The man who called last night sounded cheerful and upbeat. He told me he had important scholarship and career opportunities for my son to discuss with me.
I quicky established that he was a U.S. Army recruiter. My son, a straight A high school senior, I told him, wasn’t interested in the employer of last resort. He is university bound.
The chat took me back to my best boyhood friend, Buster Leroy Scott. Buster’s parents were Oklahoma Dust Bowl refugees who settled in Pacoima, California. It was an almost exclusively Black and Mexican Los Angeles community. Unsurprisingly, it was and is mired in poverty. Buster and his six siblings were white and lived in a large public housing project called San Fernando Gardens.
In high school, he and I decided to seek employment in the U.S. Army as soldiers. We did not call it “serving.” These would be jobs.
I backed out, but Buster stepped up and applied to work as a soldier. The recruiter told him that as a reward for not having to be drafted, Buster would avoid Vietnam duty. Instead, he would be trained as a truck mechanic at a base in Germany.
The army guy lied. Buster was deployed to Vietnam.
Two or three months after he left, I got word that he was missing. I naively thought that he must have gotten lost in the bush and would be found.
He was found dead.
Here’s a semi-official account of how Buster was killed.
Buster Leroy Scott, a Private First Class in the U.S. Army, tragically lost his life during the Vietnam War on June 3, 1970. He served as a crew chief and gunner on an OH-6A light observation helicopter, commonly known as a “Loach.” While conducting reconnaissance near Hiep Duc village in Quang Tin Province, his helicopter was hit by hostile ground fire, causing it to spin violently. Scott was thrown from the aircraft and fell 200-300 feet. Initially reported as missing in action, his remains were later recovered12.
Scott is honored on Panel 9W, Line 6 of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial1. He is remembered for his bravery and sacrifice.
I learned only a few weeks ago that Buster fell to his death. What a horrifying, terrible way to die.
Buster, another boy, Tony Castellanos and I were nearly inseparable from sixth grade throughout high school. This death still hurts me. The toughest white guy I’ve ever known never had a chance.
Tony and I dreamed of Buster often many months after his death. Sometimes he spoke to me. We were sure Buster had come to visit us a few more times.
In the last several years, soldiering has been transformed from a government job to a noble, selfless act. Thank you for your service, we say.
What I would say to Buster would be, thank you for letting me be your best friend.
Ricardo Chavira Chicano 