Note how melodramatic Kerry is about what was really just a couple of weeks he spent with somebody 30—some years ago, in his comments on the death of Thomas Belodeau, as printed in the Congressional Record dated January 28, 1998:

Mr.  KERRY.  Mr.  President,  I  ask unanimous consent to have printed in the RECORD  the text of the eulogy I gave   for   my   friend,   Thomas   M. Belodeau, on November 10, 1997.

The eulogy follows:

Mrs. Belodeau, Michael; Ann, Tommy's sisters  Patricia  and  Mary;  his  brothers  Leo, James,  Joseph,  and  Larry,  to  all  his  relatives, and to his brothers from Vietnam— particularly Del Sandusky from Illinois and Gene  Thorsen  from  Iowa—his  crewman  on PCF  94—to  the  Doghunters  and  to  all  of Tommy's friends and extended family.

A number of us thought once foolishly that we brothers of Vietnam had gotten used to saying goodbye to our friends before their time. But Tommy is proving us dangerously wrong. We will never get used to it—and well we should not.

So now the question is, how do you say goodbye to a man whose steady hand and courageous heart helped keep you alive? How do you say goodbye to a man who shared the most challenging and terrifying moments of your life?

First, you should all know that we are saying goodbye to a hero. We are saying goodbye  to  the  genuine  article—a  patriot—a young kid fresh out of Chelmsford High who in difficult times saw his duty and who did it.  Tommy  was  one  of  America's  children who went to war against a people he knew precious  little  about  in  a  land  he'd  never been to—for reasons never honestly stated— and he was, like so many, forever changed.

It is hard for me to convey to you the full measure of what that means in 1997, particularly here, today. But in 1966, Tommy and I unwittingly became brothers in the great, divisive, confusing enterprise called Vietnam. We  were  both  class  of  '66—he  from  high school and me from college. Though we came from different backgrounds, we didn't in the sense that we both believed in service to our country. We both chose to go into the Navy. We both volunteered for Swift boats in Vietnam. We met when we were thrown together as a crew after his first skipper got hit in an ambush.

I inherited Tommy and the rest of his seasoned crew, and it was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Many of you may have read Tom's obituary the other day. It said he had won a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star with Combat V for serving in Vietnam. That only told you part of the story—and no one here would be surprised  that  Tommy  never  told  you  the rest.

He  also  won  the  Navy  Commendation medal:

Let  me  share  with  you  what  Admiral Zumwalt said in awarding it to Tom:

''For  heroic  achievement  while  serving with   friendly   foreign   forces   engaged   in armed  conflict  against  North  Vietnamese and Viet Cong communist aggressors in the Republic of Vietnam on 5 July, 1968. Seaman Belodeau was serving as a crewman on board Patrol  Craft  27  which  was  blockading  the beach in the vicinity of air strikes on an enemy platoon near the village of My Lai, Quang Ngai Province. Observing a Viet Cong suspect run from the enemy position, Seaman Belodeau's Patrol Craft fast moved in to attempt  a  capture  and  was  immediately taken under enemy fire. Seaman Belodeau, ignoring the enemy fire around him, calmly moved into the open to make the capture. He helped pull the suspect from the water and got him aboard his boat. Seaman Belodeau's courageous actions in capturing a Viet Cong suspect under enemy fire were in the highest tradition of the United States Naval Service.''

 Seaman Belodeau is authorized to wear the Combat ''V''. That was just a day that happened  to  be  notice,  sandwiched  between many more like it or worse, that were not. That was the measure of the man I inherited on my crew.

From the day we came together, we gelled as a crew. And it was the way it ought to be. The crew didn't have to prove themselves to me. I had to earn my spurs with them. When the  Chief  Petty  Officer,  Del  Sandusky— known as ''Sky'', who came from Illinois to be with Tom today, finally gave me the seal of enlisted man's approval, Tommy was the first to enthusiastically say: ''I told you so, Sky, he's from Massachusetts!!″

You have to understand that we lived together as closely and as intensely on 50 feet of floating armament as men can live. And we learned all there is to learn about each other.

Sometimes it was a funny learning process, as  when  Mike  Medeiros  exhibited  a  hard time understanding Tommy. ''Are you from Brooklyn?'' he would ask. Tommy would respond with pride and impatience: ''Nah: I'm from Boston.''

There was the time we were carrying special forces up a river and a mine exploded under our boat sending it 2 feet into the air. We  were  receiving  incoming  rocket  and small arms fire and Tommy was returning fire with his M—60 machine gun when it literally broke apart in his hands. He was left holding the pieces unable to fire back while one of the Green Berets walked along the edge of the boat to get Tommy another M—60. As he was doing so, the boat made a high speed turn to starboard and the Green Beret kept going—straight into the river. The entire time while the boat went back to get the Green Beret, Tommy was without a machine gun or a weapon of any kind, but all the time he was hurling the greatest single string of Lowell—Chelmsford curses ever heard at the Viet Cong. He literally had swear words with tracers on them!

There was, of course, the moment in February, 1969 when he was positioned in the very bow of the boat—in the totally exposed peak  tank—with  more  than  half  his  body just sticking up exposed to the enemy, when 3 boats turned toward the river bank and Tommy found himself staring straight into an ambush 20 yards ahead. He never flinched as  he  charged  the  beach  and  routed  the enemy—not just once, but twice. For Seaman  Belodeau's  devotion  to  duty,  courage under fire, and exemplary professionalism, in the  highest  tradition  of  the  Navy  he  was awarded the Bronze Star with Combat V.

