The Buddy I’ll Never Forget: Friendships Forged in War

Veterans across six conflicts remember the friendships that carried them through war, and stayed for life

As told to

A.J. Baime

Published March 25, 2026

a collection of photos of military members with their wartime buddies

Neil Jamieson

The Buddy I’ll Never Forget brings together eight veterans across six conflicts who remember the friendships that carried them through war—and stayed for life. We begin in Vietnam, then move across conflicts and generations. Use the navigation on this page to explore by conflict, and watch the Members Only documentary, The Battle I’ll Never Forget.

paul critchlow and his wartime buddy francis at the vietman memorial in washington d c

Francis (left) and Paul at the 30th Anniversary of Vietnam Women’s Memorial in Washington DC, 2023.

Courtesy Paul Critchlow

The medic who became his brother for life

After surviving a major battle and staying close for decades, their friendship became a family tie years later

In 1968, I gave up my final year of college deferment, told my draft board I was ready to be drafted. I ended up a private first class, assigned to the 196th Light Infantry Brigade in Vietnam. Specialist 5th Class Francis Whitebird was the lead medic for the company. We connected quickly. We were both from the Midwest, me from Nebraska and he from the Rosebud reservation in South Dakota.

Francis had a reputation as a warrior. Medics don’t necessarily aspire to get into the fight, but he was a protector. I remember watching him run under fire to help save people. He was legendary for that. He gave the troops confidence. They knew that they could count on him if they got wounded.

It was a crazy place. Francis and I survived battles together. Every morning, he would wake up and say, “It’s a good day to die!” I’d say, “Francis, why do you keep saying that?” But it was his warrior credo. That meant “I’m ready to fight.” On August 19, 1969, our brigade was part of a tremendous battle in Que Son. We found ourselves surrounded—about 200 of us facing at least 1,000 enemy soldiers, possibly more. I was wounded at about midnight, and I endured numerous surgeries and six months in the hospital back in the States. I lost track of Francis. Then one day soon after I got out of the hospital, my phone rang. Francis said, “I’m at the bus stop in Omaha, and I want to come see you.” He was on his way back from Vietnam, and he came to see me before he saw his own family.

Over the next years, we had an interfamily relationship. I was the best man at his wedding, and my kids came to know his kids. When my mother died, I went back to Omaha for her funeral. I looked over and saw Francis. I was so touched, I could hardly speak.

In 2004, Francis called and said, “I would like to adopt you into my family.” I went to a powwow on his reservation in South Dakota. There was a traditional sweat lodge ... you sweat out all the toxins and evil in your body in preparation for the ceremony. Then I was adopted. Francis calls me Misun, which means “younger brother.” I call him Chee Yea, or “older brother.” We can’t forget what happened in Vietnam. We celebrate each other and that we’re still alive. But we also celebrate the ones we lost.

Specialist 4th Class Paul Critchlow, 79, is a former newspaper reporter who later became vice chairman of Bank of America Merrill Lynch. He grew up in Omaha and played football for the University of Nebraska. He received a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star for valor for his service in Vietnam and is now retired in Sarasota, Florida.

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diane carlson evans and her wartime buddy edie standing together outdoors in autumn

Edie and Diane Carlson Evans Fall 2025 Helena Montana

Courtesy Diane Carlson Evans

Two Army nurses fought to save lives and each other

Under rocket attack, humor became survival and their bond helped them heal afterwards

Edie and I arrived in Pleiku in Vietnam in January 1969. We shared a hooch—which is what we called the building where we lived. We introduced ourselves and realized we were both from Minnesota. It was an instant bond. She was a city girl. I was a farm girl. I was 22, and she was 24. There we were, two Army nurses, in the last six months of our tour of duty, near the Cambodian border. Even if you’re in the middle of a war zone, Edie makes you laugh. She may have been crying on the inside but was laughing on the outside. Edie and I saved each other’s lives in Vietnam—and afterward too.

One night we were in our hooch when our camp was hit with rocket fire. I crawled to her room, and she was under her bed eating peanut butter and crackers. I said, “Edie, how can you eat at a time like this?” Laughing, she said, “If I die, I’m not going to die hungry!” We stayed under the bed and felt safe together, in this insane situation, until the sirens stopped blaring. When we went outside, the hooch next to ours was gone—a big black hole in its place.

