Yes, I Am a Mormon

In the summer of 1973 the war in Southeast Asia was still being fought, and I was assigned by the United States Air Force to a base in Thailand. Leaving my wife and two small children that day was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to do. It was only the assurances I received in a blessing from my father that gave me the courage to turn and walk to the awaiting airplane. He promised in that blessing that I would “not be forced to participate in any unlawful activities,” and that I would be “kept clean to return to my family.”

After a few days at jungle survival school in the Philippines, I went on to my final assignment in Thailand as a navigator and weapons systems officer in a fighter squadron. I was determined to do my job well and make the year pass as quickly as possible.

On the evening of my arrival, the other squadron members flew back from their bombing missions, and soon I was invited to join in celebrating their safe return. It was with some apprehension that I entered the room to meet what would be my “family” for the next twelve months. The party was going strong. I politely refused an alcoholic drink, took a soda pop, and tried to hide myself in quiet conversation surrounded by the pounding of music and layers of cigarette smoke.

As I was introduced to the others, I eventually ended up standing at the bar counter with the squadron commander, a colonel. With his arm around my neck, I was a captive audience, listening to his tales of airplanes, daring adventures, and past comrades.

Soon a signal was given and the men gathered around the bar. The music was turned off and it became very quiet. A daily tradition was about to be carried out. Everyone was served a small drink of very strong alcohol, a lime, and some salt. When the drinks came around to me, I said quietly, trying to be casual, “No, thank you, I prefer this soft drink.”

“But this is a squadron tradition,” the man said.

Thoughts raced through my mind: “Why me? Why in front of the whole squadron? Why the very first night?” Trying to sound confident, I explained that I did not drink alcohol but would participate with soda pop.

With that, the silence deepened, then the commander’s arm tightened around my neck. “Lieutenant,” he said, “I’m ordering you to have this drink. You’ll drink it if I have to pour it down you myself.”

I thought of how far I could get if I tried to fight. I imagined the results, and an unpleasant visit to the senior officer to request a change to another squadron. Again I asked myself the question, “Why me?” Oh, how I wished to be home across those eight thousand miles of ocean. Then I remembered the promise my father had given me a week earlier. I gathered all my courage in that waiting silence and said, “I’m sorry, sir, I will not drink alcohol.”

An electricity filled the air. I prayed with all my heart, “Heavenly Father, help me get through this night.”

The colonel leaned back and measured me with his eyes, then replied, “You are going to drink this …”

I prayed.

Then he added, “… unless you are a Mormon.”

What relief filled my soul! Of course I was a Mormon. Why hadn’t I mentioned it earlier? Was I ashamed of my reason for not drinking? Didn’t I believe that God in his wisdom gave such a commandment? I answered, “Yes, I’m a Mormon.”

He questioned me again to make sure I wasn’t simply pretending I was a Mormon. Then he said, “A soft drink for this man.”

As I prayed later that night, I thanked my Heavenly Father for the lesson I had learned so far from home. I thanked him for an earthly father inspired to bless his son. I was thankful that my conviction was now known to everyone, and that for the next twelve months the whole squadron would make sure I remained true to my commitments. I was thankful that somewhere some other Latter-day Saint had not been afraid to let the colonel know why he lived a clean life. It was then also that I promised never to hesitate to say, “I am a Mormon.”