Posted on 08/28/2010 6:47:31 PM PDT by SLB
A college student posted a request on an internet newsgroup asking for personal narratives from the likes of us addressing the question: "What is a Vietnam Veteran?" This is what I wrote back:
Vietnam veterans are men and women. We are dead or alive, whole or maimed, sane or haunted. We grew from our experiences or we were destroyed by them or we struggle to find some place in between. We lived through hell or we had a pleasant, if scary, adventure. We were Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, Red Cross, and civilians of all sorts. Some of us enlisted to fight for God and Country, and some were drafted. Some were gung-ho, and some went kicking and screaming.
Like veterans of all wars, we lived a tad bit--or a great bit--closer to death than most people like to think about. If Vietnam vets differ from others, perhaps it is primarily in the fact that many of us never saw the enemy or recognized him or her. We heard gunfire and mortar fire but rarely looked into enemy eyes. Those who did, like folks who encounter close combat anywhere and anytime, are often haunted for life by those eyes, those sounds, those electric fears that ran between ourselves, our enemies, and the likelihood of death for one of us. Or we get hard, calloused, tough. All in a day's work. Life's a bitch then you die. But most of us remember and get twitchy, worried, sad.
We are crazies dressed in cammo, wide-eyed, wary, homeless, and drunk. We are Brooks Brothers suit wearers, doing deals downtown. We are housewives, grandmothers, and church deacons. We are college professors engaged in the rational pursuit of the truth about the history or politics or culture of the Vietnam experience. And we are sleepless. Often sleepless.
We pushed paper; we pushed shovels. We drove jeeps, operated bulldozers, built bridges; we toted machine guns through dense brush, deep paddy, and thorn scrub. We lived on buffalo milk, fish heads and rice. Or C-rations. Or steaks and Budweiser. We did our time in high mountains drenched by endless monsoon rains or on the dry plains or on muddy rivers or at the most beautiful beaches in the world.
We wore berets, bandanas, flop hats, and steel pots. Flak jackets, canvas, rash and rot. We ate cloroquine and got malaria anyway. We got shots constantly but have diseases nobody can diagnose. We spent our nights on cots or shivering in foxholes filled with waist-high water or lying still on cold wet ground, our eyes imagining Charlie behind every bamboo blade. Or we slept in hotel beds in Saigon or barracks in Thailand or in cramped ships' berths at sea.
We feared we would die or we feared we would kill. We simply feared, and often we still do. We hate the war or believe it was the best thing that ever happened to us. We blame Uncle Sam or Uncle Ho and their minions and secretaries and apologists for every wart or cough or tic of an eye. We wonder if Agent Orange got us.
Mostly--and this I believe with all my heart--mostly, we wish we had not been so alone. Some of us went with units; but many, probably most of us, were civilians one day, jerked up out of "the world," shaved, barked at, insulted, humiliated, de-egoized and taught to kill, to fix radios, to drive trucks. We went, put in our time, and were equally ungraciously plucked out of the morass and placed back in the real world. But now we smoked dope, shot skag, or drank heavily. Our wives or husbands seemed distant and strange. Our friends wanted to know if we shot anybody.
And life went on, had been going on, as if we hadn't been there, as if Vietnam was a topic of political conversation or college protest or news copy, not a matter of life and death for tens of thousands.
Vietnam vets are people just like you. We served our country, proudly or reluctantly or ambivalently. What makes us different--what makes us Vietnam vets--is something we understand, but we are afraid nobody else will. But we appreciate your asking.
Vietnam veterans are white, black, beige and shades of gray; but in comparison with our numbers in the "real world," we were more likely black. Our ancestors came from Africa, from Europe, and China. Or they crossed the Bering Sea Land Bridge in the last Ice Age and formed the nations of American Indians, built pyramids in Mexico, or farmed acres of corn on the banks of Chesapeake Bay. We had names like Rodriguez and Stein and Smith and Kowalski. We were Americans, Australians, Canadians, and Koreans; most Vietnam veterans are Vietnamese.
