This story ran on the front page of The Atlanta Journal of Monday evening, May 30, 1966.
For Spec. 6 Roy F. Pryor of Atlanta, Memorial Day was not only a day of prayer, but a day of tearful parting.
On a sunlit spring day, while millions of Americans paid tribute to the nation’s war dead or headed for holiday outings, Pryor stood in green fatigues at the Atlanta Airport.
The husky, 31-year-old professional soldier was flying toward the west coast with his Ft. Gordon unit … final destination “classified” … a good guess, the Middle East, or Viet Nam.
Milling around, their somber mood contrasting with that of passing travelers, were more than 100 buddies of a company-sized surgical hospital group.
Mrs. Theresa Pryor was there, too, all the way to the final formation of soldiers at the loading ramp for the flight to Chicago.
An understanding captain gave permission with his eyes. Pryor left the three straight ranks of men, M-14 carbines slung over their shoulders.
Mrs. Pryor handed her husband the baby, Michelle, who will not be two until July and could not understand the quiet tears of her mother.
Pryor put down his carbine, a Confederate flag adding his stamp to the butt. He held his daughter close, put his free arm around his wife.
“We’re worried,” Theresa Pryor said, her voice choked with emotion.
“We’re worried, but I have just got a job to do,” her husband said.
It was a beautiful spring morning, just the kind a man waits for to take his family on a picnic in the countryside or to the zoo. But Pryor’s unit was headed overseas and time was running out for him.
“Honey,” he said, eyes shining but tearless, “you’d better go.”
Little Michelle gave her father a last hug. Mrs. Pryor, cheeks damp and glistening in the bright light, turned and walked down the long empty corridor to the airport lobby.
Spec. 6 Roy F. Pryor, 14 years a soldier, twice in Korea, stepped back into the ranks, hoisted his M-14 to his shoulder.
This is the way his family will remember Memorial Day 1966.
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