Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 +----------------------------------------------------------------+ | NN NN AAAA MM MM VV VV EEEEEEE TTTTTTTT | | NNN NN AA AA MMM MMM VV VV EE TT | | NN N NN AA AA MM M M MM VV VV EE TT | | NN N NN AA AA MM M MM VV VV EE TT | | NN N NN AAAAAAAA MM MM VV VV EEEEE TT | | NN N NN AA AA MM MM VV VV EE TT | | NN NNN AA AA MM MM V V EE TT | | NN NN AA AA MM MM VVV EEEEEEE TT | | The International Newsletter for Vietnam Veterans | | | +----------------------------------------------------------------+ DATA NUMBER Editor in Chief: Todd Looney Viet Vets Valhalla Managing Editor: G. Joseph Peck VETLink #1 (413) 443-6313 Distribution Manager: Bob Morris Pole Climber 2 (203) 287-4085 NAM VET's PAPERBOY: Jerry Hindle 7:48/0 --- Section Editors --- PTSD: Kathleen Kelly, Ph.D. NY Transfer (718) 448-2358 AGENT ORANGE: Martin Kroll Ft Mountain BBS (404) 695-8703 MIA-POW: Glenn Toothman Commo Bunker TX 1:387/801 VA INFO: Jim Hildwine ZEPHYR BBS (703) 620-5418 HOMELESS: Lefty Frizzell Executive B'rdroom 1:106/449 INCARCERATED VETS: Todd Looney Viet Vets Valhalla WOMEN VETS: MEMORIES: G. Joseph Peck VETLink #1 (413) 443-6313 | )| NAM VET is a special _+|__|_ electronic newsletter dedicated to * VIETNAM |--- --| VETERANS * around the world and ------------------------=========================== provided as a \_______________________________________________)free service to participants ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ in the International Vietnam Veterans EchoConference (IVVEC) available on many bulletin boards throughout the United States, Europe, Canada, and Australia. _ Not all of the articles appearing in here | are written by participants in the IVVEC, but NAM VET | is very much an electronic newsletter by, of -----/_\----- and for Vietnam veterans, their -O==============< : >==============O- friends, wives, and lovers. ( ) (...) ( ) The newsletter is comprised of articles and items from individuals and other sources. | We are not responsible | for the content of this information nor are any of NAM VET's |____====________ contributor's or Section Editors ||__________}____)==================|) =============---------------------===_____ /| | | | |\\ \________|__________|_________|_________|/ \\(O)___(O)___(O)___(O)___(O)___(O)// Duplication in any form permitted for noncommercial purposes only. For other use, contact: Todd Looney at (408) 947-7668 G. Joseph Peck at (413) 442-1660 ================================================================= T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S 1. EDITORIALS louds, Rainbows and Prisms .............................. 1 VETERANS, SPEAK OUT AND BE HEARD! ....................... 4 A Soldier Known But to God" ............................. 6 You Bet Your Sweet Bippy I am!! ......................... 8 2. Missing!!! Two Kinds of American Hero .............................. 10 They haven't forgutten US!!! ............................ 12 3. Touchin' Where We Live Dear Dad ................................................ 13 Mommy, Did You Kill Anybody In The War? ................. 16 The Silent Shot - A Remembrance ......................... 17 Not On This Wall ........................................ 23 Ho Chang ................................................ 27 Yahrzeit '88 ............................................ 30 Why Do We Feel So Guilty? ............................... 33 The Other Forgotten Warriors ............................ 36 And I waited... ......................................... 40 Two Walls ............................................... 43 4. Our Flag!!! Stars and Stripes! ...................................... 46 War ..................................................... 58 The "OLD GLORY" Story ................................... 59 A Different Battlefield ................................. 61 Homecoming III .......................................... 63 5. Veterans' Benefits Veterans' Appeals Court Seeks Home ...................... 64 6. Agent Orange Are You listening, President Bush? ...................... 67 Let Me Tell You Where I've Been I ....................... 70 7. Remember Them!!! Viet Vets In The Justice System ......................... 74 A visit or note once in awhile? ......................... 78 HOMELESS ................................................ 79 8. In The Silent Times The Silent Warrior ...................................... 82 Brother Rat's Gourmet Cooking ........................... 84 The Boonie Rat Song!!! .................................. 89 9. On The Lite Side Murphy's Laws of Combat Operations ...................... 91 Sermon from Mount Dong Quang ............................ 93 10. Guide To IVVEC Articles ........................................................ 94 Familiar? ............................................... 95 NamVet 1- 01, 1-02 ...................................... 96 NamVet 2-01, 2-02 ....................................... 97 NamVet 2-03, 2-04, 2-05 ................................. 98 NamVet 2-06, 2-07 ....................................... 100 NamVet 2-08, 2-09, 2-10 ................................. 101 NamVet 2-11, 1st Anniversary Issue ...................... 102 NamVet 2-12, 3-01, 3-02 ................................. 103 NamVet 3-03, 3-04, 3-05 ................................. 104 NamVet 3-06, 3-07, 3-08 ................................. 105 NamVet 3-9, 3-10 ........................................ 106 NamVet 3-11 ............................................. 107 Some Gave All... ........................................ 108 NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page i Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 ================================================================= E D I T O R I A L S ================================================================= Clouds, Rainbows... and Prisms by G. Joseph Peck NAM VETs Managing Editor VETLink #1 Pittsfield, MA (413) 443-6313 Well, the deadline is fast approaching when, no matter WHAT or HOW I feel about not receiving Todd's editorial, this Second Anniversary Issue of NAM VET --MUST-- go to press. Step by painful step I'm coming to learn how many of YOU must have felt when it was time to be pulled from an AO and you knew some of your troops were still scrambling to reach rendezvous and exit point. Alone, in a sense, I prepare this issue KNOWING that m' brother TRIED... and just didn't quite make it. When Todd and I published the first NAM VET on 11/11/87, I don't believe either of us realized the good that a simple ol' electronic newsletter could accomplish - both for ourselves and for our brother and sister veterans around the world. We've heard about it from fellow veterans, seen it written about in newspapers and magazines, and viewed the dogeared copies lying around in our Vet Centers and veteran organizations. We've also seen NAM VET circulation rapidly grow from its tiny beginnings to what is now near-world-wide distribution. That tells US that we must be putting together at least some of the things you, our readers, want to read - that what we're trying to do for each of you fills a need. 