We were farmers, students, mechanics, steelworkers, nurses, and priests when the call came that changed us all forever. We had dreams and plans, and they all had to change...or wait. We were daughters and sons, lovers and poets, beatniks and philosophers, convicts and lawyers. We were rich and poor but mostly poor. We were educated or not, mostly not. We grew up in slums, in shacks, in duplexes, and bungalows and houseboats and hooches and ranchers. We were cowards and heroes. Sometimes we were cowards one moment and heroes the next.
Many of us have never seen Vietnam. We waited at home for those we loved. And for some of us, our worst fears were realized. For others, our loved ones came back but never would be the same.
We came home and marched in protest marches, sucked in tear gas, and shrieked our anger and horror for all to hear. Or we sat alone in small rooms, in VA hospital wards, in places where only the crazy ever go. We are Republicans, Democrats, Socialists, and Confucians and Buddhists and Atheists--though as usually is the case, even the atheists among us sometimes prayed to get out of there alive.
We are hungry, and we are sated, full of life or clinging to death. We are injured, and we are curers, despairing and hopeful, loved or lost. We got too old too quickly, but some of us have never grown up. We want, desparately, to go back, to heal wounds, revisit the sites of our horror. Or we want never to see that place again, to bury it, its memories, its meaning. We want to forget, and we wish we could remember.
Despite our differences, we have so much in common. There are few of us who don't know how to cry, though we often do it alone when nobody will ask "what's wrong?" We're afraid we might have to answer.
Adam, if you want to know what a Vietnam veteran is, get in your car next weekend or cage a friend with a car to drive you. Go to Washington. Go to the Wall. It's going to be Veterans Day weekend. There will be hundreds there...no, thousands. Watch them. Listen to them. I'll be there. Come touch the Wall with us. Rejoice a bit. Cry a bit. No, cry a lot. I will. I'm a Vietnam Veteran; and, after 30 years, I think I am beginning to understand what that means.
Well, the scathing lack of respect and consideration Nam Vets received now make you the perfect teachers. You’ve seen it, know it, and call it by its right name. In a way the WWII vets can’t do today.
No, I didn't, because the F-102, F-101, and F-106 didn't have a gun either, well before the F-4.
There was a guided tour of Fort Knox; a series of speeches by Adrian Cronauer (Good Morning, Vietnam), the commanding general of Fort Knox, and at least one Medal of Honor recipient; and finally the annual "Heartland Festival" parade (which was held this morning) was dedicated to them.
Several hundred veterans, my father included, either marched or rode through the streets of E-Town to a fusilade of cheers and applause from the crowds. It was quite a sight.
http://www.war-stories.com/aspprotect/warstory-classic-1.asp
These are their stories.This is what they are.
Oh geeez....I just re-read the lead post and realized that this is your personal composition. Thank you so much for writing it. It’s really moving.
And, thank you for your service to our country.
Dang, everything seems to make me teary today. What a beautifully written reply. With your permission I’d like to save it and share.
Well, all I can say is thank you all. Out of respect for family, not going to name, but childhood friend and honorary big brother enlisted.. college educated, had deferment but wanted to serve his country.. 101 airborne, Quang Tri, 1968.
I will never forget, always honor and love and named my son after you.
Welcome home brother and thank you for your service
God Bless America
Phan Rang 67-69
Good post, Ansel.
A buddy of mine was drafted into the Army in 1970 with a degree in Mathematics. Although he spent his hitch as an enlisted man, he served his entire term at Aberdeen Proving Ground, working on artillery and mortar firing tables with the (at the time) supercomputer they had.
I’d like to see how many degreed people volunteer as enlisted in today’s armed forces. I’m sure there are some.
And from one too young to have been drafted or to have volunteered, let me thank all of you Vietnam Vets, and all the other veterans of other campaigns in the “Cold War”. (Personally, like Norman Podheretz I’d rather call it WW III, even if it was fought in slow-motion and the principals—the U.S. and Soviet Union—never went toe-to-toe. In the end we won WW III: the Soviet Union is no more, and the idea of Communism is essentially dead—the remaining “Communists” are all really fascists now, the bizarre Stalinist dynasty in North Korea excepted.)