I was working as a head nurse in a postoperative surgical unit, getting wounded casualties under their beds for protection and throwing mattresses on those patients connected to ventilators and chest tubes. Edie’s medical unit was dealing with FUO. That means “fever of unknown origin.” These patients could be near death, and it was hard to diagnose—it could be malaria, a parasite or cholera, or typhoid or plague.

Our job was to help these young men survive. You wanted to save every soldier’s life and did all that it took. There were no tears because you had to shut down your emotions to get through the day. When you have patients in front of you who need every ounce of your energy and nursing skills, their survival depends on how brave you are, how quick, how smart.

But this also became our lasting trauma. It’s what we lived with when we returned home, remembering the patients we did not save, wondering if we could have.

When I called Edie years later about launching a program to build a women’s Vietnam memorial, she was silent on the other end of the phone. She was still in the PTSD closet. I said, “Edie, I’m going to need help.” She said, “I don’t even talk about Vietnam.” I said, “If we don’t talk about it, how will people know?”

When she began speaking out, she was so sincere, honest and passionate. You loved Edie the moment you heard her voice. The Vietnam Women’s Memorial was the first memorial in American history honoring military women and women who served in support of the armed forces. Its motto is “Healing and Hope.” To me, Edie is the perfect example of why this memorial needed to be dedicated.

As Army nurses, Lieutenant Edie Meeks, 81, and Captain Diane Carlson Evans, 79, witnessed the worst of the Vietnam War. Years later, Evans and her “sister veteran,” Meeks, led the effort to create the Vietnam Women’s Memorial, dedicated on the National Mall in Washington, D.C., in 1993.

albion bergstrom with his wartime buddies sergeat locke and private first class burris in 1971

An area north of the Rockpile of myself, LT Bergstrom on the left, SGT Locke in the center and PFC Burris on the right in March of 1971.

Courtesy Albion Bergstrom

A seasoned sergeant teaches a young lieutenant how to lead

Colonel Albion Bergstrom remembers Sgt. Victor Locke—the trusted voice who helped keep a platoon steady

I started college at Boston University, and the ROTC program was a way of serving my country. I didn’t think that I would end up in Vietnam, but it sure turned out that way.

I took over an armored cavalry platoon. Sergeant Victor Locke was my track commander, which meant he was in charge of my command vehicle. In an armor or cavalry unit, a leader needs to know his people. You don’t have to be loved, but as long as you’re respected, things work well. The basic unit was 50-plus soldiers. Their lives depended on your ability to be a decent leader and to listen to them. Victor had a previous tour in Vietnam and a lot more experience, so I came to trust him for his advice. That turned into a long friendship.

He called me L.T., for lieutenant, and he clued me in on things I needed to know. He’d say, “L.T., so-and-so seems to be down” or “L.T., the platoon sergeant is doing a great job but could use better backup.” He was from Oklahoma. I was a farm kid, and Victor appreciated that because he had a country background also. As a farm kid, I was more aware of being outdoors than a city kid. When we were moving through territory, Victor would sometimes say I seemed to have a sixth sense, like what the enemy was up to or when there might be an ambush.

I had a lot of men wounded in my unit, and after I left, two soldiers were killed. But I never lost a soldier. I wanted to bring everyone home alive. We grew up seeing a lot of World War II and Korea movies about all the great battles. That gave us a baseline of what our forefathers had done. I still feel that we served our country well.

Victor got out of the service and had a family. But by the time I retired, in 1999, he was dying of cancer. Agent Orange took its toll. We dedicated my retirement ceremony to him. At the time, my daughter Victoria was 6 months old, and Victor thought that was cool—that we had named her after him.

The day after my retirement, Victor passed away. He had been living in Arizona, and I flew out there. The last time I wore my uniform was for his funeral.

I am thankful every day that I am alive, and I am thankful that I was able to serve with such great soldiers.

Colonel Albion A. Bergstrom, 78, was awarded a Purple Heart after being wounded on March 25, 1971, and earned three Legion of Merits, a Bronze Star and other decorations while serving in Vietnam and afterward. Today he is a professor in the Joint Military Operations Department at the U.S. Naval War College in Newport, Rhode Island.

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