Obit: Bandor, Gary (1946 – 1968)
Contact:
stan@wiclarkcountyhistory.org
Surnames: Bandor, Buba
----Source: THORP COURIER (Thorp, Clark County, Wis.) 28 Mar 1968
Bandor, Gary (20 FEB 1946 – 23 MAR 1968)
Gary Bandor, critically injured in a jeep accident last Tuesday at Ft. Sill,
Oklahoma, died Saturday night of a cerebral hemorrhage and basil brain damage at
Ft. Sill.
Bandor, the son of Mr. and Mrs. Jess Bandor of Thorp (Clark Co., Wis.), was
injured Tuesday at 4 p.m. and died Saturday at 10:15 p.m.
Bandor was riding in a jeep with three other servicemen when the mishap
occurred. He was not driving the vehicle.
Bandor was one of the great athletes in Thorp history. He was selected
All-Northwest quarterback in both 1962 and 1963, and also made the All-Northwest
basketball team in 1963-64.
He graduated from Thorp High School in 1964 and entered the University of
Wisconsin. He played on the freshman football team that fall and was elevated to
the varsity as a sophomore the following year. Bandor was a letter winner as a
defensive back and offensive flanker.
He entered service in the spring of 1966 and had already served a eyar in
Vietnam when the accident occurred.
Funeral services will be held at 10 a.m. Friday at St. Mary's Polish National
Catholic Church, Lublin, with Rev. Matthew Buba officiating. Interment will be
in the church cemetery.
The Rosary services will be recited at 8 p.m. Thursday.
(The following article was written by a college roommate of Gary at the University of Wisconsin, Madison)
By DIRK VAN SUSTEREN
Once a year, in late fall, I reach into the rafters of our small barn for the
family’s cross-country skis. And when I do, I usually take note of a snapped-off
piece of fiberglass pole stored there. Its inscription reads: “Gary Bandor,
Freshman Track, University of Wisconsin, Feb. 16, 1965.”
It was Bandor’s pole-vaulting souvenir, one he had forgotten when he left our
dormitory room in Tripp Hall and the university in June 1966. I had taken it
home at the end of our semester together, figuring I would return it to him the
following autumn when I would see him next.
We had been sophomore roommates, drawn together by shared interests and
backgrounds. We were both small-town Wisconsin, interested in sports and, as it
turned out, experts at wasting time. We traded hours of valuable study time
watching Untouchables reruns in a basement recreation room or playing ‘dorm-room
basketball’ with wadded papers and wastebasket. Bandor had another distraction,
though, and this one was legit: He was a flanker on the university’s football
team, and a good one. He had been named the team’s “most improved” player in
1965.
That was a rough year for many on campus. The university was known for its
political activism, That year the Vietnam War had begun raging; there were
teach-ins, marches as a growing number of our classmates began struggling with
the moral and geopolitical implications of the war, not to mention the prospects
of being drafted and killing or being killed. Bandor and I were not immune to
such concerns, but we didn’t dwell on them. North Vietnam was being bombed; a
U.S. Senate committee had begun hearings into the causes of our involvement, and
fellow students were protesting. But for the most part, we preferred denial to
dissent.
Things changed quickly. With lackluster grades, Gary lost his student deferment
over the summer of '66 and soon found himself in boot camp, then Vietnam. I
stayed in school, thanks to better grades and a bum knee that brought a medical
deferment, but I soon found reasons to march against the war. Bandor mailed a
few letters to me and other friends on campus, providing snippets of life,
sometimes death, in Vietnam. And I responded with campus news.
He was no whiner, but once wrote: “I hate the army with a mad passion. ... So
does everyone else. ... Glad to hear you may get out of the service. ... Lucky
dog!”
Bandor survived his year of combat – he drove a mail truck near the DMZ -- and
then during a short leave in his two-year hitch, he managed a trip back to
Madison. He looked me up and we bought a six-pack and drank it on a seawall
behind a fraternity house on the shore of Lake Mendota. “It's surreal to be back
here,” he said, looking at the sailboats and the co-eds. He expressed confidence
he would return to the university and play football: He had the assurances of
the coach. He reported that he “shook like a baby” during a rocket attack on his
first day in a combat zone, but then, he said, he learned to take things in
stride. I described how student vigils had morphed into street protests, some
violent – police sticks, bloodied faces, smashed windows, tear gas. He said he
might become a teacher. I said I was majoring in history to learn how we’d
gotten into Vietnam. I mentioned courses by Harvey Goldberg and George Mosse. I
said I might become a journalist.
Though once roommates, it was our first serious conversation. It was also our
last. Several months later, Gary was critically injured in a jeep rollover at
Fort Sill, Oklahoma. He was a passenger in an accident in which the driver
received only minor injuries. Gary's mother, in her first plane trip, flew to be
at his side. He died four days after the accident.
A while ago, around the 40th anniversary of Bandor’s deployment, I tracked down
by phone one of his old army buddies, a Larry Albrightson, of Woodville, Wis.
Albrightson recalled Bandor’s joyful spirit and generosity, and mentioned how
Gary used his athletic stature and diplomatic skills to defuse occasional racial
tension in their unit. He said Bandor, while on that short leave in Wisconsin,
once drove 70 miles to the family farm, just to tell Albrightson’s parents that
all was well with their son in Vietnam. “I really appreciated that,” Larry said.
After we talked, Albrightson mailed me a video of their unit in action in
Vietnam. The images, jerky from the handheld camera, are augmented by the Good
Morning, Vietnam soundtrack. One segment shows the aftermath of a Viet Cong
attack; another shows Bandor and army buddies clowning and sharing candy with
Vietnamese kids.
Bandor and I had spent only a few months together. Still, memories of our
sophomoric antics, the war’s growing intensity, the protests, his service, that
poignant conversation we had on the lakeshore and the terrible irony of his
death in Oklahoma after surviving Vietnam have stuck over the years.
They come back when I note that UW track souvenir of his as I haul the
cross-country skis down in early winter and return them in spring. Twice a year
I ask, “Why was I the lucky dog?”
Dirk Van Susteren is a Calais, VT., freelance writer and editor. He can be
reached at dirkpatrick@aol.com.
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