[Congressional Record Volume 167, Number 199 (Tuesday, November 16, 2021)]
[Senate]
[Pages S8225-S8226]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]



                        Remembering Max Cleland

  Madam President, over the weekend, I reflected on an event in my life 
that occurred 58 years ago.
  On November 24, 1963, I had just transferred and was a sophomore at 
Georgetown University. It was a chilly, gray Sunday morning, and I had 
joined a huge crowd of thousands of people in Lafayette Square, across 
the street from the White House, to stand in mournful silence.
  A few minutes after 1 o'clock that afternoon, the doors of the White 
House opened, and the flag-draped casket of President John F. Kennedy 
was carried out. The casket was placed on a caisson for a solemn 
procession to this U.S. Capitol. The route was lined with hundreds of 
thousands of mourners standing 10, 12 deep. Hardly anyone spoke. The 
only sounds were the clacking of horses' hooves, the sound of metal 
wheels on the pavement, and the muffled sounds and drums of the 
military escort.
  More than 30 years later, I recounted that student experience to a 
colleague in the U.S. Senate. His name was Max Cleland from the State 
of Georgia, and he said to me: ``Durbin, I was standing in the same 
corner in Lafayette Square that you were standing in.'' He was there 
for the same reason I was: to witness history and to pay homage to our 
fallen President.
  There we were, just a few feet away from one another in Lafayette 
Square, but our lives took a much different course immediately after 
that.
  I went to law school, married, and started a family, and my wife and 
I were blessed with three kids.
  Max Cleland enlisted in the U.S. Army in 1965 after graduating from 
college. Military service was a long tradition in his family. He spent 
2 years in what he called a ``cushy'' job as an Army aide, and he hated 
it. He fought to be sent to Vietnam.
  In April 1968, with less than a month left in his tour of duty, Army 
CPT Max Cleland found himself at the Battle of Khe Sanh, one of the 
longest and deadliest battles in the Vietnam war.
  On April 8, 1968, he jumped off of a helicopter and saw a hand 
grenade on the ground. He thought it had fallen off his flak jacket. As 
he reached to pick it up, the grenade exploded, tearing off his right 
arm and both of his legs. He was 25 years old.
  When he was recovering at Walter Reed, a friend took his doctor aside 
and asked him in confidence: What sort of life awaits this triple 
amputee? What would he be able to do?
  The doctor said that if Max ever recovered enough just to put on his 
own shirt, that simple task would exhaust him for the rest of the day. 
Well, that doctor didn't understand his patient. He didn't know Max 
Cleland. He saw what that grenade blast had taken away from him, but he 
didn't see the deep reservoirs of faith, strength, and determination 
that remained in Max and grew stronger over time.
  Before his injury, Max Cleland was the golden boy of his hometown of 
Lithonia, GA. He was his parents' only child. He stood 6 feet 2 inches, 
was a basketball and tennis player in high school, and was voted the 
``most exceptional student'' during his senior year. He could have done 
anything with his life, but during that internship semester in 
Washington in 1963, Max Cleland decided he wanted to be a U.S. Senator. 
Nothing could kill that dream--not even the terrible explosion at Khe 
Sanh that took three of his limbs and nearly took his life.
  After 8 months in VA hospitals and rehab centers, he went home to 
Georgia. In 1970, at the age of 28, he became the youngest person ever 
elected to the Georgia State Senate. In 1984, he became the youngest 
person to head up the U.S. Veterans' Administration, now the Department 
of Veterans Affairs. It was under his watch that the VA first admitted 
the existence of something called post-traumatic stress disorder. Max 
knew the hell of post-traumatic stress well. He fought for treatment 
and compensation for our vets, and he struggled with visible and 
invisible wounds of war.
  In 1982, Max Cleland was elected Georgia secretary of state, a 
position he held for 14 years. During that time, he gathered some of 
the biggest vote totals in Georgia history.
  When Georgia Senator Sam Nunn decided to retire in 1996, Max knew it 
was his chance. He threw his hat in the ring and was elected U.S. 
Senator of Georgia.
  We came to this Senate together in 1997. When Max came to the Senate, 
there was no ramp for wheelchair users in the Senate. He had to make 
his first speech from the back of the Chamber. He tucked a quote from 
the Book of Isaiah inside his breast pocket. It was simple: ``Do not be 
afraid.'' He joined the Armed Services Committee and expanded education 
benefits for all veterans through the GI bill.
  He was just full of energy and good cheer. I remember that warm smile 
and his big belly laughs. His optimism was a choice, and it required a 
grueling regimen to maintain it. He took 3 hours every morning to 
prepare himself physically and mentally to face each day. I remember 
reading an article in the Washington Post about a regimen of strenuous 
physical exercise, which he designed for himself. He had taken a spare 
bedroom in his apartment and did his own workout routine--this triple 
amputee--each morning.
  For years, Max felt a sort of shame about his injuries. He felt the 
wounds were his own fault. He always thought that he had dropped the 
hand grenade that nearly killed him. It took 30 years for the truth to 
come out.
  Max was telling this story on national TV when a man called in 
afterwards and said: I need to talk to Senator Cleland. He said to him: 
``Max, that's not how it happened at all. I know. I was there.'' He 
said another soldier had dropped the grenade, a ``newbie'' who hadn't 
taken the precautions that veteran soldiers know to take to prevent an 
accidental detonation.
  The story turned out to be true, and after 30 years, Max could begin 
to forgive himself.
  Max was serving in the Senate on 9/11. Months later, the Senate was 
debating how to merge several Agencies, offices, and Departments into 
the brandnew Department of Homeland Security. It was the biggest 
reorganization of the Federal Government since World War II, and it 
would create one of the largest Federal Agencies.
  Some saw it as an opportunity to take on the unions. Max and I and 
many others thought otherwise. We

