I found I needed to set this down. Maybe it will help someone else get through a bad time.
**********
Viet Nam was hard. All of us expected that, but we didn’t expect the totality of it. Everyone saw and experienced things that were difficult at best; some saw and experienced things that no human should ever hear about, much less live with. Some survived by turning to religion, some to philosophy, some to drugs; some did truly go quite mad. However, that was expected; what was NOT expected was the reception we got when we came home. We didn’t expect to be hailed as conquering heroes, but neither did we anticipate what we got: booed, spit on, called “baby killers” (and much worse), and bombarded with thin, easily broken bags of human feces. The shock some of us felt contributed to years of pent-up emotions we couldn’t deal with and couldn’t find words to properly describe, even to those closest to us.
Fast forward to 2000. After nearly 30 years I still had unresolved issues related to ‘Nam, some of which I wasn’t even aware of; that was about to change. The Traveling Wall was coming to town, and my organization was looking for “old timers” who had served over there to represent the office at the official opening of the exhibit. As it turned out there were only two of us, and the other guy was scheduled for surgery that day so – I “volunteered”. I got through the speeches and other BS without much trouble, and then it was time to leave. There was no way I was going down to that Wall; that had been resolved before I got there. Friends and blooded comrades were engraved on that great black beast; that was known and that was enough. No way was I going down there. That thought remained foremost in my mind as my feet, seemingly of their own volition, carried me down past the temporary speaker’s platform, and on down the curving path the lead to The Wall. I found myself reaching out to it, touching it … not looking for any particular names, and certainly not tracing any. I was fighting back tears and wondering all the while just what in the hell I was doing there
.
Something brushed my arm but I ignored it. Again the touch on the arm, but this time it remained. My concentration broken I looked to my right; there stood a woman I did not know and had never seen before. It was her hand resting on my arm that had broken my silent grieving. She had a look in her eyes that I could not name, and she began to speak:
“Thank you for your service. I was young when that war was going on and I was vehemently opposed to it. I joined with other students and we protested and marched, trying to end it. We were doing what we thought was right, what we thought was best for our country. I still believe we were right to oppose that incursion into another country’s politics, but we were wrong about you. You were treated horribly when you came back. We had no right to blame you for the government’s policies and we certainly had no right to treat you as we did. You were doing what you thought was best for our country just as we were, but with a massive difference. While we risked missing a few classes and maybe the indignity of being arrested for our beliefs, you risked disease, maiming, and death every day for standing up for yours. And then you came home to a country that vilified you. We were so wrong. Again, thank you for serving at a time when it was so terribly unpopular.”
She walked away then and I sat down, hard, on a bench along the path. I couldn’t see anything for a long time, and don’t know how long I sat there. When I got home my wife immediately knew something had happened and she and I had a long talk and a good cry together. It wasn’t until the next day when I realized that something had changed; a small spot in my soul that had ached for years hurt a little less. And it continued to ease over the following weeks and years. Now it only hurts a little, a tolerable little, when the news reaches me that a comrade has passed.
I owe that lady; her words somehow started the healing process for me. I’ve never seen her again and I have tried to find her. I’d like her to know what she did for me, and for my family. I’d like her to know that it feels good not to hurt every day.
**********
Viet Nam was hard. All of us expected that, but we didn’t expect the totality of it. Everyone saw and experienced things that were difficult at best; some saw and experienced things that no human should ever hear about, much less live with. Some survived by turning to religion, some to philosophy, some to drugs; some did truly go quite mad. However, that was expected; what was NOT expected was the reception we got when we came home. We didn’t expect to be hailed as conquering heroes, but neither did we anticipate what we got: booed, spit on, called “baby killers” (and much worse), and bombarded with thin, easily broken bags of human feces. The shock some of us felt contributed to years of pent-up emotions we couldn’t deal with and couldn’t find words to properly describe, even to those closest to us.
Fast forward to 2000. After nearly 30 years I still had unresolved issues related to ‘Nam, some of which I wasn’t even aware of; that was about to change. The Traveling Wall was coming to town, and my organization was looking for “old timers” who had served over there to represent the office at the official opening of the exhibit. As it turned out there were only two of us, and the other guy was scheduled for surgery that day so – I “volunteered”. I got through the speeches and other BS without much trouble, and then it was time to leave. There was no way I was going down to that Wall; that had been resolved before I got there. Friends and blooded comrades were engraved on that great black beast; that was known and that was enough. No way was I going down there. That thought remained foremost in my mind as my feet, seemingly of their own volition, carried me down past the temporary speaker’s platform, and on down the curving path the lead to The Wall. I found myself reaching out to it, touching it … not looking for any particular names, and certainly not tracing any. I was fighting back tears and wondering all the while just what in the hell I was doing there
.
Something brushed my arm but I ignored it. Again the touch on the arm, but this time it remained. My concentration broken I looked to my right; there stood a woman I did not know and had never seen before. It was her hand resting on my arm that had broken my silent grieving. She had a look in her eyes that I could not name, and she began to speak:
“Thank you for your service. I was young when that war was going on and I was vehemently opposed to it. I joined with other students and we protested and marched, trying to end it. We were doing what we thought was right, what we thought was best for our country. I still believe we were right to oppose that incursion into another country’s politics, but we were wrong about you. You were treated horribly when you came back. We had no right to blame you for the government’s policies and we certainly had no right to treat you as we did. You were doing what you thought was best for our country just as we were, but with a massive difference. While we risked missing a few classes and maybe the indignity of being arrested for our beliefs, you risked disease, maiming, and death every day for standing up for yours. And then you came home to a country that vilified you. We were so wrong. Again, thank you for serving at a time when it was so terribly unpopular.”
She walked away then and I sat down, hard, on a bench along the path. I couldn’t see anything for a long time, and don’t know how long I sat there. When I got home my wife immediately knew something had happened and she and I had a long talk and a good cry together. It wasn’t until the next day when I realized that something had changed; a small spot in my soul that had ached for years hurt a little less. And it continued to ease over the following weeks and years. Now it only hurts a little, a tolerable little, when the news reaches me that a comrade has passed.
I owe that lady; her words somehow started the healing process for me. I’ve never seen her again and I have tried to find her. I’d like her to know what she did for me, and for my family. I’d like her to know that it feels good not to hurt every day.
