Each November, the Pinewood News proudly dedicates its pages to honoring Munds Park veterans, paying tribute to those who have served with courage and commitment. This year, we’re especially honored to feature Rick Van Deurzen, who recently received the Bronze Star Medal with a “V” device—an award bestowed for extraordinary valor in combat—right here in Munds Park. Representative Eli Crane, from Arizona’s 2nd Congressional District, presented Rick with this prestigious medal, making the ceremony a memorable and heartfelt moment for our community. Before the event, I had the privilege of sitting down with Rick and his dog Alice, where he shared the story of his service and the courageous acts that led to this significant recognition.
Knowing Rick was a Vietnam veteran, I asked him whether he had been drafted or enlisted. “I had just turned 18,” he replied. “I was getting into trouble, up to no good. It was either keep on that path or go into the Army to learn discipline and a skill. So, I enlisted.”
Rick served as the squad leader for 1st Platoon, Company C, 8th Engineer Battalion. He trained at Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri, where he first learned the fundamentals of explosives. After completing Basic and Advanced Infantry training, he went straight to Vietnam as a combat engineer specializing in demolitions. “I got to blow things up,” he said with a slight grin. “I disposed of traps and anything else they needed destroyed. If a plane went down or any strategic American equipment was at risk of capture, I’d demolish it to prevent the enemy from reverse-engineering it and learning our secrets. I’d even clear landing zones for helicopters to come in. Blowing things up was a great way to blow off steam—something I had plenty of as a young man.”
As I began to interview Rick, my thoughts were shadowed by my own family’s past. My brother was drafted into the Vietnam War, and even though I was young at the time, the war’s mental toll on my brother was painfully evident and stays with me to this day. In desperation, he shot himself in the leg, hoping for a way out, but they simply patched him up and sent him back to the front lines. To cope, he turned to heroin and returned home with mental scars that never healed. With this personal history in mind and aware that Rick had mentally survived the war, I asked him how he managed to stay grounded and maintain hope throughout such a harrowing time.
Rick described the stark reality of their missions: staying focused was a matter of life and death—a relentless intensity that was difficult to sustain but essential to master. Back at base camp, the pressure eased. “We’d go straight to the bar,” he recounted. “We’d down a few beers and smoke some doobies—that was our only way out.” Others did more, but I refrained from the hard stuff.
“Nights were tough and hard to cope with,” Rick remembers. “Our camp was right in the middle of a rubber tree plantation, and the Viet Cong frequently attacked from the cover of those trees. “When rockets or mortars hit, they’d explode above us, raining metal down all night. Whenever possible, I’d volunteer for night missions. It was safer out there, and I didn’t have to deal with the brass. Oddly, I felt free and safe—it was another way of coping with the relentless reality of war.
Curious if he held onto any good memories from his time in Vietnam, I watched as his expression soften. “One Christmas, they brought in a jeep trailer packed with iced beer—the first time in a year we’d had anything cold. We all gathered around that trailer, the frost on the bottles reminding us of home. We downed those cold brews, laughing, swapping stories, just chewing the fat. For a little while, the war faded away. It was a good time.”
When I asked how Vietnam had shaped his life, he reflected. “It was when I grew up,” he said. “You’re fighting to stay alive, and none of us thought we’d make it out of there. I was wild before I joined—one of eight kids, a latchkey kid. We beat each other up all the time. I did what I wanted, when I wanted. In the service, I learned to listen, to be part of a team, to have my brothers’ backs, not just my own. When I finally put the bottle down and built my life with Gail, I was able to put those skills to work.”
Rick served for three years, but when he came home, he faced a new battle. “We were hated. Called baby killers. Some soldiers were even spit on. The moment we stepped off the plane in California, protesters were there, waiting to tear us down, to make us feel even smaller than we already did. When I flew home to Wisconsin, they told us to hide our uniforms to avoid the backlash and the scorn.”
After all he’d been through, I asked him how it felt to come home to that kind of reception. His answer was another heartbreak. “When I got to my hometown, I sat at the airport for three hours, waiting for someone to come get me. I have eight brothers and sisters, but none of my family came,” he said softly. “Finally, my sister showed up. No welcome home. Nothing.”
He went on to tell me about how his own family treated him. Each story revealed a new layer of hurt, the kind that stays with you, heavy and raw. I asked him how he managed to get through that kind of rejection, carrying everything he endured alone.
“I drank,” he said. “I drank to get drunk, to fight. That went on for over ten years, drinking and tearing things up until I moved to Arizona and met the love of my life and turned things around.”
I asked him how he met his wife, Gail. “I was living in Wisconsin, knowing I had to change or I’d die. So I moved to Arizona to be with my older brother, and we opened a small repair business. I went to drop off a bill at a realtor’s office, our client, and that’s when Gail saw me. She turned to her mother and said, “I’m going to marry that man! She had never met me, but she knew I belonged to her.” Forty-two years later, we’re still together.