[[Page S8226]]

voted against an amendment that would have denied employees of the new 
Department the same collective bargaining rights as other Federal 
workers.
  It was months later that Max stood for reelection. Near the end of 
that race, there was an infamous ad that showed images of Osama bin 
Laden and Saddam Hussein and questioned Max's commitment to protect 
America.
  How do you look at a man who has lost three limbs in war and 
struggled every day of his life to serve others and accuse him of not 
being willing to defend this country?
  Max Cleland was one of six Vietnam veterans in the Senate at that 
time. All of his brothers in arms, including Republican Senators John 
McCain and Chuck Hagel, were furious about that ad. They raised enough 
hell to have that ad pulled. Sadly, the damage was done. Max lost his 
race for reelection. He called that loss ``the second hand grenade'' in 
his life.
  In his 2009 memoir aimed at his fellow wounded veterans, he wrote: 
``My body, my soul, my spirit, and my belief in life itself was stolen 
from me by the disaster of the Vietnam War. I found solace in 
attempting to `turn my pain into somebody else's gain' by immersing 
myself in politics and public service.''
  When his Senate years were over, he said: ``I went down physically, 
mentally, emotionally, down into the deepest, darkest hole in my life. 
I had several moments when I just didn't want to continue to live.''
  The post-traumatic stress came roaring back into his life, and so 40 
years after he first arrived there, Max returned to Walter Reed to try 
to mend not his body but his broken heart. It was connecting with other 
warriors that pulled him out of his despair.
  I want to thank my Senate colleagues and especially my friend, former 
Majority Leader Harry Reid, for their commitment during that dark time. 
They helped him return to public service.
  He was appointed to the 9/11 Commission and served for a short while 
before resigning to serve on the board of the U.S. Export-Import Bank. 
In 2009, President Obama chose Max to serve as Secretary of the 
American Battle Monuments Commission.
  Last week, Max Cleland died at his home in Atlanta. His big heart 
finally succumbed. He was 79 years old.
  On the same day he died, another veteran fighting the invisible 
wounds of war shot and killed himself at the Lincoln Memorial in 
Washington. Air Force TSgt Kenneth Omar Santiago was only 31.
  In a note posted on social media before he died, he wrote: ``No one 
knows who is struggling and waging wars that the eye cannot see. What 
does chronic depression even look like?''
  Max Cleland knew the answer to that question. If he had met Sergeant 
Santiago--or any of the 17 veterans who die by suicide every single day 
in America--he would have told them what he said to himself every day: 
``Hold on. Seek help. Do not be afraid.''
  Max Cleland was a soldier, a patriot, and a friend. We can pay no 
better tribute to him than to honor his service and sacrifice and help 
those who continue to live with those visible and invisible wounds of 
war.
  Farewell, Max. I will miss you.