'Round about last May, some legal troubles came Todd's way that mandated he sell his computer and shut down the Vietnam Veterans' Valhalla. In order to continue the "mission" of NAM VET, it quickly became clear to me that the responsibility for carrying on should fall upon one of the founding fathers - me ... and, with a persistence and determination similar to that which sustained me during my 18-1/2 year arduous battle with the VA and other bureaucracies, I have tried to do the best job I could of producing what YOU have requested and/or submitted for all of us to read... I'd like to take THIS opportunity to thank each and every one of you - Section Editors, contributors, those who download the NAM VET, and those who share it - for all that producing NAM VET has taught ME... about the ambush in Happy Valley; about the lonely widow with 3 children who lost her husband to Agent Orange; about the homeless and incarcerated veteran; about our Missing In Action - Prisoners Of War (MIA/POW); and, most importantly, about trying to walk where YOU have walked. I've found part of me in almost every one of you and, ya know, I don't feel so alone anymore! Like so many of you, before I entered the service I was pretty confident that Life was orderly and predictable and that my future would be more or less under MY control. I really and truly believed I WAS a good and worthwhile person and that MY efforts COULD make a difference. > Although I didn't get to the 'Nam, it NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 1 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 seems like the military and American society did for me what it did for many of you when they discharged me with a "label" as the unit I was assigned to (69th Sig Bn) was split and went to 'Nam and to Germany. I often wonder how many of those I served with made it back - and I often, too, feel guilty 'cause I wasn't there WITH them to do the job I was trained to do. (I've found two of 'em who came back... one works for a national news network in New York City; the other, after experiencing all kinds of unexplainable illnesses and weight loss, went to California to spend what were possibly his last days in warmth and sunshine instead of the bitter cold of the Northern U.S.) After my military service, like so many of you, I tried to feel proud of my efforts for this country - but it was hollow and had no meaning when I KNEW, except for my pre-accident performance of my duties, that I had done really nothing to be proud of. I soon learned that if I wanted a decent job, I should NOT mention my military service. I'm a determined cuss, though: a veteran and damned proud of it! Needless to say, with my service-incurred disabilities which the VA refused to recognize coupled with the general public reaction I encountered, there wasn't much I could find other than apprentice-type or menial labor positions. Following the lead that so many of you have provided - or leaving footprints that others may easily follow, claims were presented to the VA only to be denied or seen as confirmation that an erroneous military diagnosis was correct. I couldn't afford private physicians, therapists or counselors and I either had to find a way to deal with it myself or let it overwhelm me. Yup... we've been under a very similar cloud. But then one day I saw a rainbow... and followed it. A newspaper reporter, writing about my struggles with the Small Business Administration, called me a "service-connected disabled Vietnam vet" ... and I began to look deeper into some problems that all - ESPECIALLY Vietnam veterans - might be having at that time (1976). The rainbow, with its multiple colors and differing shades of light it shed on things, pointed me towards Massachusetts a few years later and steered towards the 1983 CompuServe Identity of "Vetlink - The Point Man" and then to the 1987 creation of VETLink #1. Eight months later, after constant and continued involvement in the IVVEC and just about the time I was beginning to find HOPE again, a faraway candle flickered as Todd asked that I join with him in creating NAM VET for all of us. For me - NAM VET has really kept the lights near-bright and has constantly reminded me of the kinship we all share! And, speaking of "kinship," let's not forget Todd. He's had problems, like many of us, prior to his most recent difficulty. He's mentioned to me that he's not proud of what's happened, and I can understand that. I can also understand confidentiality and allegiance and loyalty and acceptance. Todd and every one of you have taught me in a much better way that I was ever shown prior to IVVEC and NAM VET. There's a "cloud" in HIS life right now and sometimes I wonder whether or not my internal guidance system of "not abandoning a NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 2 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 brother/sister - or leaving someone behind" might be more harmful than good for Todd. It is "I" who had the police check on his and Nancy's well-being when I received no answer from their telephone for four or five straight days; It is "I" who constantly hounded him and asked that he US Snail me his editorial until we found a way to get the Valhalla back off-the-ground; it is "I" who have constantly tried to pull him back into something he seemed to care very deeply about. Maybe I should have just let him go - but, to me, he's a brother veteran who's shared some very important and insightful things with us all, and I have a real problem with that. It is also "I" who believe that we who contribute to NAM VET and the IVVEC can see the iris of the clouds, can restore hope for at least one when all the world once seems lost - through our words and efforts and prayers, can see another person's actions illuminated in the light of fraternal understanding and concern... And it is "I" who can see clouds and rainbows and prisms and KNOW that it is nature's way of saying: "Thank You, Vietnam Veterans - it DOES mean sumpin'!" 'Til our next issue Show a brother or sister veteran That YOU care!!! Ci'ao for Ni'ao -Joe- NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 3 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 VETERANS, SPEAK OUT AND BE HEARD! By: Martin H. Kroll NAM VETs Agent Orange Section Editor Fort Mountain BBS Chatsworth, GA (404) 695-8703 As another Veteran's Day draws near there are many things on my mind. One of them is the fact that Veteran's Day this year is on a Saturday. I have always wondered why we have a Veteran's Day that allows Government workers and bank employees a paid holiday when most of the Veterans themselves end up having to work unless they are employed by a bank or the Government. It just doesn't seem fair does it? Oh well, this is just a small trifle compared to some of the other things that bother me. One of the "biggies" that stays on my mind is that I am thoroughly disgusted with the way the Government has handled the Agent Orange issue and shortchanged the Viet Nam Veterans. This is what has prompted me to write a letter to President George Bush seeking his assistance in helping Veterans that may have been exposed to Agent Orange. You see, although I feel that "radicalism" may have it's place in many circumstances, I don't think that this issue is ready for that approach. I read a statistic just the other day that pointed out the fact that one out of every six home mortgages in this country are backed by the Veterans Administration. Since you have to be a Veteran to get VA backing of a home loan, it is obvious just how large a portion of the population is comprised of Veterans. Theoretically, if you talk to just five non veterans we can reach the vast majority of our voting population. It is very plain that if all Veterans agree on just a few issues we can hit them where it really hurts them. Congress is again seeking a pay raise that will increase their pay from $85,000 per year to $127,000 per year. I think that this is obscene when you consider the way they have done their foot dragging on the Agent Orange issue. Then too, the amount of their requested pay raise is more than most Veterans even earn in a year's time. Congress found out the last time around that the people can speak in force and they proved that yes, the almighty Congress listens to the people, at least for the time being. Do you see what I am getting at? If all veterans united and spoke out on any one issue, then there would be sufficient numbers to force Congress and the Government to do what ever we reasonably requested. We can do that and it is imperative that we do. Veterans that were exposed to Agent Orange are running out of time. They are now middle aged and many are dying from cancer and afflicted with other ills due to their service in Viet Nam. They need medical care now while there is still a chance that something can be done to help them. After the fact settlements to survivors twenty years from now will not help the Veterans. Now if Congress was doing their jobs as they should I don't think many Veterans would have any objection to giving them a reasonable pay raise. After all, we are the ones that have that power and authority in the final analysis. It is a shame that Viet Nam Veterans have been treated the way they have when it comes to the Agent Orange issue. