Subject: Ed Leonard: "I'll Meet You On The Other Side"

Please say a prayer (an raise a glass) for my dad:

"I'll See You On The Other Side"

Lt. Col. Edward W. Leonard, Jr. (Aug. 9, 1938-Nov. 11, 2014), written by his daughter, Tracy Leonard-Turi

Shortly after Memorial Day weekend in 1968 my father was shot down over Laos in his A-1E Skyraider, and the irony of this coincidence was not lost on him. He distinctly remembered that, in spite of the angry cadre of enemy soldiers in hot pursuit, he had plenty of time to wager whether he was destined to be forever remembered on Memorial Day or Veterans Day. He didn't yet know that he would survive a brutal capture, five years of hell in various prisoner of war camps, and 3½ years in solitary before coming home to tell his story.

Stories were his forte. He told lots of stories, and each time he told them the punchline became funnier and more audacious. He loved nothing more than to jubilantly recount episodes of his own trickery and juvenile antics: the hiding of secret messages to other POWs under human feces, the stealing of the prison guards' chair dowel rods that he clandestinely carved into chess pieces, the lighting of farts, trickery that alleviated the unfathomable boredom and also took his mind off the inhumanity of it all.

Over the years, he began to leave the diabolical details of his torture out of these stories, preferring the lighthearted versions and re-imagining himself as a grand character in his own movie. It was a wise tactic and one that made the past bearable. Yet, his stories were also powerful because they weren't just stories. They were parables about hardship and tragedy, parables that remind us all to never give up. To never, ever, ring that bell.

My dad was a man of great courage.

Sandy 7 was stubborn and intrepid, and he had grit. He looked danger in the eye and never backed down. Ever.

He survived over 250 of the most dangerous combat missions of the Vietnam war. Every man he ever went in to rescue came home alive. Every damn one of them.

And although it cost him five years of freedom, he NEVER regretted one day of captivity. Never.

A verse in Mark Knopfler's song, Brothers in Arms, a song about a soldier dying in the battlefield, perfectly captures my father's sentiments:

He was proud that he never deserted his brothers-in-arms. He was proud that they never abandoned him. And he always said that he would do it all over again: the fear, the hunger, the humiliation, and the pain, just to save even one of these men, these brothers-in-arms, all of whom he loved dearly and with his whole heart.

And, knowing my dad, he would do it all over again with the same irreverence, the same aplomb and the same wise-ass sense of humor that frequently cost him a rifle butt to the spine, or a broken jaw, or the inability to think straight for weeks on end as he lay splayed out on a rack at the back of his cell, knocked senseless and incapacitated, but still snickering quietly inside.

The measure of any man is whether he leaves this earth having added more than he extracted. My father positively changed the lives of numerous men for the better. In many cases they were strangers and he risked his life for them, prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice, so that they could live.

He loved them UNCONDITIONALLY and GENEROUSLY and without regret. He was resolute in his dedication to his country, to his brothers-in-arms, to his fellow cellmates, and to his mission. My dad and all of these men returned home with honor.

My dad's grit had a long shelf life too.

He was supposed to die a long time ago. Years of demonic torture had taken their toll. He suffered from congestive heart failure and advanced lung disease. His spine bore the scars of numerous fractures and was crumbling; many of his large joints had been replaced multiple times.

But my father refused to capitulate to death, which he had defied many, many times over the years. When I flew out last week to say goodbye, it was clear that he still considered death, which he could see lurking in the shadows of the VA, a far less insidious foe than any he had faced in wartime. Even as he and his fellow POW buddy, Dennis, hung out together one last time, remembering their years together as LULUs, I swear I saw them both gleefully giving the Grim Reaper the finger every time it limped furtively toward our doorway. My father simply didn't have time for all that.

Not when there was a steak dinner waiting for him at The Depot, pancakes at Benson's, seafood from Jessie's, Marionberry jam from The Berry Patch, and Mongolian barbeque with his good friend, Merlin. For years, his own doctor had uncategorically told him to cut it out with all those high cholesterol meals . . . . He gave his doctor the finger too. He'd dieted for five years in Laos and decided he didn't have time for all that either.

In fact, for his last GREAT evening on earth, he and Merlin enjoyed a prodigious Italian meal at Fulio's, one of his favorite restaurants in Astoria. A steak "as raw as the law allows," spaghetti ragu with two extra meatballs, steamer clams and an impressive basket of garlic ciabatta. What a way to go.

This afternoon, it finally took the angels themselves to descend from their perches and personally whisk my Dad away, cradling his spirit in their arms and protecting him from harm. He had his challenge coin so he could one day welcome his buddies to the other side. He was at peace. And, he will be forever remembered on Veterans Day, a very poignant and fitting end.

My father's final wish was for all the people he loved, and all of their loved ones, to be happy and blessed and protected from above. As a final farewell, I want to share with you a short blessing, Beannacht, written by the Irish poet and philosopher, John O'Donohue. It is a blessing that I hope you will all carry with you in your hearts and minds for all your days, and pass along to every person you meet throughout your lifetime:

(Tracy's E-mail: tturi@verizon.net).