraft with him [Green] as observer. They were flying wing on the mission for Joe Shepherd in the lead helicopter. They were working as a pink team (2 oh6 helicopters, 2 cobra helicopters), and went back to assess the cobra's attack damage on a trailed group of VC and they were hit.”

S. Howard referred me to an internet site that contains more information:

  

http://www.vhpa.org/KIA/incident/68112101KIA.HTM

that yielded this information:

"Cliff Welding and SGT Green were flying my wing that day. We were covered by two cobras and were following a fresh trail from an over-night contact into the foothills. We caught a group of 8-10 VC on the trail. Cliff and I both engaged with mini-guns and fire from our observers. We dropped smoke and the cobras rolled in as we moved off to the west. After making several passes, the cobra lead called us back for a BDA. Cliff's mini-gun had stopped working so he led back into the area and I followed to cover him. As we neared the smoke from the cobra's rockets we received small arms fire. Then Cliff's aircraft was hit by an RPG. It went down immediatley! I tried to land but could not because of small arms fire. I could see that Cliff was still in the burning aircraft and that SGT Green was out, but that he was burned very bad. I stayed on station until the Blues arrived and confirmed that Cliff was KIA and SGT Green was medevaced."

Submitted by Joe Shepherd, Scalp Hunter 15

This record was last updated on 10/22/1999 

The full report accompanying the above site lists this information: 

Information on U.S. Army helicopter OH-6A tail number 67-16355
The Army purchased this helicopter 0968
Total flight hours at this point: 00000047
Date: 11/21/1968
Incident number: 68112101.KIA
Unit: B/7/17 CAV
This was a Combat incident. This helicopter was LOSS TO INVENTORY
This was a Recon mission for Unarmed Recon
Unknown this helicopter was Unknown at UNK feet and UNK knots.
Unknown
UTM grid coordinates: AN962487
Count of hits was not possible because the helicopter burned or exploded.
Small Arms/Automatic Weapons; Gun launched non-explosive ballistic projectiles less than 20 mm in size. (7.62MM)
Systems damaged were: PERSONNEL
Casualties = 02 DOI . .
The helicopter Crashed. Aircraft Destroyed.
Both mission and flight capability were terminated.
Burned
Original source(s) and document(s) from which the incident was created or updated: Defense Intelligence Agency Helicopter Loss database. Survivability/Vulnerability Information Analysis Center Helicopter database. Also: OPERA, LNOF, 80466, CASRP, CRAFX, JSIDR, HUGHS, Joe Shepherd (Operations Report. Lindenmuth Old Format Data Base. Joint Services Incident Damage Report. Crash Facts Message. Casualty Report. )
Summary: Shot down and destroyed by a group of VC during a BDA after a Cobra rocket attack during a VR mission.
Loss to Inventory

Crew Members:
P 1LT WELDING CLIFFORD KAY KIA
OB SGT GREEN STANLEY NORRIS KIA 

A False Sense of Responsibility

I sometimes feel what I believe is “a false sense of responsibility.” I don’t know whether that problem arises from my possessing an over-active, self-imposed burden to influence people to trust in God or from my experiencing a natural control-freak problem.

I seem to need to figure out quite often whether a situation needs my influence or if that situation is a challenge only God can handle. Of course, there are probably things God needs me to help with and then leave the results to him. Is my need to take on too much responsibility an actual lack of trust in God?

A false sense of responsibility can spawn from a big ego. On the other hand, a “woe is me; I have no influence and am helpless” ego-response may be just as bad. And many of us may respond in both of those ways at different times. Some of us occasionally may lapse into I-don’t-care attitudes in order to feel released from responsibility.

It sort of worries me that I’m not trying very hard to figure out why I have a false sense of responsibility. But, if I’m not trying to determine if I have a problem with taking on responsibilities I shouldn’t concern myself with, then maybe I really don’t have a false sense of responsibility. Hm-m-m-m. I somehow feel responsible for determining whether or not I actually have a false sense of responsibility.

(Note: I’m not responsible for writing this.)

Azaleas Are Blooming

Photo of the N.C. Azalea Festival (not sure of the year this photo was taken) 

Azaleas are blooming here in the Sandhills of North Carolina, and they stir memories in me.

When I was a child in rural South Carolina, plants and flowers seemed important to my relatives and to many people in the Greenville, S.C., area. Perhaps the love of beautiful plants reflected the agrarian backgrounds of many adult Southerners in the1950s.

We lived on a 13-acre farm. It was not much of a farm, but Dad and Mom had been raised on farms, and when Dad returned from a World War II combat stint in Germany, he wanted a little farm, though he made a living from working in a textile mill in Taylors, S.C. By the time I was 11 years old, Dad had abandoned the farm scene and moved us (Mom, my younger sister and me) to the edge of the City of Greer, S.C. Dad wanted to be near the plant where he worked at making chainsaws, lawnmowers and other outdoor tools. He worked at Homelite.