The E model had the M61A1 20mm Vulcan cannon. I on the other hand had only two M-60s and two brave souls to cover my young behind.
“I played Army Guard in the mid 90s and the few Vietnam Era types in the unit were the best ones to hang with.”
I think for most folks who’ve been in combat zones, a realization comes like a gob smack that you are going home in a body bag. I know it came for me. After that moment, the rest of your time in country is easy since you already know you’re going to die. You just enjoy and excel in your time remaining.
What I’m saying is: experiencing war up close changes a person; that’s probably why you like hanging with those guys. They have been there and can speak and feel the truth of the whole thing.
My father was career Navy. A veteran of WWII and Korea. A fiercely patriotic man. Because of his influence, I joined in 1966 at age 17. Gave up a full-ride acholarship. Volunteered for flight duty in Danang at age 19. Spent 9 months flying recon with VQ-1 Det Bravo. Was very disheartened when I returned stateside on my way to my next duty station in the UK. I got spit on and called names. At age 20, I didn’t understand why my country blamed me for the war. I was finally medicalled out after 12 1/2 years of service for injuries sustained in the war. I wore my uniform proudly and would have done 30 yrs had I been able. As I grew older, wiser, and more educated, I began to hate the politicians and beaurocrats who caused and prolonged that war. I wanted McNamara personally charged with 58,000 counts of reckless endangerment and homicide. I would have executed him myself. I still rabidly love my country and our armed forces. Looking back however, I do wish I could have taken a pass on that little bit of American history. By no stretch of anyones imagination, was that a righteous war.
To the sailors, soldiers, marines, and airmen worldwide - God Bless You All. Amen.
I have no difficulty with that figure whatsoever...
Granted, the majority of V.N. Vets returned home to full productive lives.
However, the true numbers of those who took their lives upon returning will never be verified. I personally know some I served with that never recovered from the trauma of combat and the horrific treatment they encountered when they came home. Some swallowed bullets, many drank and drugged themselves to death. Both are a form of suicide in my book.
I totally agree. A lot of the rest of that crowd were always NG types (not to knock on them all) that never did anything more than the weekend/2 week thing. In some respects it was like being in high school again since most of them stayed in the same town after graduation. The unit got disbanded and I went back to Naval Reserve.
For those interested...
Society of Wild Weasels
http://www.wildweasels.org/
Recommended readings...
MAGNUM! THE WILD WEASELS IN DESERT STORM
The Elimination of Iraq’s Air Defence
by Braxton R Eisel and James A Schreiner
First In, Last Out
by Colonel (retired) Edward T. Rock
Ed Rock brings the reader Wild Weasel Stories from more than 40 authors, mostly Wild Weasel pilots and Electronic Warfare Officers (EWOs). These are the true, first person, accounts written by the men whose primary mission was, and is today, to find, attack and destroy enemy Surface to Air Missile (SAM) sites and other radar directed weapons systems. They fly into the enemy heartland through skies filled with MiG fighters, SAMs, and Anti-Aircraft Artillery (AAA). Losses are heavy and courage and heroism are commonplace. The stories also include accounts by a cross section of Wild Weasel associates without whose support the mission could not have been successfully performed including a contractor, Flight Surgeon, Chaplain Maintenance technician, and the wife of a pilot killed in action (KIA). Some are shot down and rescued, others captured or killed, and many successfully complete their missions. All wonder if there will be a tomorrow. The stories take place in peace and war. Many are thrilling accounts of combat action, some are funny, others tragic, all are interesting. It is a moving testament to all Wild Weasels and their families especially to those that paid the ultimate price with courage and honor.
Additional stories/books/references:
http://www.pprune.org/military-aircrew/241882-desert-storm-wild-weasel-tales.html
Find out your folk’s unit and when they served, important, you’ll be glad you did. They may not talk much about it but when you find out their units, surf the web and dig out the history of those units, then you’ll start appreciating them even more.
Regards,
Well said.
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