I have seen war on land and sea. I have seen the dead in the mud. I have seen cities destroyed . . . I have seen children starving. I have seen the agony of mothers and wives. I hate war.
- Franklin Delano RooseveltJim Cooney was a lean and powerful running machine.
We were teammates on the 1964 Ventura Junior College track team. Cooney was the squad's star. Not only was he gifted, he was dedicated. Had anyone else received the team MVP honor at the spring sports-awards banquet it not only would have been a shock but an injustice.
Cooney ran the anchor leg on all our sprint- and distance-medley relay teams. If the rest of us gave him a chance to catch the other runners, he usually did. His heart was as powerful as his legs. Some place in my garage is a relay medal or two courtesy of Jim Cooney.
Saying someone is as good a person off the field as he is on it is a trite expression today. It wasn't in 1964. Cooney was a prototype for that statement. He knew how to have fun in a good, clean way.
We roomed together at various track meets. His manner was always pleasant. He fit the definition of a gentleman. The only time I recall him being upset was on a double date. Cooney's date, his steady girlfriend since their high school days in Camarillo, Calif., was modestly dressed. My date, a girl named Marcia, wasn't. That bothered Cooney. It concerned me, too, but being bold with the opposite sex wasn't exactly one of my strengths. I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing. By the end of the evening, Marcia had a sweater - probably Cooney's girlfriend's - draped over her shoulders. I suspect the addition of that piece of apparel was due to Cooney.
The spring and summer of 1964 was a terrific time to be alive in Ventura, Calif. Forty miles to the south a group called "The Beach Boys" was starting to hit its stride. Surf, sun, burgers and shakes was my anthem.
Unfortunately, there was this irritating development unfolding on the other side of the world that threatened to derail the "good-times, no-cares express" - Vietnam.
Vietnam was a concern but not an overwhelming one for me. I received a call to serve in the spring of 1965, but it was from LDS Church President David O. McKay, not President Lyndon Baines Johnson. I was sent to northern Mexico, not exactly a military hot spot. I was armed with the holy word of God, not instruments of war. That experience as a missionary defined and shaped my life.
I lost touch with Cooney after school let out in 1964. Sometime after that he joined the Marines. And sometime after that he went to a distant land not nearly as pleasant as northern Mexico - Southeast Asia.
I returned from northern Mexico in July of 1967, enrolled at Brigham Young University in the fall and graduated in 1969. Vietnam was now a real concern. I was married with a child on the way. My school deferments had obviously run out. My luck hadn't. It was the time of the draft lottery. My lottery number was 331. Those under 100 were almost guaranteed of being shipped to Vietnam. The break-off point of being drafted was believed to be about 150. No way, unless there was all-out war, would anyone near 300 be drafted.
After graduation I worked for my hometown paper in Ventura. For years I went to the Ventura College track to work out. I felt comfortable there.
On one such occasion the workout ended in shock followed by extreme sadness. For some reason I left the track and decided to jog on campus. I didn't get far before spotting a plaque dedicated to Ventura College alumni who had lost their lives in Vietnam. Jim Cooney was on that list.
Cooney was killed in July of 1967 while bravely serving his country. The same month I left Mexico to get on with the next phase of my life, he was in the last phase of his.
Last week I was in the Washington, D.C., area for an editorial writers seminar. We had one free afternoon. Usually that would mean a trip to the golf course. Not this time. With two colleagues I went to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. The experience of viewing the names of the 58,000-plus who sacrificed their lives for the cause of freedom touches your soul.
From a visit to the World Wide Web before the one to D.C., I knew where Coon-ey's name would be - Panel 22E. His is the last name on that particular section.
As I looked at the quickly blurring letters that spelled James H. Cooney, I didn't dwell on the image of a lifeless soldier. Instead, I saw an invincible young man, heading for home about to conquer the finish line.
I'm going to tell him that the next time I see him.