There are now three holidays we celebrate those in uniform. Memorial Day, where we celebrate the fallen, Patriots Day, where we thank those who are currently serving, and today, Veterans Day. Today we thank those who have put in their time serving their country and survived.

Here is a story from a veteran who served in Vietnam, published in the Commercial Appeal.

It began just after midnight with the sound of multiple explosions that shattered the stillness of a cool, rainy and moonless night within the garrison of the 1st Marine Regiment.

The garrison perimeter bordered two small South Vietnamese villages, Duong Son 1 and Duong Son 2, about 10 miles south of Da Nang.

The direction of the sound seemed generally westward, perhaps 2 miles from the regiment’s combat operations center, a bunker fortified with sandbags where I was on duty as the fire-support coordination officer.

The specific direction and distance would shortly be confirmed by a chilling radio transmission from an outpost manned by a platoon of the regiment’s 3rd Battalion. The outpost was 3,000 meters southwest of our position.

The fire-support radio channel crackled with the first devastating news.

It was delivered by a very young Marine speaking in a hurried, hushed voice choking with sobs. “Blackwell, Blackwell, this is Tango One, over.” Blackwell, the radio call sign for the regiment, was quickly repeated. When I responded, the Marine said, “They came through the wire with satchel charges.

“I think everyone else is dead,” he said. “I’m the only one left. I’m not sure the VC are gone. I need help fast.”

I signaled the operations officer on duty and sent a messenger for the artillery officer. Other staff officers assembled one by one, and soon the colonel was in the bunker. The radio sounded again with the young Marine’s urgent appeal for help. The sound of his voice over the radio speaker was unforgettable. “I can’t see them, but I think they are moving back in.” It was a chilling moment for everyone listening. We desperately wanted to help but were momentarily stymied by time, distance and weather conditions.

Quickly a plan was formulated. Another platoon would be dispatched to the outpost. It was critical that radio contact be maintained throughout the march. I would make sure the Marine knew troops were coming and would keep him informed of their position as they moved closer.

It was pitch black and raining hard as the second platoon assembled and began moving out. The young Marine’s voice over the radio was haunting. He was alone except for the tenuous radio contact, and his anxiety cut through the static. “Hold on, help is on the way,” he was told, but at that moment, the chances for a successful rescue seemed remote. Without knowing the enemy’s current location and movement, we were literally operating in the dark. It would prove to be an agonizingly slow process for men trying hard to help, and sheer terror for one young Marine.

As the second platoon made its way toward the outpost, I knew the sound of its movement might easily be mistaken for another enemy attack. Keeping the Marine informed about the platoon’s position as it closed the distance became the priority. Several times he said he intended to open fire at the first sound. He was convinced the enemy would reach him first.

Tension mounted with the platoon’s continued advance. No one could be certain the sounds of the first troop movement he would hear would be those of his rescuers.

The platoon leader monitoring the radio channel understood the problem, but in the conditions he could not pinpoint the enemy’s location. As the rescue platoon drew near the outpost, a senior officer in the command post ignored radio protocol and call signs and simply transmitted, “Son, it’s going to be all right. Second platoon is approaching you now from your northeast. That is your men you will be hearing very soon. Please don’t shoot.” When the second platoon reached the outpost a few minutes later, the emotional radio confirmation by the young Marine and his rescuers prompted long sighs of relief and smiles in the command bunker. There were no dry eyes.

As more information came in, it became clear that a large Viet Cong unit had launched a heavy mortar attack and raid against the outpost. By avoiding detection in the wind, rain and darkness, the enemy had penetrated the outpost perimeter wire and had hurled high-explosive satchel charges with devastating effect. Fifteen Marines were killed, some as they slept and others in their struggle to fight back. Twenty-eight men were badly wounded. In the darkness their incapacity had convinced the young Marine on the radio that he was the only survivor.

In the bleak dawn, several of us ringed the garrison’s helicopter landing zone, standing with rain soaking down, watching as the medivac choppers arrived to take 28 severely wounded Marines aboard.

While the wounded were being carefully tended and loaded, 15 body bags lay waiting, side by side, glistening in the rain. I noted the time and date. Back home in America, it was Veterans Day, Nov. 11, 1966.

I don’t think anybody who hasn’t been through experiences like this can have the imagination of what it was really like. Imagine having lunch with a co-worker, then having to put them into a body bag before the end of the workday. Now imagine having to do that every day for a year. Those kind of experiences change people.

This is why we must thank those who stood tall for our country when we needed them. Thankfully, in my service I never had to answer a real General Quarters, I never had to storm a machinegun nest. But I thank those who did. To be scared and still do things like that takes a courage that surpasses anything else in this world.

If you know a veteran, thank them for their service. Take them to lunch and if they share, listen to their stories and experiences.