When I asked if he’d ever considered putting his experiences on paper, he paused. “Sometimes I think about it,” he admitted, “but I’m not sure anyone could handle reading it—not even me. Some things are better left where they are.”
Yet, even after all he endured, he looked back with a surprising sense of gratitude. “Even with all that, it was the best thing that happened to me. It made me who I am. It was a long journey, but I’m happy with who I’ve become, my life with my wife, my kids. I’d do it all again.”
At last, I asked what he’d want today’s generation to understand about the Vietnam era. He didn’t hesitate. “They need to know it was a war,” he said, his voice unwavering. “Not a conflict. A war.” He let that sink in, then continued, “Every young person should serve two years after high school. Go to boot camp, get trained. It would teach them discipline, honor, and what it truly means to be an American.”
When I turned the conversation to the battle that earned him his medal, he shifted a bit, the humility in his eyes unmistakable. Soft-spoken and reserved, Rick seemed almost reluctant to take any credit for the heroic actions that had set him apart.
“Well, a Cobra Helicopter had gone down—a gunship. My job was to head out during the night, gather up all the ammunition and equipment, and blow it up so the enemy couldn’t get anything useful,” he began, his tone matter-of-fact but soft. After finishing the job, he returned to Bù Đốp Camp, about three miles from the Cambodian border. “I joined my buddies in trenches just down from the line of rubber trees,” he said. “Those trees were owned by the French, so they were off-limits. If the Americans damaged the trees in battle, we’d have to pay the French. The Viet Cong knew it and used them for cover, shooting at us from the safety of that tree line.”
Life in the trenches was intense. “Whenever anyone lifted their head, a sniper was waiting,” he continued, his words plain but heavy with meaning. That morning, on September 10, 1969, the situation turned critical. Mortars, rockets, and gunfire came down from a much larger Viet Cong force. Rick paused, taking a moment before going on. A soldier further down the trench had raised his head, trying to spot movement. A mortar exploded just in front of him, hitting him with shrapnel. “I saw him go down,” Rick said quietly. The soldier’s screams cut through everything else. Without a second thought, Rick rushed over, grabbed him, and pulled him toward the medical bunker. Mortars kept pounding around them, bullets slicing through the air. He got his comrade to safety and returned to the front line to battle the enemy.
Through Rick’s swift and selfless actions under fire, the wounded soldier received the critical medical attention he needed—saving his life. “I don’t see that I did anything heroic,” Rick said. “I just did what any brother would do. Out there, we had each other’s backs.”
Rick had assumed the soldier he saved hadn’t survived. But about 20 years later, Mark Piasecki—the man Rick had saved—managed to find him. The unit distributed a newsletter to keep the troops in touch and announce upcoming reunions. Mark saw Rick’s name in one issue and decided to give him a call. As fate would have it, Rick was in town, and they reconnected. The bond they forged on the battlefield turned into a lifelong friendship, proving that some ties, once made, are unbreakable.
Mark firmly believed Rick deserved recognition and wanted him to receive the Bronze Star. Rick had been in line for a Purple Heart, but his medical documents were lost when the helicopter carrying them was shot down, taking his chance for the medals with it. In the days before digital records, once documents were destroyed, they were gone for good. Mark, John Burnie another brother in arms, Rick’s wife Gail, and their daughters were determined to ensure Rick’s bravery would not go unrecognized. Following years of persistent letters and phone calls, Rick was awarded the Bronze Star Medal with a “V” device right here in Munds Park, in our hometown church packed with family, friends, and neighbors—a true testament to his character and his love of country and community.
As the ceremony concluded and the crowd’s applause faded into a respectful celebration, the Bronze Star pinned to his chest was not just a medal; it was a symbol of courage and sacrifice—a late acknowledgment of a young soldier’s valor in the face of unimaginable challenges. The gravity of this moment served as a profound reminder of the harsh realities Rick had faced during his service.
Mark Piasecki—the man Rick had saved—stood right here in Munds Park, side by side with Rick, to celebrate this day. I had the honor of meeting him, and I asked what he did after leaving the hospital. Mark’s answer was simple, yet profound. “I went back to the war,” he said, “to be with my brothers.”
In that moment, it was clear that the ties forged in battle run deep. They’re bonds that last a lifetime, bringing two men together again—one who saved a life and one whose life was given back to him. And today, in the peace of Munds Park, they stood together, a testament to courage, sacrifice, and brotherhood that not even time could diminish.
As we celebrate Rick’s story, we are reminded of all those who have served with honor and bravery. This Veterans Day, we offer our deepest gratitude to every veteran—those who have worn the uniform, stood watch, and sacrificed in ways most of us can only imagine. We honor your courage, your dedication, and the freedoms you’ve safeguarded for us all. Today and always, we thank you.
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