I met Sergeant Edward Smith (Smitty) when I was assigned to the Old Guard at Fort Myer, Virginia.
The Old Guard serves a two-fold mission, protecting the President and paying tribute to America's heroes. The equivalent of England's Cold Stream Guard, it's a unit of the army's elite infantrymen with specialty platoons including the U.S. Army Drill Team, Continental Color Guard, Tomb of the Unknowns Guard, Caisson Platoon and the Presidential Saluting Battery. Assignment to the Old Guard is one of the highest honors the military can give a soldier.
Requirements for assignment to the Old Guard are strict. Every member must be eligible for White House Security Clearance (clearance to stand before the President of the United States while under arms). A GT (intelligence) score above 100, a clean civilian and military record and a perfect physical profile are all mandatory. You can become a member by proving yourself in Basic and Advanced Individual Training or by proving yourself in battle. I was the former; Smitty was the latter, but somehow we became friends in the Presidential Saluting Battery.
Smitty looked like Rambo (unknown at that time) but bigger. He had a part in his hair compliments of an AK-47 round and walked with a limp as a result of catching two machine gun bullets in his leg at Hamburger Hill, where he was awarded the Silver Star. His purple heart had four oak leaf clusters.
Smitty told me that he had been an orphan in Germantown, PA. He ran with the street gangs and knew how to make a zip gun. I guess the military offered him an opportunity, whereas to me it was little more than an interruption in my life.
He never talked much about Vietnam, but when questioned about his wounds, his words had the ring of truth. "It's not about being a hero," he said. "It's about doing what you have to do to stay alive." But I knew that was a lie. I knew that Smitty had a deep sense of responsibility toward his men and would risk his life to save them from being captured or killed.
He knew I was curious and he knew I didn't want to pry. So one day he dropped a book on my bunk as I sat polishing my brass – Seven Firefights In Vietnam. "I'm in chapter seven," he said, and walked away.
The account of his heroism in that chapter was beyond anything Hollywood writers could imagine. "My God," I thought. "This guy is Superman."
I don't use the word hero today except in reference to Smitty. I miss him.
THE PRESIDENTIAL SALUTING BATTERY
