An Honorable Illusion

When I think back to what I knew growing up about my dad's Vietnam War experience, all I was aware of was that my dad was in the Army, and hanging in my parents' bedroom was a picture of him in his fatigues to prove it. Also, in the living room was a glass case housing some spooky life-like Asian dolls from which I stayed far away. When I was a bit older I remember my dad taking my sister and me to the theatre to see the movie, “Platoon,” with strict confidences that we were not to tell our mother. “Why aren't we allowed to see it?” I asked. “No,” my dad replied, “You two are allowed to see it --“I'm not!” So it wasn't until our trip to Washington, D.C. that I began to understand what my dad experienced --and only this information came from my emphatic witnessing of his reaction to the Vietnam Memorial. For me, I understood that my dad had already undergone his most important purpose in life --and, quite painfully --it wasn't protecting me. This poem was written in my late teens reflecting this revelation. Karin Chismark Currie Standing Behind The Stone Barricade Reflecting in the charcoal granite, his face, obscured by names only used in memory, seemed a part of the stone sanction. I stood back -- my slim hand slipping out of his powerful one -- letting him take in the experience of transcending to a time, place, and happening he'd rather not remember. The day was gray with weather and tone; an ashen sky trying to camouflage the bold, bewailing existence of “The Wall.” Drizzle wet our heads --the prelude to the pouring storm to come. The squinting iced eyes pierced within, eyebrows connected, forehead crevices deepened, mouth clowned down, low enough for the corners to touch the chin. Concentration, sorrow, and guilt brought him back to his lost boys. The water beat on our heads, saturating our hair; we allowed the precipitation to slowly drip down to our faces. His image, stabilized in the giant stone, let the water absorb into his lashes, roll down his cheeks, extrude off his nose, run into his mouth, and off his chin. Not once did he reach to wipe the moisture from his flesh. Did that cold man, whom I honored, obeyed and loved since birth cry in front of me that heavy day? His image reflected a man weighed down with tears of remembrance and hopelessness, but only the back of his drenched head was before me. A shiver of reality froze down my spine: the Demon of Black Recollection would forever force the bloodied, deformed dead bodies of those unfortunate platoon heroes into his soul. I never looked at him the same since that dark day: he was once an experienced boy --not much older than I -- fathering brave youths, who were willing to, and did, die for their country. ********** (from CHAPTER THREE: The First Order): They looked physically fit, tan, weathered, tired, unshaven, and dirty. Because the weather was extremely hot and humid, they were stripped down to the waist. They were going about doing the various activities that infantrymen in the field have always done: digging foxholes, erecting sun shades from ponchos, eating, boiling water, cleaning weapons, smoking, quietly chatting, listening to music, writing letters home, playing cards, and trying to rest. In observing them more closely, my first impression was they didn't look or act like any group of American soldiers I had ever been around in the states. Their demeanors seemed to exude bundles of conflicting emotions: hyper-vigilant but at the same time detached and aloof, trusting but skeptical, brave but cautiously fearful, caring but callous, conscientious but sloppy, intense but verbally carefree (“It don't mean nothin' ” turned out to be the ubiquitous “grunt” response to any and all disappointments or tragedies). I asked Sergeant Laredo to round up the other two squad leaders and meet up with me in ten minutes at the CP (command post) which was an area set up in the middle of the platoon's perimeter to be a communications and TOC (tactical operations center) for the unit. The CP was generally where the platoon leader, his RTO (radio telephone operator), and platoon sergeant set up and positioned themselves when the platoon was in a static position and not on the move. I figured that would give me a little time to settle in, get my senses about me, and mentally prepare for this first meeting of the platoon's NCO (non-commissioned officer) leaders. Obviously, as their new leader, I wanted to give a good first impression. What was going through my mind since my arrival, however, was that this was going to be more difficult than I had imagined, simply because they had been “out there” humping these densely vegetated mountains for months, and I had not. And I really looked like I had not, with my brand new jungle fatigues, fresh haircut, clean shaven face, and weapon that had never been fired. I was the epitome of the “cherry” infantry 2nd lieutenant who had “zero” combat experience, was believed to be “a danger” to the platoon, and whose life expectancy in the field in Vietnam was perceived to be extremely short. I now felt that despite all of that great training I received, I was really not prepared for this moment. Nonetheless, it was time to “put on my game face and step up.” The three squad leaders came over, and no sooner had I introduced myself, than my CO (commanding officer), in this case my company commander, called on the radio and ordered me to send out a squad patrol in the area. The purpose of the patrol was to provide security for the platoon while we were not moving, as well as to search out and destroy any enemy that might be in the area and take prisoners where we could. I asked the squad leaders which squad's turn it was to go out on patrol, and Sergeant Athens stepped forward, introduced himself, and said in a Southern drawl, “It's the 2nd squad's turn, Sir.” Now Athens was a fit, fearless, seasoned soldier, very confident and professional in his bearing. He had piercing blue eyes that strikingly contrasted with his tan skin and white teeth. I noticed when his eyes locked on mine, they were intense and seemed to look right through me. I took out the acetate covered map of the AO (area of operations) that I was handed as I boarded the chopper to come out, and asked him to take his out as well. I then quickly realized I had not had an opportunity to study it and orient it to the terrain --a terrain I was given no information on in terms of geography or prior enemy activity. So I asked Sgt. Athens respectfully and diplomatically, just where he thought his squad's patrol should go. To which he replied, again in that polite but firm Southern accent, “Sir, I will go out whenever you tell me to go out, take as many men as you tell me to take, stay out as long as you tell me to stay out, and come back whatever time you tell me to get back, but I will not decide where we should go --that's your job as platoon leader, Sir.” Oops, mistake number one. Trying to gain credibility by diplomatically deferring to the seasoned squad leader to make a decision that was my responsibility to make, did not “cut it” in this environment. That was my first wake-up call.