Dad and Mom valued beautiful blooming yard plants, particularly azaleas. My early impression of azaleas was that they were associated with old plantations and ladies in evening gowns. Perhaps I saw such images in touched-up photographs featured in 1950s magazines. I seem to remember pale-looking, lovely ladies dressed in gowns and standing beside azaleas that sported white and pink blossoms.

I like azaleas; they bloom around the same time as dogwoods, and then their fanfare and flourish is finished for the year. They do seem to be a lot of trouble for just a short time of glory.

When we moved to Southern Pines, N.C., in 1989, we bought a house with a yard loaded with azaleas. They are starting to bloom, and they take me back in memory to my first impressions of the Old South. The Old South has faded, but it won’t be totally gone until azaleas lose their popularity.

I’ve promised myself that I’ll trim my azaleas a good bit this year. Most of them are getting pretty “leggy” and gangly-looking. You’re supposed to trim azaleas right after they bloom. Why did the old couple who built our house in 1970 want so many azaleas in their yard? The weather’s getting hotter and ticks are coming out. And we live on a wooded lot with lots of pine trees. And snakes might be awakening from their winter hibernations and coming out to lie hidden among overgrown bushes and plants. Maybe I’ll let our azaleas go another year before trimming them.

My Mom and Dad are both “gone on.” They would probably be aghast at how my azaleas are looking. Mom kept hers pretty nice. Photos of Southern ladies standing next to trimmed and neat azaleas still reside in my head.

Gulistan - the 'Garden of Roses' Has Faded Away

 

Pictured is the Gulistan yarn department, before it closed. 

A collage of photos from "better days" at Gulistan.  

"Gulistan" means "garden of roses" in Armenian. I had planned to retire from Gulistan Carpet on March 31, a few weeks after my expected 66th birthday, but my "rose garden" experience ended on Jan. 11.

I feel blessed to have finished near my goal, but most Gulistan employees will have to find new jobs. Gulistan is now selling its remaining inventory and is in the process of closing.

The company manufactured 12-foot-wide, medium- to high-end carpets in its plant on N.C. 5 in Aberdeen and, until recently, employed nearly 400 people. Gulistan filed for bankruptcy on Monday, Jan. 8.

"The voluntary petition was filed in U.S. Bankruptcy Court for the Middle District of North Carolina," The Pilot reported.

Sensing that Jan. 11 would be my last day at Gulistan, I swiped my company ID card through a "time device" located at the Aberdeen plant at around 7:45 a.m. on Thursday, Jan. 10. At my desk in Product Development, I checked laptop messages and then drove 26 miles to Gulistan's dyeing facility in Wagram.

I had worked many hours in developing carpet colors at the Wagram plant and wanted to say goodbye to my co-workers at that location.

The "dye house" was located on the backside of a huge plant that had once housed a J.P. Stevens towel manufacturing and dyeing operation. Gulistan leased a small portion of that mostly empty plant to use for dyeing carpet. Not long ago, 38 employees worked at Gulistan's Wagram plant. Nowhere near that many worked there when I visited the plant on Jan. 10.

I spoke with a 55-year-old laboratory technician who had dyed thousands of small carpet swatches over the almost 24 years I worked with Gulistan. I used many of those swatches to create "color lines" for styles reviewed for introductions.

"What are you going to do?" I asked her.

"I don't know," she said.

I spoke to another lab tech who hired on at Gulistan after a Laurinburg branch of Abbott Laboratories closed in 2002. She wasn't sure what she'd do after Wagram closed.

I visited Range Two, a "fluid-dye range" that applied color to the majority of Gulistan carpets. Range One dyed some carpets, and some goods were "hue infused" in "becks" (large vats), but Range Two was high-speed and served as Gulistan's dyeing workhorse.

The Range Two manager said he was uncertain about where he'd find employment. He's in his 50s.

His assistant told me about anticipated "screening tests" causing concern among soon-to-be-let-go employees. She said that a large soup-processing plant near Wagram requires job applicants to take several tests.

"They cost you 10 dollars apiece, and they're not easy," she said.

One woman I spoke with worked at Range Two "roll-up," where just-dyed carpets were still being inspected during my visit and rolled onto cardboard core tubes. The goods were slated to ship to the Aberdeen plant, where they'd be "back-coated" with latex, sheared and given a final inspection.

"I hate to see our plant close," that woman said.

A lift-truck driver told me that he was "already on Social Security" and planned to farm his land.

"I hate it for the other folks here," he said.

Another lift driver who spent workdays motoring around the plant with huge rolls of carpet impaled one at a time on a long steel rod located on the front of his lift-truck expressed concern. In his 40s, he worried about "those screening tests."

A young man sitting at a table in the Wagram break room said he planned to "go back to school."

I talked with more employees and walked past rolls of undyed goods on my way out of the plant. Colors would soon flow onto those carpets, and the dye house would close. I envisioned the plant sitting someday as a dark, lonely, cavernous hull - another empty textile mill dotting the North Carolina landscape and serving as a symbol of a bygone era.

On Friday afternoon, Jan. 11, my job ended. I said "so long" to my Aberdeen co-workers and took personal belongings to my truck. Leaving hardly seemed real.

Near the company gatehouse, I turned right on N.C. 5 and drove past the Gulistan sign standing in front of the main manufacturing plant and headed for home.