I cannot adequately convey or describe to you the measure of this man at war—standing in his peak tank in the bow, screaming up a river in the dead of night, no moon, 50 yards from Cambodia literally bouncing off the river bank, waiting for a mine to go off or a rocket to explode—and always steady, always dependable, always there for the rest of the crew.

All Belodeaus, Chelmsford, Massachusetts, and the United States should be proud of this warrior.

But, perhaps the greatest reason for pride as we bid our Tommy goodbye, is not what he did, but who he was.

In many ways, Tommy walked in the footsteps of Emerson and Thoreau. He was a man who  wanted  to  walk  quietly  to  his  own tune—never with any in your face attitude. He just quietly wanted to be, and was, his own man.

From what I know, he always had this special quiet quality. His expression spoke for him. As many of you know, he was not a man of many words. So he'd just give you a look. And the look would tell it allfierce determination; rollicking good fun; profound sadness. I know you can see his expression for any mood he had. My favorite look of all was his bemused, ''What the hell does the skipper think he's doing now?"

Tom would join a great group of veterans who had been involved in my '84 campaign called the Dog—hunters. We would gather irregularly  for  a  black  tie  dinner  and  each time  everyone  would  eagerly  await  Tom's non—speech. He was clearly the most beloved member of our group despite his distaste for saying anything in public.

In his reticence to draw attention to himself or speak in public lies the true measure of  this  great  friend.  Because  in  1984,  and again in 1996, it was his passionate, personal commitment,  his  driving  sense  of  loyalty, that against all his other instincts drew him again into the line of fire. I will never forget the brilliance and eloquence with which he stood up to fight for me and for the honor of our service.

Again  and  again,  Tom  proved  the  real value of friendship. For all of us here in this extended family, it will never be the same. No campaign of the future will be the same without  you,  Tom.  No  Doghunters'  dinner will be complete without your knowing smile and blushing nonspeech.

None of this in any way suggests that it was all peaches and cream for Tommy. We know it wasn't. His family and his friends could see the sadness in his eyes that some say changed with Vietnam.

There were times when all us of us around Tommy knew he needed a lift: but try as one could,  his  sense  of  self  reliance  and  pride gave him a sixth sense that something was up and he would quietly find an excuse to slide away or just tell you things were going fine even when they weren't. Joey tells me that stubborn streak came from their father. But always he was the most generous in any group, ready to help another.

So Michael, today, we his friends want to reaffirm to you what you must know: your father was enormously proud of you—loved you  dearly—and  knew  that  sometimes  his own sense of pride about what he wanted for you prevented him from always living up to his own expectations. But nothing that he did  or  thought  ever  diminished  his  joy  in who you are and his trust in what you will grow to be.

For everyone who knew and loved him here today, there is a special sorrow; because we all sensed that in his recent return to Massachusetts, Tommy had found a peace and purpose which had liberated him from any demons.  He  enthusiastically  joined  in  telephoning friends for Chris Greeley's engagement party. He looked happy and engaged. I saw him about 4 weeks ago and he seemed more  energized  and  happy  than  in  some time. There was a gleam in his eye and we promised  to  get  together  soon.  As  Chuck Tamulonis who took such care of him and meant so much to him told me yesterday,

 'He was filling the refrigerator with no—fat food, coming home early, and even cooking the meals.''

Last year when our crew came together as a whole at election time for the first time in 27 years, we departed with the expectation that we were hooked up and on the road to growing  old  together.  But  God  had  other plans. And of all people we should not be surprised.   We   have   always   said   at   our Doghunter dinner that one thing we learned in Vietnam was Grace of God, every day beyond Vietnam was extra. Tommy had a lot of extra days and for that we are grateful.

So today, as we say goodbye, joined with his family and those he grew up with, what we, his friends, celebrate above all in Tommy's  life  is  his  special,  gentle  decency—a loyal,  loyal  friend  of  enormous  heart  who was  generous  in  spirit  beyond  expectation and sometimes beyond understanding.

To    Radarman    Seaman,    Thomas    M. Belodeau,  to  our  friend  Tommy:  until  we meet again, may you have fair winds and following seas. And may we all leave here reminded of the words of the poet William Butler Yeats:

''Think where man's glory most begins and ends.  And  say,  my  glory  was,  I  had  such friends.''

++++++

'There was the time we were carrying special forces up a river and a mine exploded under our boat sending it 2 feet into the air. We  were  receiving  incoming  rocket  and small arms fire and Tommy was returning fire with his M—60 machine gun when it literally broke apart in his hands. He was left holding the pieces unable to fire back while one of the Green Berets walked along the edge of the boat to get Tommy another M—60. As he was doing so, the boat made a high speed turn to starboard and the Green Beret kept going—straight into the river. The entire time while the boat went back to get the Green Beret, Tommy was without a machine gun or a weapon of any kind, but all the time he was hurling the greatest single string of Lowell—Chelmsford curses ever heard at the Viet Cong. He literally had swear words with tracers on them!'

This would appear to be the March 13, 1969 Rassman incident. Note that it is not very similar to the way the event is described today. In this version Kerry says his boat was lifted into the air by the mine explosion, and that Rassman fell off of his boat because he made such a sharp turn.

It should be noted too that Kerry and Belodeau only served together for about a month and a half——from early February to March 17, 1969.

Posted by Steve Gilbert  8 28 04