[In the photo at the top of the page, Tommy is standing in the center, flanked by 2 of his army buddies]
Thomas Michael Fitzpatrick, my cousin, was killed near Long Binh, Vietnam on April 18, 1969. He was only 21 years old. We still think of him often and still miss him. We thought of him last month at the funeral for his sister-in-law, Mary Finnegan Fitzpatrick (Mary was the widow of Tommy's oldest brother Jack).
Tommy was born on December 18, 1947, the youngest child of Albert and Catherine Fitzpatrick. Al and Catherine has three other children: Jack, Jerry, and Sheila. When we were growing up, Tommy lived on Shoreview in Euclid, Ohio, across from Upson School. When he was quite young, the family moved to Eastbrook Drive on the Euclid-Willowick border, about a block from Lake Erie. Tommy went to St. William's School. His dad, Al, was an engineer for the New York Central Railroad, and his mother, Catherine was at home. I believe Tommy started at St. Joesph High School and then transferred to Euclid High School, graduating in 1966 or '67. He was a bit of an Elvis, with his full lips, his intense eyes, and the wavy blond hair. Tom was also a fine football player and played at St. William's and at Euclid (and of course the playground tackle football that we all played).
Tommy was much beloved by his large extended Irish-American family--uncles, aunts, cousins, second-cousins, shirt-tail cousins, and by his many friends. It's odd that 39 years after his death he is still so missed. Maggie Brock, Ellen McHugh, and I have written poems about Tommy, and I'll post one or more of those below:
"Tommy"
(A poem for Tommy Fitzpatrick, killed in Vietnam April 1969)
I have run hard & straight
into the black break-
wall of memory. I have
crouched before it & once
when we were young, when we
were given the earth, handed
the world & now at this wall, Tommy,
I still remember you, fearless
in water, out in the deep, over
the waves, where I said
I couldn't swim, but you
believed otherwise —& you
were twenty-one in Vietnam’s
trash heap of beauty
when they killed you
on some river the day
after you arrived, when
you could have gone
on loving. You did
love & later
what was lost
that beautiful May
Monday in Ohio when
guardsmen, no older than
you, stood on the edge
of the green looking
up toward the sound
of helicopters whirring
low, over a field of dust
& flowers, everything
we would come to say
it was: a hell and not
spring—maybe it is
never spring. Yet
sometimes in summer
I dream of you
diving through
the break wall blue-
green Erie waves –-& now
I can swim, but
the waves are wild &
they carry me
away from you
toward shore, to safe
shallows & endless
sand.
I have run hard & straight
into the black break-
wall of memory. I have
crouched before it & once
when we were young, when we
were given the earth, handed
the world & now at this wall, Tommy,
I still remember you, fearless
in water, out in the deep, over
the waves, where I said
I couldn't swim, but you
believed otherwise —& you
were twenty-one in Vietnam’s
trash heap of beauty
when they killed you
on some river the day
after you arrived, when
you could have gone
on loving. You did
love & later
what was lost
that beautiful May
Monday in Ohio when
guardsmen, no older than
you, stood on the edge
of the green looking
up toward the sound
of helicopters whirring
low, over a field of dust
& flowers, everything
we would come to say
it was: a hell and not
spring—maybe it is
never spring. Yet
sometimes in summer
I dream of you
diving through
the break wall blue-
green Erie waves –-& now
I can swim, but
the waves are wild &
they carry me
away from you
toward shore, to safe
shallows & endless
sand.
(Ellen McHugh, based on Maggie Brock's writings)
"Tommy, we hardly knew ye." But we honor your life, your courage, your great sacrifice.
