Van of Valor

 Karolyn Kramer Roles.mp4

The Empty Chair and the Full Heart

On Memorial Day, our nation turns its gaze to the empty chairs.  They sit at dinner tables, on front porches, and in the quiet corners of a Gold Star family’s heart.  For Karolyn Kramer Roles, that chair is not just a symbol of absence, it’s a permanent, sacred space she keeps for her brother, Kevin “Bing” Kramer, and for every soul taken by the brutal cost of war.  But to understand the depth of that empty chair, you must first know the file that filled the room. 

Before Karolyn became a beacon for veterans, speaking at Gold Star events and opening her home for Tuesday night dinners to heal the invisible wounds of PTSD, she was a kid in Wichita, Kansas, with a fearless heart and a brother who would define her life.  The boy who would become Corporal Kevin Kramer III was first just “Bingo Bongo Bonzo.”  It was a nickname earned in the most innocent way, when a toddler Kevin, inspired by a pet monkey in a movie, comically rocked his baby sister’s crib back and forth.  Their father started calling him Bingo.  It stuck, eventually shortened to “Binng,” a name that would carry a legend. 

The Kramer kids grew up on scramblers, learning life at full throttle.  Karoln wasn’t just along for the ride; she was the first female to conquer the Boeing Hills, a woman who could strip a motorcycle down in a heartbeat.  Bing was cut from the same tough, gentle cloth.  He was a self-taught genius with a 12-string guitar, blessed with an ear that could reproduce a Jimi Hendrix riff perfectly by the next day.  He shared a dream with his mechanic father to open a garage together, a dream built on grease, grit, and the love between a dad and his boy.  His favorite meal was liver and onions, a simple, telling detail of a man who knew what he liked. 

Bing’s path to service was marked by a hidden struggle that revealed his true strength.  Drafted to be a helicopter crew chief, the Army discovered in basic training that he couldn’t read; he was diagnosed with dyslexia.  He could follow any order given by voice, could answer any question orally, but the written page was a battlefield he couldn’t navigate.  Reassigned to the infantry, he didn’t quit.  That quiet resilience defined him.  He was a man of profound, extraordinary empathy – the kind of soul who saw a kid in high school, likely on the autistic spectrum, being ostracized, and deliberately befriended him, champion him, make him believe he mattered.  A year later, that fiend would die by suicide, saying Bing was the only one who ever believed in him.   

That same loyal heart showed itself in Vietnam.  When a medic in his new unit took an instant, irrational disliking to Bing, he didn’t retaliate.  He made a conscious effort to understand and befriend the man.  They became best friends.  In a twist of fate both cruel and merciful, that same medic was the one who treated Bing when he was wounded in his final, fierce firefight – a fight where instead of just receiving fire, he was actively “bringing the fight to the enemy.” 

For 37 years, Karolyn’s family carried a specific, painful truth, Bing was killed instantly by sniper fire.  It was a sealed wound of grief.  Then, the truth was corrected.  Bing survived that firefight.  He lived for ten agonizing days in-country before succumbing to his wounds on March 10, 1971.  The revelation didn’t just alter the story of his death; it magnified the dimension of his sacrifice and reopened old scars that needed to heal properly. 

The Vietnam War did not just take Karolyn’s brother, it became woven into the fabric of her life.  Her older brother had just finished his tour when Bing deployed.  She was, and is, married to a Vietnam veteran, a helicopter pilot named Gene, who carries his own ghosts from the war. 

This is what forged the woman who now feeds veterans every Tuesday night, tending to their post-traumatic stress with a ministry born of deep, familial understanding.  She doesn’t see it as charity. She sees it as family helping family unload their backpacks, an imperative she echoes to all veterans.  To other Gold Star families, her advice is born of hard-won wisdom to keep seeking the truth, connect with those from your loved one’s unit, and piece together the full, human picture of life.  Remember the laughter, the culture, the gallows humor that only they understand.  

So, this Memorial Day, when we pause for the heroes who gave their all, let’s remember the full life of Corporal Kevin “Bing” Kramer.  Remember the toddler rocking the rib, the boy conquering hills on a dirt bike, the young man making a guitar cry out a perfect melody, the loyal friend, the soldier who fought bravely until his last breath.  And let’s also remember his sister, Karolyn, who spoke with the Van of Valor Team during the Vietnam Helicopter Pilot’s Association (2025).  Because the true measure of a Gold Star family’s sacrifice is not just in the empty chair they forever keep, but in their tireless, courageous work to fill the empty spaces in the hearts of those who came home.  Their grief, transformed into service, is a love that never surrenders.