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 4 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 Now I have no idea if my letter to President Bush will get any results but I do know that united we can get what we want. I am asking each and every one of you reading this to join in and help the cause. Don't agree or disagree with me, just pitch in to help. You have my permission to publish this article and my letter to President Bush in any publication, as long as they are both published together and remain in the original unedited form. We should tell Congress that so long as they continue to drag their feet on the Agent Orange issue we will "JUST SAY NO" when it comes time to approve their pay raises and again when it comes time to go back to the voting polls. That's the ticket folks.....hit em where it really hurts! Here is what I am asking you to do. First, make several copies (at least 10) and have your friends and neighbors sign 2 of them. Second, send one copy to your Congressman and the other to the White House. This won't cost you much at all. This course of action should create a virtual flood of letters of support for immediate action on the Agent Orange issue. The trick is though, you have to DO IT NOW....Go ahead and start printing as soon as you are finished reading this article! Third, please attempt to get this article and my letter to President Bush published in your local newspaper or any newsletter or magazine that you can. This is very important! The more people that we can get this to, the more support we will get. If you are reading this in a newspaper or elsewhere, please tear this article out, sign it, and send it to your Congressman. While you are at it, photocopy several for your friends to do the same. We can do it folks! Don't do this for me, do it for yourselves and your brother and sister Veterans. After all, were it not for our Veterans you could very well now be living under communist or dictatorial rule. If it were not for our Veterans you could very well be living in poverty. It does no good to gripe about what our Government owes us when we fail to help ourselves. Let's make this a Veteran's Day to be remembered for years to come. Let's make this a Veteran's Day that started a flood of support that showed Congress and the Government just where we stand and that yes.....We do know how to hurt them in the worst way. We do not have to resort to violence or radicalism to get what is rightfully ours, but rather "we can and will" resort to the good old American way and work within the system. So in leaving you, I urge you one more time......DO IT NOW! NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 5 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 "A Soldier Known But to God" By: Jim Hildwine NAM VET's Federal Benefits Editor Washington Zephyr BBS (703) 620-5418 In 1921, an American Soldier - his name "known but to God" - was buried on a Virginia hillside overlooking the Potomac River and the city of Washington. The Arlington National Cemetery burial site of this unknown World War I soldier became the personi- fication of dignity and reverence for America's veterans. Ceremonies occurred earlier in England and France, where an "Unknown Soldier" was buried in each nation's highest place of honor (in England, Westminster Abbyey; in France, the Arc De Triomphe). These memorial gestures all took place on November 11 at 11 a.m., November 11, 1918 (the 11th hours of the 11th day of the 11th month). The day became know as "Armistice Day." Armistice day officially received its name in America in 1926 through a Congressional resolution. It became a national holiday 12 years later by similar congressional action. If the idealistic hope had been realized that World War I was "The War to end all Wars," November 11 might still be called Armistice Day. But shortly after the hoilday was proclaimed, World War II broke out in Europe and shattered the dream. Sixteen-and-a-half million Americans took part. Four hundred and six thousand died. The families and friends of these dead longed for a way to honor their memory. "To Honor Veterans of All Wars" An answer to the delemma of how to pay tribute to those who had served in this latest, great war came in a proposal made by Repesentiative Edwin K. Rees of Kansas: Change Armistice Day to Veterans Day, and make this an occasion to honor those who have served America in all Wars. President Eisenhower, in 1954, signed the bill proclaiming November 11 as Veterans Day, and he called for Americans everywhere to rededicate themselves to the cause of peace. On May 30, 1958, two more unidentified American war dead were brought to Arlington Cemetery from overseas and interred in the plaza beside their Comrade of World War I. One was killed in World War II, the other in Korea. A law passed in 1973 provided for the interment of an unknown American who lost life in Southeast Asia during the Vietnam era. For several years no qualifiying remains were discovered so a memorial plaque was placed in the Amphitheater's Memorial Display Room. On Memorial Day 1984, however, the Unknown Serviceman from that conflict was placed "In Honored Glory" alongside his fellow countrymen. To honor these men, symbolic of all Americans who gave their lives in all wars, an Army honor guard, the 3d United States NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 6 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 Infantry (The Old Guard) keeps day and night vigil at the tombsite. "Date Too Significant to Change" A law passed in 1968 changed the national commemoration of Veterans Day to the fouth Monday in October. It soon became apparent, however that November 11 was a matter of historic and patrotic significance to a great number of our citizens. Congress, therefore, enacted legislation (Public Law 94-97) which returned the observance of this speical day to its traditional date beginning in 1978. "Once belonged to Robert E. Lee" The focal point for ceremonies conducted by the Veterans Day National Committee continues to be the Arlington Memorial Amphitheather built around the Tomb of the Unknowns at Arlington National Cemetery. The site, established in 1864 is now operated by the Department of Defense, lies on property that once belonged to General Robert E. Lee. At 11am on Veterans Day a combined color guard reresenting all military services honors the UNKNOWNS by executing "present Arms" at the Tomb. The Nation's tribute to its war dead is symbolized by the laying of a Presidental wreath. The bugler sounds "Taps." The balance of the ceremony, which includes a brief address, takes place at the Amphitheater. Veterans Day ceremonies at Arlington and elsewhere in the Nation are coordinated by the President's Veterans Day National Committee. Chaired by the Secretary, Department of Veterans Affairs, the group has an executive committee which includes representatives of eighteen national veterans organizations chartered by Congress. The remaining members represent other national veterans' service associations. (Taken from the Veterans Day Guide provide by the Dept Vet Affairs) NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 7 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 YOU BET YOUR SWEET BIPPY I AM! Input by: G. Joseph Peck NAM VET's Managing Editor VETLink #1 Pittsfield, MA (413) 443-6313 The following letter appeared in the April, 1989 edition of THE VETERAN - a publication of Vietnam Veterans of America: Dear Editor... In the January 1989 VETERAN, Kenneth R. Fuhrmann wrote a letter that clearly expresses the feeling shared by probably over 90 percent of Vietnam veterans. Being a proud Vietnam veteran is something we can all feel WITHOUT having to feel guilt, or suffering from PTSD, or going into fits of rage, or being divorced (and blaming it on our Vietnam experience), or hating the VA, or being unemployed, or incarcerated, or homeless. All of these are true for some Vietnam veterans. But there are many MORE of us who have