George F Barry Jr.

WO - W1 - Army - Reserve

101st Airborne Division

23-year-old Single, Caucasian, Male

Born on Sep 26, 1946

From DORCHESTER, MASSACHUSETTS

His tour of duty began on May 05, 1970

Casualty was on May 23, 1970

in QUANG TRI, SOUTH VIETNAM

HOSTILE, HELICOPTER - PILOT

AIR LOSS, CRASH ON LAND

Body was recovered

Religion

ROMAN CATHOLIC

Panel 10W - - Line 83

Submitted by Andy Archer 18

Andy (second from left) and a couple of flight school classmates visit with George's Mom in 2001.

Memorial presentation:

GB2

Flight, In GB2 you will notice another presentation on her living room wall. It's of a rubbing of George's name from the Wall the three of us gave to her 3 years ago.

Had a nice visit with George Barry's mother in Quincy Mass. With me were Bob and Willa Hamilton of Louisville, KY. and Dan O'Brien of East Falmouth, Mass. I'm sure you remember the story. Mrs. Barry is doing well at 83 and provided us with a great lunch and hearty discussion.

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From Frank Boback

Happy Veterans Day to you and the rest of the Lancers. I visited George Barry's resting place on Veterans Day. Unfortunately, there are few nice plants that can survive during this time of year.

Hi Walter, my parents, especially my mother, were very good friends of George’s parents, George Sr. and Irene. They lived nearby to where we lived in Dorchester, Boston, MA.

I visit George’s grave a few times a year, every time I visit my relative’s graves in a nearby cemetery. I place a plant on George’s grave during the major holidays, as I do with my relatives.

I thought I'd share this poem I wrote.

A professor/poet recited it at a Veterans Day function at the Brockton Public Library on November 11.

The Soldier in Search of Ataraxia (peace of mind)

The Home Front

When I was seven or eight,

The fixed bayonets on those

Plastic, olive drab miniatures stood sturdy.

Submachine guns polished,

Side-arms readied,

Postures Taut

They were neophytes,

Surviving plastic, ersatz wars.

Their hard-fought battles cartoon clean.

At night, platoons marched home,

Under cover of darkness to Tom Mcann shoeboxes

Bodies, minds and souls unscathed: wounds healed.

I never once lauded those grunts

Never once played taps for those heroic icons,

Never built them monuments.

I never once shed tears for those plastic beings.

They were nameless. Had no families,

Have none now.

They never took incoming,

Waded through rice paddies or were spat upon.

There was no Agent Orange, no Napalm, no Kim Phuc!

Their deaths were fleeting—

Swift—without curdling screams—

Until next morning when orders summoned.

Those troops slept safely—soundly nights

In those portable cardboard sarcophagi

Secured by elastic bands.

— In Country

The monsoons

Cry slanted tears.

Their whispers lull me forward.

The sounds echo,

Like Fourth of July firecrackers,

On a warm Boston summer's night.

The sky, a kaleidoscope of fireworks

The din mightier than Krakatoa.

And then—darkness.

I stiffen,

Listen to the swaying of bush,

The soft cracking of brush beneath their feet.

I hear foreign voices, nearing,

Echoing something I cannot understand,

And I freeze in this hot land—praying for the Huey.

The Aftermath

I awaken, listen for crackling brush again,

Then watch unblemished snow

Fall outside Huntington Ave.,

Plastering the chipped, cracked sidewalks,

Hiding ubiquitous imperfections.

Harpo crate’s presence haunts me.

It infiltrates—the stone, the glass.

My clothing drenched, like snow-soaked, winter mittens

And warm as urine.

The Xanax and RIs manipulate somewhere—

Somehow above my neck.

My head strikes the pillow again.

Until the next day's battle,

I often ponder where those

Strac ersatz soldiers now sleep.

Frank Boback