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<em>Lon Spurlock</em> was, to all who truly knew him, a very special person—he was, to many, the most complete man they have known or could ever hope to know.</div>
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Shortly after his death, a number of his friends put together a collection of things written by Lon, as well as a few things Lon Arnold Spurlock II written about him. It was a deeply moving anthology, but still somehow it did not fully express the completeness of this unusual man, whose fullness still defies all efforts to reduce him to fixed definition.</div>
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And so, with appreciation and admiration for those who contributed to the original collection, I submit portions of their poignant expression of their love for Lon Arnold Spurlock II, and the profound sense of loss felt by all fortunate enough to know him.</div>
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From one of his close friends: “Lon Spurlock was a man of great strength, both physical and spiritual. He lived his life intensely, yet with rare sensitivity. He didn’t stand on circumstance and formality. He wanted to live, and live he did, intensely, as a soldier, as a husband, as a father, as a friend, and as a man.”</div>
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From another: “All real men have frailties. You had yours...but crowned with: a sparkle, given freely, a determination that would not be denied, an undaunted optimism, a eontagious smile, an enthused spirit, not put-downable, courage to take life’s risks, an intensity of life—lived short—but unsurpassed. You gave all this. What more could a friend—a loved one—give to those left behind? You knew what life was—and we learned from you.”</div>
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In the words of another: “Lon was one of those people whom it is always fun to be around. Lon was perpetually vibrant and alive, and when you met him you knew he would always be cheerful and optimistic, and that the enthusiasm was contagious, It was impossble to be depressed around Lon—he would simply overcome it by the strength of his own personality. I had looked forward so much to going through life with Lon as a friend, and I feel that I have lost something irreplaceable. There is a relationship which can develop among men which I don’t think women ever experience or fully understand. I had this sort of relationship with Lon, and I shall miss it I was not prepared for this to happen; but it has, and we must endure it, and we shall. None of us will ever be the same again, however.”</div>
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Others wrote:</div>
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“Lon meant something different to everyone who met him because he was so complex and so deep—and he was inevitably something special to each of these people...I wept today...I have never experienced such a feeling of emptiness.”</div>
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“I’ve got the memory of a man’s man-sort of the essence of a man.”</div>
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And finally from a non-commissioned officer who served with Lon in combat: “Please accept my sincere sympathy, for I loved him too.”</div>
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Lon wanted to experience all of life intensely, including the war that struck him down, War, he wrote, “is an all consuming experience.” His interest was not a mindless love of combat nor a blind patriotism; it was a natural expression of his abiding concern with the motives and motivations of man, both the physical and spiritual forces which surround and drive us.</div>
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He, therefore, fought to remain where the battle was being joined. When plans were made to move him up from his battalion to division headquarters, he resisted; he did not want to be removed from that place where the essence of life was most vividly revealed by the ever present threat of death.</div>
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As Lon wrote:</div>
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"...where I am, no one knows whether he will be around to see the sun rise the next day, and such a tense uncertain existence has a way of expanding time by factor of a thousand. I am fortunate in that I am still riding high and audaciously confident, but I have already seen many strong men who have lost their nerve completely and whose every moment is filled with absolute, terrifying fear. I’m like a professional football player. The war is a game, a livelihood, an all-consuming experience. One plays it hard and fast and savagely for twelve months, or until one is either taken out or wiped out of the game. The object of the game is to find Charlie and destroy him and to survive while doing so. There is little thought and even less talk of politics, diplomacy, moral issues, or hearts and minds...</div>
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“Almost everyone does his best here, some die, some live, some get medals, and some do not. To those who are here, there is neither merit nor discredit in medals, only chance.”</div>
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It is here, in what Lon wrote, that is revealed most clearly and completely his rare combination of sensitivity and strength. For in Lon Spurlock was combined, in the fullest measure of both, the sensitivity of the poet and the strength of the soldier.</div>
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To his wife:</div>
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“My love for you is always with me—in the helicopter, in the swamps, in the ambush—I feel it especially strong when the bullets zip and crack and hiss and thud nearby. It strengthens me, gives me confidence, and always stands as a reason for pressing on when things look grim...You are my foundation, my source of strength, my hope, my best friend, my only value, and my only concrete reason for living. On the fringe of existence, and I have been there—everything else disappears. There I can see only Suzie.”</div>
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To a daughter on her birthday:</div>
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“High upon an Asian wind</div>
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Your father flies above</div>
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and wishes you on this your day</div>
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a life of play</div>
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with one true love</div>
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and one real friend.”</div>
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On life:</div>
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“I believe that the only value in life is life itself, and that life is found only in such things as love and hope. To have life, both love and hope must first have freedom and truth. They cannot live if they are based on paper, words, money, force, or falsehoods.”</div>
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Again, on life:</div>
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“Let us break free</div>
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from our separate pasts</div>
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and soar suspended</div>
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in a single present.</div>
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“If we fall, then</div>
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let us fall freely</div>
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in a bold attempt to fly;</div>
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for which is worse:</div>
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the fear of flying</div>
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or the regret of never having flown?”</div>
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On the war:</div>
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“Time has lost its meaning for me. Days rush by in a continuous blur, yet it seems as though all time has stopped, that I have been here forever, and that this little world is the only real existence in the universe. The faces are always changing. Old ones go away, and new ones appear and even some of the new ones disappear quickly. But the numbers stay the same. At night the flares and tracers light up the sky, machine guns rattle, grenades thump, and always the artillery crashes and booms. Sometimes bullets crack, snap, and zip, and the world turns upside down and spins outside the chopper door. Radios hiss and blare, and smoke of all colors rises all around. A thousand smells vie for distinction, and the tropic sun sears everything.</div>
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“The coffee urn is always empty, and the Vietnamese beg for C rations, candy and cigarettes. The laundry smells of sour paddy water, Americans rush suddenly to the toilet, and old peasant women squat unashamedly in the green fields. The chaplain solemnly states that we are to sing the first and fourth verses of hymn number 103.</div>
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“Helicopters fly</div>
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Soldiers shoot</div>
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People die</div>
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Statesmen talk.”</div>
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To his wife written a few days before his death:</div>
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“I am suffering from a terrible case of lovesickness. You see, I met this lovely girl on R&R and fell hopelessly in love with her. She has blue eyes, two sets of beautiful hair, and long lovely legs. In addition, she is charming, lively, and intelligent. I miss her terribly and live only for the day that I can see her and touch her and be with her again...I feel like a moonstruck teenager.”</div>
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On Soldiers and Poets:</div>
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“Can a soldier be a poet</div>
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Mister NOETAL?</div>
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If he doesn’t show it</div>
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stands straight and tall</div>
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chest up chin in</div>
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eyes straight ahead</div>
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he can write all he wants</div>
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after he is dead.”</div>
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And finally from Lon: “Come with me ... to a place.”</div>
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And from one who knew him: “We mourn for all of us.”</div>