been able to cope with our traumatic combat experiences and who are active, contributing American citizens, husbands, fathers, and members of our communities. Truthfully, many of us are very tired of the image of the Vietnam veteran as a homeless, alcoholic, wife-beating "Rambo." Most of us went to Vietnam as proud Americans, served as proud Americans, returned "home" as proud Americans, and today are no less proud than we ever were. One reason so many Vietnam veterans would not (and many still will not) admit they served in Vietnam might be because they did not (and do not) WANT to be associated with an image that does not fit them. They are no less proud than anyone else who served, and it makes me ill that they are often not accepted as "real" Vietnam veterans simply because they have chosen to dress in neat clothes, do not drink alcohol or talk about war memories that still hurt, are not tall and slim anymore, or fit into anybody's mold of how they should act or be. They went to war as individuals who were not going to let their agemates fight, and bleed, and die alone. They are Vietnam veterans in the finest tradition, and their quest for individuality has never changed. Most people would not guess that I am a Vietnam veteran. I am not tall, and I still can put on the same uniform I wore when I was commissioned at the age of 19. No, I was not there very long, three months and 21 days in all, but I spent over three of the next five years in the hospital "being fixed up." I am retired, and I am rated 100 percent disabled because of my wounds. My little brother was killed in Vietnam with four or five of his men in May 1970, and my father spent four tours in Vietnam. Am I a proud Vietnam veteran? You bet your sweet bippy I am. Vietnam was a million-dollar experience I would not pay a nickel to repeat, but I think about it 20 or 30 times a day. I remember my tour in Vietnam with pride and honor, not with guilt and shame. Nobody likes war, and I wish there never was a Vietnam WAR, but there was, and I hold my head high in honor of my friends who gave their lives so other soldiers could live. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 8 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 A couple of years ago, I read that one out of four helicopter pilots did not survive. I am proud to have served with these men and the 58,000 who gave their lives so bravely. Like Kenneth Fuhrmann said, let's have more articles about the Vietnam veteran who has "regrouped" and has been able to fit back into the community. James P. Meade, Jr., Ph.D. San Diego, California NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 9 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 ================================================================= M i s s i n g ! ! ! ================================================================= Two Kinds of American Hero From: The Wall Street Journal July 5, 1989 By: Stephen T. Banko, III Decorated Vietnam veteran from Buffalo, New York As reprinted in VVA 351's 8/89 Chapter Newsletter Input by: G. Joseph Peck NAM VETs Managing Editor VETLink #1 Pittsfield, MA (413) 443-6313 The final democracy of death has provided 2 departed souls with eternal equality in recent months. One was the world's oldest Yippie, Abbie Hoffman. The other was Col. James Nicholas Rowe, who spent five years in a North Vietnamese prison camp. Mr. Hoffman died by his own hand and attracted a ream of newsprint attention and miles of videotaped eulogies on television stations across the country. The media's fascination with Mr. Hoffman was a result, no doubt, of Mr. Hoffman's fascination with the media. And when he died of a drug overdose earlier this year, he was recalled by Mike Royko of the Chicago Tribune as a loveable guy, something akin to a playful puppy who is nice to pet but still does dirt on your best Oriental rug. Mr. Royko said that Mr. Hoffman was just having a little fun with America, just joshing and tweaking the country's collective nose with his outrageous behavior. Mr. Royko said the nation would sorely miss Abbie. But now every nose in America in those crazy days needed tweaking. A lot of 17, 18 and 19 year old noses needed wiping and other Americans went to Vietnam to take care of that chore. One of them was Col. Rowe. In pre-60's America, Col. Rowe might have been considered a hero. He graduated from West Point, became one of the nation's elite Special Forces and went to Vietnam as an adviser in 1963. He was in Vietnam for 3 months when he was captured by the Viet Cong after a ferocious firefight. He spent the next 5 years i prison camps, coping with starvation, disease, torture and thirst - 23 of those months in complete isolation in a box with a 21-inch screen, Col. Rowe was confined in a bamboo cage, three feet by four feet by six feet. Delicacies were the meat he could capture in the form of rats and snakes that ventured too close to his cage. Three of his comrades died of starvation while in captivity. But worse than the physical isolation of the prison routine was the emotional isolation inflicted by Col. Rowe's captors. They showed him newspaper photographs of teenagers burning the American flag in the shadow of the Washington Monument and NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 10 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 college campuses sporting the flag of the Viet Cong. He escaped three times, only to be recaptured. After each failed attempt, he was severely beaten in retribution. Finally, on his way to his own execution on New Years Eve, 1968, Col. Rowe escaped when the execution detail was surprised by a flight of American helicopters. Nick Rowe was an intense, soft-spoken man of firm convictions. None of those convictions were stronger than his love of his country. His years of captivity and deprivation had not robbed him of his sense of humor. In 1983, speaking at a Vietnam veterans luncheon in Buffalo, NY, Col. Rowe was served rice. "Could I speak with the man responsible for today's menu?" he asked, flashing his Texas grin. "I want to know if he worked a POW camp in Phuoc Long." Col. Rowe's speech that day never made the nightly news. Perhaps it was his subject matter. For he spoke not of hate of war or killing, but of love: love of his country, love of God, and love of his comrades-in-arms. He spoke in hushed tones about suffering and the price of his love. He spoke with a deep conviction and quiet confidence that radiated through the packed room. Anyone there that day in 1983 knew he was in the company of a true hero; not the comic book, hyperbolized heroism of Rambo and Norris and Schwartzenegger, but heroism in the tradition of real people with real feelings and real courage. On April 21, the Philippine communists did what Vietnamese communists had been unable to do: They killed Nick Rowe, assassinating him as he drove to work, still on active duty. Abby Hoffman and Nick Rowe, two men on two different paths; one to fame and fortune and the other to duty and sacrifice. One death stylized in print and videotape, the other death commemorated by the mournful notes of "Taps" at Arlington National Cemetery. It's strange how we pick our heroes. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 11 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 W W M M W W M M M M W W \ / M M M M OOOO W W W --*-- M M M IIII O O W W W W / \ M M II O O W W W W M M II O O W W M M II O O II PPPPPP O O ..... II AA PP PP OOOO . '' '' .. IIII A A PP PP ..' '.. A A PPPPPPP ..' ''. A A PP ..' '. AAAAAA PP .' ''. A A PP .' '. A A .' .:::::.. '. .' .::::::::::. ' .' .::::::::::::::. '. .' __ .::::::::::::::::;:... '. .' _- -_ .:::::::::::::::::::::::. '. .' _-_ _ _ -_ ::::::::::::::::::::::::' '. .. _- -!!___!!!-_:::::::::::::::::::::::. .. .' ==_ _- _= .:::::::::::::::::::::::: ', . =-_= _= = :::::::::::::::::::::::: . .' =-_ =_- = ::::::::::::::::::::::: '. .' = - -_ =_:::::::::::::::::::::. '. .' -_ -_- .:::::::::::::::::::;;;. '. .' _-_ ..::::::::::::::::::::::::; '. . _ _ .:;:::::::::::::::::::::;, . ' _ .:::::::::::::::::::::::::. '. Y .'