Letters: Remembering my childhood friend who died in Vietnam

Chicago Tribune

25-05-2025

When I was a young boy, around this time of year, I planted flags at Chicagoland cemeteries in remembrance of those who paid the ultimate price. Back then, I didn't realize the significance of the act I was participating in, but now, certainly I do. Memorial Day is the day we pay our respects to the honored fallen.
I had a boyhood friend named Kenny Green who I played schoolyard softball with and with whom I relished the carefree days of youth. I remember Kenny as an easygoing, gentle, likable boy who wouldn't harm a fly.
Kenny and I graduated grammar school together in June 1962. After high school graduation in 1966, Kenny joined the Marines. In Vietnam, Kenny was a mortar man with the 2nd Battalion, 4th Marines. In September 1967, his unit was in the Con Thien area when they were bombarded by heavy enemy artillery and a rocket barrage. Kenny and his entire mortar crew perished.
In early October that year, I learned of Kenny's death and enlisted in the Marine Corps, driven in part probably by the juvenile notion of wanting to 'avenge' Kenny's death.
A year later, in autumn 1968, I was at C2, a small base just 10 minutes or so from the area where Kenny died. I didn't realize how near I was to the place my boyhood friend had fallen until years later, when I discovered how Kenny had died. I was fortunate to have survived where Kenny didn't.
I find the memory of Kenny popping into my head more and more frequently as time goes by. Few days go by when I don't think of him. At age 19, Kenny gave up 'all his tomorrows.'
Think of my friend, Kenny Green, for just one moment on Memorial Day. I'll take care of the rest of the year. If Kenny could somehow know, I think he would find it pretty special that so many people had him in their thoughts on this important day. This is the link to his tribute page: www.virtualwall.org/dg/GreenKL01a.htm.
Please help keep alive the memory of the sacrifices made by all these young people. Kenny's loss personalizes it big time for me, and it seems the older I get, the more sentimental I get.Although the Vietnam War has been over for 50 years, the memories still linger of the two friends lost there — one, a helicopter pilot, John Prombo Jr., and the other an infantryman, Harold Maddox.
Even though I was in the Army at the same time, I never left the States. Uncle Sam considers me a veteran, but the true veterans were the ones who put their lives on the line, the ones who survived the war and the ones who did not.
God bless them all.The Vietnam War ended 50 years ago — for some. The war goes on for some with post-traumatic stress disorder and Agent Orange-related illnesses.
McHenry County lost at least 35 brave young men. Those of us who got drafted got a 'greeting' letter from Norma Scott telling them to be at the Woodstock train station at 7 in the morning to catch a train to Chicago. After being inducted into the Army, they were transported by bus to O'Hare International Airport for a flight to their basic training. For many of us, it was Fort Polk in Louisiana.
After five or six months of training, many of us were on a plane headed to Southeast Asia hoping that we would survive the next 365 days so we could return to our families.
More than 58,000 Americans were killed in action. May they all rest in peace.As an American and a veteran (Vietnam, 1968-69) and on behalf of my comrades lost in that war, I must admit my disdain and anger — especially during the last election cycle — at how the American flag, in my estimation, was, and continues to be, desecrated with the image of Donald Trump's face plastered all over it.
Patriotic idolatry? Something to ponder, especially on Memorial Day.'Sittin' in the morning sun, I'll be sittin' when the evening comes.' This was my dad's favorite song. I thought it curious that he knew all the words. As his eldest daughter, I knew very little about the history of his service in the Army, and he never spoke about it. I knew he was one of the five Grzenia boys who served in World War II in different branches of service. In 1970, my dad chatted with my fiancé, a Marine who served in Vietnam, and only then did the history of my dad's service become known.
My dad, Bill Grzenia, served in Europe at the Battle of the Bulge. He was a sergeant, and during battle, his primary job was to lead a small team of men to scout the area and report back on enemy location. He spoke of the comrades he lost. He was wounded in both legs and left for three days in a foxhole during a brutal winter. He almost lost both legs due to the wounds and frostbite. He got patched up in France and went back to the front.
My dad passed away on Jan. 12, 1993. He was a humble, loving guy with the nickname 'Laughing Bill.' He suffered from alcoholism in his later years and, in my view, depression. As we were going through his personal items, shoved in a shoebox in a closet were letters, service documents, Army pictures, two Purple Hearts and a Bronze Star.
My dad loved his country and served it with honor. Healing takes time — it requires emotional and spiritual strength. We love him dearly, even with his secrets.While paying my respects at Arlington National Cemetery, I came across a headstone that was slowly being swallowed by a tree. The tree was probably a sapling when this person was laid to rest, but nature took its course.
Despite the honor of being interred at Arlington, it seemed unjust that this person's name was no longer visible. I checked the headstone directory for the headstone next to it and moved one number back. The search unearthed a name, and down the rabbit hole I went.
Meet Kurt Leibe. He was born in Germany in 1894 and received no higher than an eighth grade education. In 1939, he and his wife, Margaret, made the decision to immigrate to the U.S. with their son, Heinz. If you think for a moment about what was going on in Germany in 1939, it's safe to assume why they made the difficult decision to leave their home.
They departed Hamburg for New York on June 8 on a German ship aptly named the SS New York. They were third-class passengers, which meant they were in cramped, windowless quarters with uninsulated walls for about a month and a half.
In the U.S., Kurt joined the Navy and served as a chief petty officer in World War II, fighting the Axis powers that included his home country. A year later, the SS New York was requisitioned by the Nazis for the war. It was sunk in an air raid at Kiel in 1945.
His total income in 1940 was $1,800. Today, it would be about $41,000. He and Margaret owned a home in Washington, then valued at $4,500. Today, his home is a townhouse worth over a half million dollars.
Kurt's daughter, Margaret, was the first of the family to be born in the U.S., an American citizen.
Kurt died on Jan. 14, 1953. Margaret is buried next to him.
It's likely this letter won't be seen by many people, and his name will be forgotten. But before nature reclaims his headstone and his name is lost to history, let this be one last tribute to a man I've never met, who served in the armed forces so I'd never have to.
It's not much coming from a stranger, but: Kurt Liebe, thank you for your service.