How sad.   

A Cross Speaks

I’m a cross. Not just any cross. I’m the cross they used to crucify Jesus.

I was one of many crosses employed during Jesus’ time on earth. The Romans ruled the known world during that period, and I was a good-sized tree they converted into a cross.

Some say I was made from an olive tree or a dogwood, but I was formed from the trunk of a pine tree. I could brag about my strength or the forest from which I came, but those are minor points compared to the one thing I’m most proud of. You see, I became the altar, so to speak, that served up the Son of God. He had said, “And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me.” I was the cross that lifted him up from the earth. I did my job well. I did not fail.

As a youth, I had no idea what I might grow up to be. Some trees live to ripe old ages. Many are used for furniture or flooring. I weathered the elements for years before some Jewish woodcutters took me down. They hacked away my bark and shaped my sides until I became square in form. They sold me, a long, rough-hewn piece of timber, to the Romans, who cut me into two pieces and made me into a cross. The Jewish men would sell me only as lumber. They refused to form me into a cross. The Romans shaped me into an instrument of death.

After realizing I was not destined to serve as something practical for a family to use, I felt sad. Perhaps it was the “luck of the draw” that I was selected from a pile of wooden crosses and ended up as Jesus’ death device.

They nailed Jesus to my rough surface, and they raised him high. I heard him groan; I absorbed some of his perspiration; and many of his blood drops soaked into my dry and thirsty fibers.

  

As I listened to his conversation, I knew the man I held aloft was no ordinary thief. While I held him tightly and he agonized in pain, he forgave a criminal hanging near him on another cross. That dying man said,  “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Jesus told that man, “Truly, I say to you, today you shall be with me in Paradise.” When Jesus finally said, “It is finished,” I knew something mysterious had happened.

Later, they took Jesus down. I felt lonely and empty. But, for a while – for a few hours, at least – I was something special. God made me a tree, and I was proud to serve him. Yes, I also served him as an instrument of death, but, in a way, I became an instrument of life. 

'The Future'

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Former Presidential candidate Al Gore has written a book called “The Future.” I haven’t read that book, but I, like most people, think about the future.

Nearing age 66, I may be playing in the last quarter of my game. Looking back, I see things I could have done differently in the first three quarters of that game. But, Satchel Paige said, “Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you.” The Apostle Paul told us to “forget those things which are behind and press forward toward the mark of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.”

As a person ages, the future appears less and less like the wide open spaces and more and more like a narrow hallway, if “this life” preoccupies his mind.

“The future” presents challenges to mature folk like me. I try to keep my mind on these words Paul also wrote: “Set your minds on things above, not on earthly things.” But my natural mind continues to flip back to things in this physical and spiritually broken world.

“The future,” to me, can represent a narrowing of options. And thoughts about anticipated hardships and physical suffering can create in me a curmudgeon persona. I don’t want to be remembered as a negative old man. I want my thoughts to stay on the real future, the eternal future that goes way beyond the physical future many older folk worry about.

Engineer Boots

 Engineer Boots are shown here.

As a kid, I wanted a pair of cowboy boots. My dad bought a TV when I was seven years old in 1954. I wanted cowboy boots before television came to our house, but shows I watched in black-and-white made me want cowboy boys all the more.

I enjoyed programs featuring Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, Gene Autry, Hop-Along Cassidy, The Cisco Kid, The Lone Ranger, Annie Oakley (somebody playing the part of Annie Oakley). I liked bunches of movies about cowpunchers, bad men and heroic guys who rode horses, fought with fists when necessary and fired six-shooters. 

At my rural school, Mountain View Elementary in Greenville County, S.C., a few boys had cowboy boots.

Mama thought cowboy boots were not a “good buy” for me. Dad worked at a textile mill, and Mom stayed home with Shirley, my younger sibling, and me. We didn’t have, as they say, “all the money in the world.” I begged for cowboy boots, but Mama compromised.

At the beginning of my third-grade year, Mama bought me some black engineer boots. They were high-topped, and each boot had a strap placed about mid-center, between the top of the boot and its sole. A shiny silver buckle held each strap in place and showed on the outside of the boot, so people admiring a man’s boot as it protruded from underneath a pants leg could see that metal buckle. Engineer boots weren’t cowboy boots, but I felt a little more mannish sporting my footwear that had to last through my third-grade year.

My engineer boots had rounded toes, not pointed toes like real cowboy boots. And they had no carved, decorative leatherwork on their sides. The heels of my boots were raised a bit, but not like high-heeled western boots, which could make a boy feel tall.

I realized my parents thought engineer boots were more practical for me, and I was okay with that.

I thought that when I grew up, I’d buy a pair of real cowboy boots. But I never have. I guess I’ve been practical, like my parents. I’ll soon turn 66, and it appears I might ride off into the sunset one of these days and will never have owned a pair of cowboy boots. But it’s okay. I’m at peace with that. Anyway, arthritis sometimes hurts my feet, and I don’t want to be seen limping around in cowboy boots. Somebody might call me “Limp-along Cassidy.”