.....::::::::::::::::::::::::::;' '. N ::::::::::::::::::::::::' `''' ': O `::::::::::::::::::::::: \v/ \ / :'E `:::::::::::::::::::::: =========================== :' U `:::::::::::::::::::::. /^\ \ :'T `:::::::::::::::::::: .: A `:::::::::::::::::: .:'T `::::::::::::::::::. .;' R `:::::::::::::::::. .;' T `::::::::::::::::. .;' E `:::::::::gjp::: .:' O `:::::::::::::...........'' G N O T F O R " Bring them home --- NOW !!! " NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 12 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 ================================================================= T o u c h i n ' W h e r e W e L i v e ================================================================= Dear Dad by: Lindy Harris Friends BBS Omaha, NE (402) 896-2669 Dear Dad, It's that time of year again when we all think of you and miss you so much. Holidays of any sort should be happy, but there is one holiday that tears my heart to pieces and it isn't one of our national holidays. The Celebration of TET is one of sorrow and grief for us. I was only 6 years old when you left for Vietnam, and 10 when it dawned on me that you wouldn't be coming back, I felt so lost and abandoned. Mom took things pretty hard, and Chet and I had to sort of take over things for awhile. Mom is okay, and as I've grown up I've come to understand that it was her that had the tough time to begin with. Chet's and mine came later when we understood what death meant. We are all okay, until TET comes around and then we all go into a spin. We finally made the trip to The Wall, and seeing your name there gave me a feeling of having known you much longer than I did. I saw the other names that were there on the day you died, so I know you weren't alone. I can only pray that you did not suffer, and that you've found the peace you fought for. We wanted to leave a letter at The Wall, but all we could do was do was cry. What's The Wall, you ask? It's the most beautiful and yet the saddest monument that has ever existed. The war in Vietnam was so dark and tragic, and the monument, nay,the Memorial which every NamVet calls "The Wall," is also dark and tragic. It's a black slash in the earth made of black marble that carries the names of all the men and women Killed In Action. When we walked, stopped, cried and cried and went on to the next panel, there were more tears. A man walked up to us and asked if there was a name on the wall that belonged to us. We told him yes, and when he found out you were a Marine and the outfit you were with, he asked us to wait about an hour while he looked up a buddy that might have known you. His buddy arrived and although he couldn't remember you specifically, he told us what it was like and how we had WON the Tet Offensive! Each of us have mourned your death in our own way and it took awhile to get our lives to settle down to a modest roar at all the injustices that went on during the years of the Vietnam War era. Things are looking up for all of us now, and I'd like to tell you about everything that's happened to us, but I'll try to be brief, at least this time. Chet? Well, I think you would be very proud of your son. He graduated last year form M.I.T., and will be joining the Marines as soon as he has his bills paid. (He owes Mom a bundle!) I don't think it will take too long. Mom says he has one of your questionable traits of character, he is either NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 13 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 going full bore for something or other he wants badly, almost a workaholic, and won't quit until it's perfect, or he sits on his duff "thinking". I don't have time to sit for very long, but I wish a bit of the drive he inherited from you had rubbed off on me. Mom remarried last April, and Don is a fine man. Mom is happy and he treats all of us wonderfully. And he is one heck of a fisherman, which I thought you might like to know. Me? It's a difficult thing to try and tell you what's going on in my life. I met, fell in love with a man that was sort of like what I remembered about you, and married him. I kept comparing him with what little I remembered about you, and what Chet and mom told me over the years, and it's pointless to say he wasn't a bit like you. When we both discovered what the problem was, we ended a miserable marriage. We have been friendly most of the time, and share equal custody of our two beautiful children. How I would love to have you see them, even though I can't quite see you as a grandfather. You were my dad, and I still have my childs vision of you. Our kids know a lot about you, since we drag out all the movies, photos and tapes you sent to us from Vietnam, plus the movies the whole family were in while you were with us. We do that at least once a year when we manage to get the whole Corps in the same city and house. We've all been watching Tour of Duty, which is a television program that is trying to tell us what it was like in Vietnam, and though it's a dramatization, most of the NamVets I've talked to says it comes close. It's a great deal different than the war we saw on the nightly news on television. It's frightening to get a glimpse of what happened over there to you and your buddies. We have tried to understand what happened to us as a Nation during the 60's and 70's, but I think you would like to know that America has finally got it's act together and is recognizing that the War in Vietnam that took you and thousands of others from us, is finally over and that the healing is taking place. I'm back in school again, after putting my dreams on hold while I tried and failed to be mother, wife and wage earner. Making ends meet isn't the easiest thing to do, but I'm in the upper 10% of my class and I'll be getting my degree and graduate in June. Mom and Don help with the children, and it's amazing how things have fallen into place at last. All of us have futures, and tend not to dwell in the past quite so much. I seem to be rambling a bit, but I was just sitting here thinking of the things I have wished you could have seen me do over the years. First date, turning 16, being an absolute flop in a high school play, buying my first car with my own money, getting married, having my babies, oh how I wished you were here for all the celebrations of life. I've wanted to say all these things before, but didn't know where to send them until I found the International Vietnam Veterans Echo. If the Echo is loud enough, I'm sure you will NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 14 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 hear me. Love, Your daughter, Lindy. P.S. Mom used to let me put S.W.A.K. on the backs of all the letters she sent. Do you think I could do that here too? I thought so. S W A K NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 15 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 Mommy, Did You Kill Anybody in the War? By Norma Boris Friends BBS Omaha, NE (402) 896-2669 As I read my January '84 issue of the VVA Veteran, my 6-month old son sleeps soundly in his room. The articles are tingling, unnerving. Particularly unnerving is one on the last page. I read about a man who carried a gun, who was face to face with the enemy, and who killed. I shudder as I contemplate the day my son asks me the question above. After all, I'm mommy, not daddy. It makes me think. Least painfully I think of the time limit we imposed on the Vietnamese patients with "no hope" of improvement. Our doctors, knowing their litters would be left on the dust-off pad at the ARVN hospital, wanted them kept in our Casualty Receiving. We wanted them transferred to simply die elsewhere. Sure as hell, they died. Before a twelve hour limit was imposed, there were patients who just stayed until they stopped breathing - sometimes that was days. The memories of those patients are more painful. After a while I didn't suction so often, finally not at all. I sat there as they breathed more and more irregularly, less and less frequently. The died too - finally, taking just a little of me with them. Then there are the most painful. They are of the ones I told, "I'll be right back..." Even when I was, it wasn't soon enough for them. Their staring eyes were round, their skin American, no matter what color. Last, there are the memories that I do not yet allow entrance into my consciousness. They are the memories of the children. I never knew that tiny, slanted eyes could open SO wide and that children in such pain could be SO quiet. I still handle them in my nightmares. So, son, what do I tell you when you ask, "Mommy, did you kill anybody in the war?" I have a few years, a few years to hope the history books do NOT add the information that women went ... and that women killed. I have a few years to practice my "pat" answers and to hope, against hope, that you never hear the word "Vietnam". "Mommy, did you kill anybody in the war?" Oh my God... yes... Norma Boris served at the 67th Evac in Qui Nhon 1969-70. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 16 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 The Silent Shot: A Remembrance by a Vietnam Veteran's Wife Input by: Kathleen Kelly, Ph.d. NAM VET's PTSD Section Editor The NY Transfer BBS FidoNet 1:13/1033 (718) 448-2358 from: THE VETERAN, Vol. 18, Nos.1&2, pp.8-10, Winter 1989 - a Publication of the Vietnam Veterans Against the War (VVAW). National Office: PO Box 408594, Chicago, IL 60640 (312) 327-5756. "As I held his body in my arms," he said softly, "he just looked me in the eye, and told me he never heard the shot, the one that hit him. I guess you never do... hear the one that gets you." All the while he spoke to me, his look was distant. As distant as Vietnam. This was just one of his many memories, some of them unbelievable, all of them horrifying. I never say much during these painful recollections. What do you say? What CAN you say? Don't worry about those children you killed over there? Like the one that dropped a grenade in the gas tank of your truck as you drove past, or the cartload of villagers you and your men wiped out because you had a suspicion that some were Viet Cong. Or the old man sitting atop a water buffalo whom you used for target practice. I know you still have nightmares about that one, except it's you instead of the old man. The list goes on and on. And so does the war. Inside of him, and me. It's part of my life too, now. A part I'd just as soon forget, but one I can't ignore. He's tired of fighting and I'm tired of losing -- losing to an enemy I cannot see. Though not in material form, I know he's there. Much like the one he fought eighteen years ago, which to him seems like yesterday, every day. I know what goes through his mind now when he sees little children, or oriental people, or hears a helicopter. Do you smell the napalm, Joe, or the mud you had to lie in for days at a time? Or the dead bodies lying around that are later thrown in a pile to be burned, or to used as human sacks of sand to protect the men in the trenches? I already know where he's at. I only wonder what scene in this never-ending film he's recalling. He hasn't come home yet. I don't know that he ever will. "It's time to feed the dog," I told him in an effort to bring him out of his trance. "Alright...I'll feed him," he replied slowly, as he came back to America. How long will you stay this time, Joe? I wondered to myself. He walked over to the kennel to let the dog out before feeding him. Luke started his usual jumping and ground-stomping, his regular ritual whenever either of us walked up to his kennel. As Joe opened the lock and lifted the latch, he gave the dog a stern "stay" command. But Luke, being the strong-willed and energetic Chesapeake that he is, darted past, raced down to the end of the yard and back up again, all the while Joe calling his name, yelling "Come!" and trying to catch him. I realized as I watched that Luke was going to get a harsh correction, although he wasn't the one whom Joe was really angry with. "I told you to COME!" he shouted as the dog grovelled up to him. He grabbed Luke by the scruff of the neck and dragged his NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 17 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 75-pound body back to the kennel door. Luke let out a loud yelp as Joe threw him as best he could into the kennel. As he closed the latch he look at me. He could tell I was hurt. He knew as well as I that Luke didn't deserve that harsh correction, and I can't stand to see Joe take his frustrations out on him. Luke doesn't know about Vietnam. But he does know he has run out of the kennel before, only to receive praise because he did come back and not take off. "I don't think that was necessary," I told him. "I do. He's lucky I didn't choke him." He looked as if he were ready to. "Why do you think we spend time in obedience classes? He knows better." "I think you overreacted," I said. Something he does a lot of these days, but has little control over. "Hey -- I didn't hurt him. I've done worse things in my life." I gave up the argument. I knew it was useless. I also knew, when he had time to calm down, he would regret his actions and hate himself more. As I turned and walked into the house, I thought back on our eight-year relationship. When I first met him, I thought the 14 years between our ages would be a lot to contend with, but that never became a problem. Vietnam did, although I didn't know it at first. He never talked about it. I knew he had been there, but I didn't know much about it. I did have a feeling something was wrong, but I had blamed his sudden mood swings on myself, the only justification I could find. Now I know better, or should I say worse. Neither of us ate dinner that evening, a common occurrence. His loss of appetite was due to stomach pains the doctors call a "spasmodic colon," the result of his bad nerves and/or Agent Orange contamination. My loss of appetite was caused by anxiety over that knowledge. When he first spoke of the chemical Agent Orange, he explained it was a defoliant that had been sprayed to kill existing vegetation in order to leave their enemy fewer places to hide. I was appalled to know the government never admitted for years its adverse health effects. Joe said it had been everywhere, in their food and in their water. They breathed it and lived in it. And knowing the deliberate denial only contributed to the decline in his patriotism, his mistrust in the government, and added fuel to his internal fire. And my own. His mother called later that evening to see if we were coming over for a visit. It was my duty to answer the phone because of his hatred of dealing with people, even family, making it difficult for us to attend family gatherings. I've become his go- between, his protector. I deal with the outside world while he tends to the matter of war. "Are you coming over?" his mother asked. "No, Joe isn't here," I answered, my frequent reply. "Where is he?" "He went to the mountains," I replied, which is more often than not true. He spends a great deal of time in the woods, alone. It's the only place he can relax, somewhat. It helps him more than any drug, which gives credence to the fact that the mind controls the body, if we both weren't proof enough. After I convinced her we'd visit later that week, I hung up the phone and undressed for bed. As I did so, I noticed my steady decrease in weight. My mother always voices her concern for my anorexic appearance. I always insist otherwise; it certainly NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 18 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 isn't intentional. I'd be quick to invite ten additional pounds if I could return my nerves to their previous state. Before this post-Vietnam life. But I never explained to her, or any family member, the cause of my weight loss. I want to spare them that worry. The worry of knowing I live with a time bomb ready to go off at any moment. It doesn't make it any easier for me, but that's my choice, be it good or bad. Bad, I thought, as I looked in the mirror and noticed another gray hair had crept up on me. I held my jaw; it felt sore from clenching my teeth, an unconscious habit I do throughout the day and often during the night. When I lay down in bed, I noticed my muscles ached from constant tension. He