Leadership--Sometimes more powerful in death than in life!

Lance Corporal Doyce Miller

Today, March 29, is National Vietnam War Veterans' Day. A few days ago Colonel Todd Overby of the Army JROTC program and instructor at Station Camp High School in Gallatin, TN, posed a question to me in conversation which would open a floodgate of memories--some of them very painful. The Colonel had been invited to speak to a group of Vietnam veterans on this special day.  Knowing I was of the age of many who served in the Vietnam conflict, (even though I had not served and was not drafted due to a high lottery draw), he asked, "Given an opportunity, what would you say to Vietnam veterans on this day of remembrance?" The question took me back to difficult details of the past and feelings associated with them. I will try to explain.

First, though, a little history--leaving Caldwell Auditorium the night of our RELHS graduation on May 26, 1967, with diplomas in hand, my classmates and I were eager to embrace new chapters in our lives. I worked a job that summer and made plans for the next big step in my life--leaving for Nashville, Tennessee, 650 miles from home, where I would enroll in David Lipscomb College, now Lipscomb University, on an athletic scholarship in the fall. The future was bright.

One of my classmates was Doyce Miller. He was a good friend. We spent twelve years together, attending Rice Elementary School (barefooted as was our custom) and then to the much larger, prestigious Robert E. Lee High School in Tyler, Texas. Since both our last names began with M, we were almost always sitting near one another throughout those school years. He lived near my house, just across the fields and down the road. Both of our fathers fought in World War II. 

Doyce's path was to be very different from mine. After graduation he had enlisted in the United States Marine Corps and would be leaving soon for basic training. I clearly remember our last encounter before we went our separate ways. It was at a high school football game at Rose Stadium in Tyler. He was dressed in his crisp, new Marine uniform and was home on furlough.

Prior to that night at Rose Stadium, Doyce and I went out with some friends one evening and spent some time drinking alcohol. I had done a good job of abstaining during my high school days. Sports had taken most of my time and I had tried to stay in good shape mentally and physically. But that evening was different. High school was behind me and the future, though bright, seemed far away. 

As our drinking progressed, I became so inebriated that Doyce and our friends had to take me home. They carefully placed me in the front seat of my blue 1950 model Ford car which was parked in our driveway. When my mother, who never went to bed before I came home, realized that something was wrong, she came out of the house to find me in that drunken condition. Somehow she managed to get me into the house and into my bed, with hardly a word spoken. My dad was asleep and didn't know what was happening.

The next morning my mother, who always seemed so wise, said, "What would Coach Dugan (my soon-to-be baseball coach at the Christian college) say about the condition you were in last night?" A couple of days later, my dad, having brought his reaction under control, spoke for the first time about the incident saying, "Where would you be now if you had gotten killed that night?" Both such insightful questions were not lost on me. (I marvel to this day at how they handled the situation so judiciously.)

In early March of 1969, I was in my sophomore year at Lipscomb. It was part of my weekly routine to call home on Sunday nights because the rates were cheaper. I always looked forward to those phone visits. But on one particular night the visit was far from pleasant; in fact, it rocked me to the core. Mom broke the terrible news to me that my good friend, Doyce Miller, had been killed in Vietnam just a few days earlier. She didn't know any of the particulars. Later I learned that he died on March 11 by hostile action in the Landing Zone, Catapult, South Vietnam Quang Tri Province. By that time he had achieved the rank of Lance Corporal with a specialty of Rifleman. He was one day shy of 20 years, 5 months of age.

I was in shock. And I was deeply troubled by the fact that I, as a Christian, had set such a poor example before him that summer of '67. Now he was dead. I wondered--was he a believer? Could he have known the Lord and I was not aware of it? What if he didn't? Why, if he didn't, was I given so many opportunities to experience Christ? Why me and not him? I began to experience deep guilt and remorse.

I can still feel the pain of that Sunday night call. Doyce, so far from home, had given his life for our country and would never experience the privileges that I would have both physically and most importantly--spiritually. I would make many more mistakes in years to come, but what made this failure hurt so deeply was that it was so final.

The memory of Doyce Miller has continued to shape and motivate me all these fifty-three years since his passing in 1969. I think of the Hebrew passage that says "and by faith Abel still speaks, even though he is dead." I feel that the same is true of Doyce.

My poor choice that evening so long ago has served as a vital lesson, reminding me vividly of my great need for the grace of God. Here I was with my life really just beginning and already I had fallen short of the goal. I needed help. I am profoundly thankful that, though I cannot erase the results of my bad judgement, Jesus can! "For I will forgive their wrongdoing, and I will never again remember their sins." (Hebrews 8:12) And this good news, though never earned, is presented to us by the grace of God through faith in Jesus Christ. I want to believe that the same grace that reaches me also reached my friend.

I have often visited Doyce's grave in Memorial Park Cemetery, Tyler, Texas. I have walked the pathway to the Vietnam Memorial Wall in Washington, D.C. and touched his name, etched on the stone of panel 29w, line 11. These pilgrimages have solidified in my mind the cost of freedom and the supreme sacrifice of my friend. And he was not alone. There were approximately 58,000 souls who paid the ultimate price, as well as countless others who suffered permanent loss of health and limb to that dreadful war.

Thank you, Colonel Overby, for asking such a thought-provoking question and for giving me the impetus to reflect on the people and events which have impacted my life forever. Sometimes leadership can shine more radiantly in death than in life.

Remember, I believe we are all leaders regardless of our position.