The incident report from the 1st Marine Co., 1st Maine DIV reads, “10 NOV 1969 10181OH. H&S 1/1 Squad patrol detonated one unknown type AP mine resulting in one USMC WIA {EVAC}.”

That’s a very cold and sterile way of saying that a young man from Lewiston, three months shy of his 21st birthday, had stepped on a land mine. An elderly couple had lost a son, 11 siblings had lost a brother and I had lost a friend.

I met Jimmy in the summer of 1968. He had just graduated from Lewiston High School and I was 17 and had another year before I graduated. He was in Portland with two older sisters, looking for some good times before he got drafted. His sisters lived in the USM area, as I did, and I had a car and license, so whenever Jimmy needed a ride somewhere, I would get a call.

He had a way of copying what he referred to as the French “accident,” and when he called he would start speaking with the accent. He would say, “This is Jimmy the Irish/Frenchman from Lewiston. You think maybe you take me for a ride to Old Orchard Beach, mon ami?”

I would crack up and I can’t ever remember saying no to him.

As summer came to a close and we parted ways, we both promised to look one another up.

After I got out of the service in 1971, I asked around for him, but he wasn’t very well known and not local, so there wasn’t much known. I finally ran into someone who knew his sister and remembers only that he had “stepped on a land mine and been blown up.”

I asked if he had been brought home and that source wasn’t sure, but didn’t think so. My thoughts were that Jimmy was buried in a military cemetery somewhere in Vietnam and I maintained that belief until technology, computers and search engines allowed me to find him.

In 2008, I stumbled onto a website that would find Vietnam war dead by state and city, and that was the first step. I also realized that the reason my earlier attempts had proved futile was because I was spelling his last name wrong and early search engines were not intuitive and required exact spellings.

As time went on, I found an incident report and that incident report said that the “body was recovered.” So, then I started searching for grave registrations and that led nowhere. What it did do was bring up an obituary of his sister and that obituary gave first names and cities of other brothers and sisters.

I searched for the name of one of the sisters who lived closest to me and that search revealed that she co-owned a business with her brother and sister, and that business had an email address.

I sent an email saying who I was and asked if she knew where her brother Jimmy was buried. About a week later, I got a reply and the sister thanked me for caring. She told me Jimmy was at Mt. Hope Cemetery in Lewiston.

I then went to the cemetery website and hoped that it would have a search device, but it didn’t. What it did have was a site map, divided into sections with the plots marked with names. So, section by section, I poured over each site and each name. Finally, after going over two sections, I found Jimmy. I couldn’t believe it.

I had finally found him.

On Monday, May 13, I stopped at a store and bought some flowers, got in my truck and headed north on I-95 to Lewiston to keep a promise I had made 45 years ago. I got there about 8 a.m. and it was sunny and breezy. It took me a few minutes to find him.

I knew I was going to take some pictures, so I had brought some grass clippers and a whisk broom. As I clipped the grass away from the edges of his marker, I talked to Jimmy out loud and told him what a pain in the butt it had been finding him and other thoughts that I had, but mostly to keep from crying.

It didn’t work.

Jimmy is in a nice, well-cared-for cemetery about 150 yards from a fast-flowing part of the Androscoggin River. The sound of the rushing water provides a comfortable background for the area. I liked where he was.

This story is about James Joseph McMorrow, a man I described as funny. A fellow Marine described him as “fearless.” He was an American soldier who died in the service of his country, like thousands of men and women before and after him.

It is important to remember them. It is important to keep our promises to them.

Memorial Day is our promise to honor and remember their sacrifice.

Any man or woman who has ever served will tell you that the “real heroes” are the ones who never made it home.

James McMorrow was a real hero who just happened to be my friend.

I pray God holds you close to his heart, as I have held you close to mine.

Alan Grosso lives in Portland.

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