Frontlines: The Latest from OutServe-SLDN

There's a grief that can't be spoken.

There's a pain goes on and on.

Empty chairs at empty tables

Now my friends are dead and gone.

– Les Miserables

Floyd Gilbert was an Army Chaplain in the “First Tank” battalion in South Korea. Chuck Magnus was an Army aviator who flew helicopters in Vietnam. Bob Eastman was a naval officer who worked for many years as a legislative liaison with Congress. All three were my friends and mentors, and all three were gay. This Memorial Day, I want to pay a personal tribute to the memories of Floyd, Chuck, and Bob.

I grew up in rural Georgia, in a working class devoutly Southern Baptist family. I learned the value of hard work, and also of keeping any inkling of my gay sexual orientation deep under wraps. Like most gay youth of that era, I had no gay role models. I did what I thought I had to do to survive: I pretended to be straight and prayed that no one would ever think differently. As my life’s journey unfolded, I encountered those who helped me to understand and value who I am. Floyd, Chuck and Bob were three of those special people.

The first time I flew in an airplane, I had to jump out. It was the summer of 1982, and I was a 20 year old ROTC cadet attending the Army’s Paratrooper School at Fort Benning, Georgia. The first time I actually landed in an airplane was my 1984 arrival in South Korea for my first duty station as a newly commissioned second lieutenant. There I met Chaplain Floyd Gilbert. Floyd was a Captain for the “First Tank” Battalion in the Second Infantry Division. I, as a brand new junior officer with not the slightest clue as to what I was supposed to be doing, was assigned as the battalion’s intelligence officer, or “S-2.”

Newcomers’ orientation was held shortly after my arrival and Chaplain Gilbert made me, and all the other “newbies,” feel very much at home. We were thousands of miles from our families, serving on foreign soil, but “Chaplain Floyd,” as the troops liked to call him, calmed our anxieties and let us each know that he was our friend. Thereafter, whenever our unit went to the field for a training exercise, Chaplain Floyd was there by our sides, helping to keep our spirits high and making sure that we knew we were never alone. My tour of duty passed quickly in South Korea, and I was sent thereafter to other assignments in the United States and in Europe.

In 1991, the Army sent me to work at the Pentagon. By that point I had “come out of the closet” in all aspects except for my professional life. Upon arrival in Washington, D.C., I eagerly rented an apartment in Dupont Circle, and promised myself that I would no longer live in total fear of someone finding out I am gay. One of the first places I went was to a Dupont Circle gay bar known as J.R.’s. I remember nervously walking through the crowd, searching for a place at the bar where I could order a much needed drink. About half way through the crowd, I felt the firm grasp of a hand on my shoulder. When I turned about, I was looking into the smiling face of Chaplain Floyd. He was at that time working at Walter Reed Army hospital. Floyd and I became fast friends. By that time, he had lived in D.C. for a few years and knew the ins and outs. He maintained that same cheerful optimism I remembered from my time in South Korea those many years prior. He helped me to acclimate to my new life in D.C., and he was there when I needed him.

Sometime in 1993, at the invitation of J.B. Collier, a gay Navy veteran who I had befriended shortly after moving to D.C., I attended an SLDN fundraiser. It was there I met retired Army Lieutenant Colonel Chuck Magnus. Chuck, a Vietnam War combat veteran, lived in Northern Virginia with his life partner, and was very involved in the early effort to lift repeal “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” Chuck was at that time about my father’s age, and he warmly reached out to me as and helped make me feel as though I had a place in the movement to lift the gay ban. Chuck was very involved in supporting President Clinton’s failed effort to end the military’s anti-gay policy. Chuck was a distinguished looking guy, with a head full of silver hair and exuding a confidence that came with the wisdom of his years. As an openly gay retired military officer, Chuck was a picture-perfect ambassador for the gays-in-the-military issue, and the news media loved him. With grace and dignity, he advocated on behalf of gay and lesbian troops by giving countless national and local media interviews, and passionately lobbying members of Congress.

Chuck introduced me to Bob Eastman. Bob was a retired Navy Commander. He had spent his final years on active duty working with the Navy’s Congressional liaison office. By the time I met Bob, he had already retired and was enjoying life to the fullest. Bob, I can say with great affection, was a piece of work. Whenever called upon to help the cause, Bob was always there – and Chuck called upon Bob often. Bob had a sunny, infectious disposition, and it can truly be said that he never met a stranger. I fondly remember spending many an evening at Bob’s condo, where he would cook and entertain his many friends. Everybody loved Bob, and I was proud to include myself as one of his friends. Bob loved the Navy, and he loved America. And, he loved being an openly gay retired Navy Commander in America.

By the time I decided to leave the Army in 1996 and enroll in law school, I had reached a point in my life where I no longer feared being gay. Instead, I embraced who I am and promised to never again live my life in fear. Following graduation from law school, I decided to join the SLDN staff as an attorney. During my four years at SLDN, I remember frequently thinking of those who had positively influenced my life. I came to appreciate how valuable an impact Floyd, Chuck and Bob had on me, and on my coming to terms with my sexuality.

I am now honored to serve on the SLDN Board of Directors, and on this Memorial Day I want to dedicate my continued service in the fight for the freedom to serve to the memory of Floyd, Chuck and Bob. But for their service and their efforts, and that of many others like them, the progress we have made these past 10-15 years would never have happened. These three men were patriots, who – each in their own different and special way – not only left their mark by what they accomplished while living, but continue to leave their mark through the memory of their inspiration and courage.

Here they talked of revolution.

Here it was they lit the flame.

Here they sang about `tomorrow'

And tomorrow never came…

That I live and you are gone.

There's a grief that can't be spoken.

There's a pain goes on and on... Empty chairs at empty tables, where my friends will sing no more.

– Les Miserables.

-Jeff Cleghorn

SLDN Board of Directors