Being Frank About Vietnam

Carl was ninety years old. Glaucoma had stolen his eyesight. His legs had failed him and his hearing was weak. Yet he greeted me with a brisk, “Hello Frank!” and a hearty handshake when I visited him in his nursing home room. I had known him as my father-in-law for more than forty years, but I would not say our bond was one of a father-son. It was more a bond of mutual respect between kindred spirits. We shared some of the deepest life-impacting experiences a person can have, but at different times. Carl was a World War II veteran who stormed the beaches of Normandy in the second wave of the D-day invasion. I was a Vietnam veteran who experienced the TET Offensive in what was known as the Arizona Territory south of Da Nang. Carl received a Purple Heart for a shrapnel wound in his right hip. My second Purple Heart came from shrapnel in the right thigh just six inches below Carl’s wound. We spoke freely of our shared experiences of war, something many veterans are reluctant to do with those who have not felt the pain of a lost comrade or a piece of steel violating their bodies. As I heard Carl’s stories it saddened me to know they would be lost forever as he slipped away in his nursing home bed. I was determined not to let this happen. So I persuaded Carl to let me record our war conversations that focused on his experiences and send the recordings to his children and grandchildren. Doing this made me realize I also needed to tell my story. I owe it to my own children and grandchildren. But I must admit there are other motivations for telling my story. For example, while at a social event it is common to share your background with others. Upon hearing I served in the Marine Corps, the usual follow-up question is,“Great! Where did you serve?” When I reply “Vietnam,” there is a predictable pause as if the other person does not know where to go with the conversation. The moment turns from casual to awkward and usually ends with the other person saying,“Thank you for your service.” Or, “You guys really didn’t get treated as you should have.” Thanks, but no thanks! I’m not seeking the recognition and honor that was withheld from veterans of Vietnam. I want others to understand what it was like fighting an “endless” war. I want others to know the futility of taking a hill or village only to have the enemy return to occupy it when we left and then having to go back to retake it again and again. It was a war of attrition. Kill as many enemy as you can…Leave and come back to kill more. The pressure from senior command to rack up body count was relentless, and for what purpose? I’m ready to tell my story. I want to answer questions like, “Are you willing to talk about your experience? What did you do in Vietnam? Where was your unit? Were you ever in a fire fight?” I want an opportunity to separate the political side of war from the human side of war. I want to share what war is like and how it affects those in combat and their families. I want to explain what most men who have sat in the Oval Office have never experienced. Yet, they lead from a position of secure authority, making decisions that impact the lives of thousands serving at their command. It was not until Operation Desert Storm when we kicked Saddam Hussein out of Kuwait that I felt the Vietnam sacrifice had taught our leadership how to conduct a war: get in, get it done, and get out. Unfortunately, these lessons have not taken root. I recall a quote by Roberta Victor (2003), “No one hates war more than a warrior.” It rings true in my heart. I am saddened to see our leaders so quick to start wars when most have never served on the battlefield, had they, I’m certain their conscience and experience would temper their judgment with the wisdom of knowing the pain that war brings to those serving, as well as to their families. In my opinion, both political parties are guilty of abusing the power of their office by over-reaching with force while not exhausting a course of diplomacy. This ends political commentary in this book. It is time to focus on the human side of war. Here is my story as straightforward as I can remember it. Many events or brief encounters remain in my memory of the war. Each event is unique in how it developed as well as its final outcome. They are not tied together in a sequence nor are they related. Each event stands on its own as a day-to-day glimpse of real life in the bush of Vietnam. They are snapshots that swim in my memory as a collage of encounters. Fortunately my wife, Diana, saved every letter I sent her from Vietnam and I’ve included segments from those letters. I believe these segments reveal in personal detail the stresses of war. Although my prose and spelling in those letters embarrass me today, I hope you understand I was not an English major. I was not concerned about grammatical correctness while under the stress of war. All I wanted to do was get the message across. To improve readability of the letters they have been typed in italics and placed at the end of this book. For those times when Diana and I were together or when she was impacted through the letters or events at home, she provided her views in her “Reflections” at the end of this book. The page number of her reflection is found following those chapters she referenced in her reflection. Referring to Diana’s reflection at the end of those chapters may provide continuity of her perception of the events in that chapter. In the interest of preserving personal privacy, with the exception of permission by my immediate family and close friends, I have fabricated names to suit the situation. For many encounters I am sad to say I cannot remember most names, but each event and face is indelibly engraved on my memory. Any name used that happens to match that of a Marine who served in Delta Company, 1st Battalion, 5th Marine Regiment from September, 1968 to November, 1969, is coincidental and not reflective of that Marine’s performance. ___________________ SEGMENT FROM CHAPTER EIGHT – Patchwork of Memories The village was nestled in trees forming a “V” shape. It was an inviting landscape with the trees on our left and right channeling us into the center of the village. As I looked through my binoculars I could see activity in the vill, a good sign indicating it was unlikely we would get fired upon. As we approached I could see a mama san collecting water from a well. Suddenly we took automatic fire from the tree line on our left. We approached in the open with little cover so everyone kissed the dirt. Since the fire came from our left side everyone had a clear line of fire into the tree line. Our response was overwhelming; everyone was pounding that tree line with automatic fire. Then a young man dressed in black and carrying a rifle ran toward the village. Everyone’s fire followed him into the vill. I could not believe no one brought him down. As he disappeared behind the well the mama san fell to the ground. Why she did not take cover I will never know. The fire fight was brief, maybe thirty seconds at most. We entered the vill. Mama san was dead. Her gray hair confirmed her grandmotherly status.