really didn't want this to happen to me. He's been noticing my forgetfulness, my overreactions to the slightest things. I can't abandon him like his friends and his country. No one else will see this through. I may be the only reason he's still alive, though his doctors have often said it gets worse before it gets better. If it gets better. I closed my eyes in an attempt to fall asleep. I let my mind drift, to someplace far away. To a jungle somewhere, dark and dense. Sitting with my back to a tree, not knowing what the next moment would bring. Perhaps a tiger would come sneaking over the wire, and drag me off into the night. Maybe I'd walk into a booby trap, and they'd find me the next morning, impaled by a poisoned pungi-stick through my chest. Or maybe one of our own men would freak out and lose it. I wonder what it would be like to have to shoot one of our own in the back because he couldn't be trusted.... The following day provided a disheartening experience. It was one of the many days Joe was scheduled to see a psychiatrist at the VA hospital. A first for me, the doctor wanted to see us both. I had been to the other VA facility where they dealt mostly with physically impaired veterans, but never to the "nuthouse," as Joe so often calls it. I sipped my morning coffee in an effort to come alive, as I watched Joe smoke cigarette after cigarette and take three tranquilizers and two antidepressants, his usual morning ritual repeated several times a day. And people wonder why he doesn't work. "This is going to be a real trip for you," he told me on the way to the hospital. "This place is always a trip." A good one or a bad one? I thought to myself, but I figured what the answer would be. As we walked up to the hospital doors, I noticed a man sitting on a bench by himself. Joe mentioned he had tried to put a bullet through his head but didn't quite do the job, the result being a reconstructed face and the probable shame of not completing a task he had, in the past, been so well trained to do. We stepped inside the building and walked down a long hallway. Just then a fire alarm went off by mistake, and a man behind us yelled "Incoming! Incoming!" which confirmed he was a patient. We reached the cafeteria and stood in line for coffee. As Joe poured I looked around. I watched a man walk past with part of his face missing. A battle wound or another attempted suicide? Joe saw me looking and confirmed the latter, contributing to the statistic that more men have died from suicide than were actually killed in Vietnam. That thought sent chills up my spine. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 19 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 We wandered into the seating area and sat down next to some men Joe knew from group therapy. As he talked with them, I watched the people around us, mostly patients. I could tell by their appearance. Almost all had long hair and beards, and constantly smoked cigarettes. The ones most readily recognizable are those who walk very slowly with blank faces, the result of their heavy medication. The "Thorazine Shuffle" as it's called. One man walked up to our table, spoke to Joe briefly, then walked away. "That guy there, he killed his parents," Joe said. "Is he an inpatient?" I asked. "No," Joe replied. "He's just here to pick up his medication." I wasn't frightened, just saddened. I suppose they're all murderers in a way, though not by choice. The longer I sat there, the more I realized I wasn't all that uncomfortable being in their presence. I guess I knew where they were coming from and what they were all about. And they knew the same of me. I suggested we make our way up to the shrink's office and as we did, Joe mentioned some of the men there never made it home, physically. "They came straight from 'Nam to this place," he said. "Most of their families have forgotten them." We reached the waiting area and, as I took a seat, Joe checked in. I lit a cigarette which I desperately needed by this time, and watched people filter in and out of the waiting room. I noticed an older man in a wheelchair waiting by the elevator. World War II? He didn't appear as if he knew where he was. I watched as he raised his arms as if he were pointing a rifle at an invisible enemy. Then he yelled "BANG" and his arms jerked back as a rifle would kick after being fired. At that point I just wanted to get up and walk out, but I stayed -- if not for Joe then for the sake of the man sitting next to me who was proceeding to tell me his war stories. He was a large man with light brown hair and sunglasses, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Most of what he told me I already knew, but I didn't say anything. He seemed comfortable talking to a complete stranger; maybe he needed someone to talk to. And maybe by listening I was helping him to stay alive just one more day. Someone from the desk called him over and as he walked away, I felt numb with depression. Now I had to talk with this doctor. I knew there wasn't much he could tell me, either. Joe came over and told me I could go in and see the doctor. He didn't want to go in with me, he'd go in by himself when I was through. It didn't matter to me; I just wanted to get out of that place. We met the doctor as we walked down the hall to his room. As Joe wished, I went in by myself. Dr. Peterson was a tall, heavyset man with a balding head and a completely paralyzed left arm. "Joe has what we call Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," he told me. I nodded. He continued, "I think he should come into the hospital for a while; he hasn't been talking these past few sessions. This is a bad time of year for him." This time of year is bad for him, I repeated to myself. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 20 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 Eighteen years ago this time, Joe was due to come home. He had only a month of duty left, and since he was still in one piece, they wanted to send him home that way. So they put someone new -- just over from the States -- into his job, driving his truck. "A young kid," Joe always says. Young? They were all young, just out of high school. Maybe Joe felt older after 13 months of duty. They aged quickly over there. The day the switch of duty took place all the vehicles were blown away, all the men killed. Joe has felt extremely guilty about that. He always felt it should have been him. And along with the guilt comes the vivid memory of having had to clean the truck of all the blood and pieces of friends and comrades he had just spoken to that morning. When he had told me this, I'd realized why it was difficult for him to get close to anyone, and why it took me a long time to break through that barrier. I agreed with the doctor that he should go in the hospital and told him I could talk Joe into going in better than he. I thanked Dr. Peterson and promised to remove all the guns from the house, more for Joe's sake than mine. Within the next week, Joe was an inpatient. I wasn't sure how long he'd be in. I needed the break as much as he did, but I didn't know if his stay would help him or make him worse. It certainly isn't a good environment for someone suffering from anxiety and depression. I did feel safe in that he couldn't hurt himself or anyone else. They're very strict about the personal belongings brought in, and should someone get out of hand, they pin them to the floor, put them in restraints, and throw them in a room by themselves. I knew Joe couldn't handle that. I knew he'd do his best not to lose it. No sooner was Joe out of the hospital than he was gone again. To the woods. The only place he could find a little peace and comfort, away from people. The next day was opening day of deer season. But he wasn't going for the hunt. The absence of his firearms prevented that. He just wanted to be alone. "I don't think I could stand the sight of blood," he told me. I missed him that first night. I had been looking forward to his return from the hospital, although sometimes when he's with me, I feel alone. I missed his presence anyway. As I lay in bed, I wondered where he was at, what he was thinking. I tried to remember the last time he lay in bed beside me. He always sleeps on the couch for fear of hurting me in his sleep. As much as it keeps me close to him, it keeps me away from him. I wondered how much longer I could live this way. . . . Epilogue The woods were just coming alive as I made my way through the fallen leaves and over the trees that lay in my path. The birds' songs echoed through the trees and some squirrels above me chattered loudly, letting everything in hearing range know I was approaching. I was making enough noise, between my footsteps and the pick and shovel I dragged behind me, to sound like a small army. I held the urn close to my body and looked around, getting my bearings and realizing why Joe loved the woods so much. It was here he was truly at peace, it was here he would stay. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 21 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 I looked up at one tree and noticed a hunter's treestand that had been left behind. I kept repeating in my mind: Was it truly an accident? That someone would have mistaken Joe's movement through the woods for a deer is not hard to believe; on opening day especially, they'll shoot at anything that moves. I couldn't understand why Joe had not been wearing any fluorescent orange which all hunters are required to wear, even if he weren't hunting. He knew how trigger-happy any hunter can be. I came to a small clearing, with a stand of pines in the center. Among them was a blue spruce, and I picked a spot beneath it. As I dug the hole, I thought to myself: Was it really too much for you, Joe? Have you finally found the peace and freedom you so desperately wanted? Or was it for me? Is this your way of releasing us both? The war that had a hold on both of us, that robbed us of so many things, had ended with his life. I filled the hole, and looked down upon it. I wondered if he heard the shot, the one that got him. I wiped my tears and walked away. Yes, Joe, for me too, the war is finally over. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 22 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 NOT ON THIS WALL By: Joan Renne Friend's BBS Omaha, Ne. (402) 896-2669 Walking toward the Moving Wall, my heart began to pound and I was afraid my emotions would overwhelm me. Afraid that I'd fall apart if someone would ask me if I knew someone whose name was there. I could say yes, and that would be true, but there are other names missing that ought to be there. How could I hide my tears, my memories and pain from others? The 101st Airborne was in town for their reunion and came to pay tribute to fallen friends and comrades; share their memories and experience with each other and those of us who came to visit the names on the Moving Wall. Seeing old friends suddenly recognize each other and shout for joy and relief at the knowledge they had survived Vietnam. Twenty or more years of wondering, and at last they knew! You could feel the electricity surrounding them when they yelled, "Welcome home, buddy! Damn, I'm glad you made it!" The first questions were, "Have you seen the guy we called Captain Midnight, or the dude we called Clearasil?" The names bounced back and forth as other men joined them for yet another round of names. It felt good to see them, and to share a moment of their lives and laughter. But I remembered the two whose names were not on the Moving Wall - or on any other than that of my heart. One, killed in 1959 in an unnamed country in southeast Asia - with no medals or recognition; the other, a 100% disabled Vietnam Veteran who killed himself in 1978. He had medals and recognition until he took his own life. It's so hard to keep back the tears for the two not on the wall. I watched and listened to the curious people as they passed the Moving Wall, and I heard them turn to each other with tears and sometimes shock as the realization of how many men, sons, fathers and daughters died in the Vietnam war. Seeing all those names seemed to strike them as a bayonet in the middle of their quiet comfortable lives. I heard many comment, "So many names, I didn't know . . . " or, "It was such a long time ago. I didn't remember that so many died . . ." A sad and mournful remark repeated over and over: "This is one hell of a statement! I don't think I can forget this." ... I know I'll never forget. There were others struggling with emotions and I wanted to reach out to them and hug them and let them know they weren't alone. But sometimes it's just too painful to share or burden others with my loss and pain. I back away when my throat begins to hurt as I try to stop the sobs and tears. I want to run away from the Moving Wall, but it's the only place where I might find some peace, at least for this day. But then, as she gently touched a name on The Moving Wall, I heard a woman say, "I remember your laughter when you were such a little boy." - and an old man pointing to a name and saying, "There! You see that name? That's my son." NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 23 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 I watched a young woman lean against the Wall and whisper, "Oh, Dad! I miss you so much. I wish the war in Vietnam had never happened. I was so little. I can barely remember you." A tall young man, finding the name he wanted, quipped, "Well, how about that! I had a real dad after all!" I watched his mother sigh as she wiped her tears and listened to her say, "I never lied to you, I don't know why you thought that way." A little girl and her mother left a tiny picture tucked at the base of the Moving Wall and I heard the words, "Hey there, big brother, look at us! We're all grown up now and here's a snapshot of us the way we look today." ... I'm not alone. One man asked another, "Why wouldn't they let our boys win that war?" His friend answered, "Who knows? I lost my dad in Korea, and we didn't win that one either." ... I remember Korea and men no longer living. A woman, young man by her side, ducks her head and takes a deep breath. I can hear her sigh and feel the words not spoken as they look at the matching bracelets of their MIA/POW. The young man hugs her and I hear him say, "Maybe at this reunion we'll find someone who knows about dad..." My tears overflow as I reach out to them. They ask me if I have a MIA/POW. "No - only two whose names are *Missing* - from this Wall. The visitors talked with each other of memories of those years - the 50s, 60s and the 70s - all those years of pain, anger, remorse; hope followed by frustration, fear, and finally the loss. They spoke about other feelings deep inside--the ones that dont have names--and just can't be described. ... I'm not alone. They spoke of the anti-war movement, the demonstrations and the riots, of Jane Fonda and Hippies; Haight-Ashbury, drugs, flower power, Timothy Leary, the bombings, Joan Baez and folk music, the counter-culture and "old what's his name, Fonda's husband?" All this and more about Nixon and students staging sit-ins, draft card burning and of course, the SDS and Abbie Hoffman. ... it seemed like traveling back in time, to when America lost her innocence. They spoke of Kent State and how sad it made them feel - then and now. They remembered things about JFK, LBJ, Ho Chi Minh, Bobby and Martin; the trouble in the cities and the National Guard. One woman told of her anger at a perfume company for naming a fragrance "Charlie." ... do I dare remember how I felt then? NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 24 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 I listened closely as they talked about Duty, Honor, Country. They talked about freedom and how we must defend that freedom for ourselves and our children; the importance of knowing and understanding the Constitution of the United States with all of its Amendments. They reminded each other of the responsibilities that go with being a free citizen of this great land. ... It was good to hear these topics again. A World War II veteran spoke of his anger and rage when he saw the American Flag burned and otherwise abused during the era of Vietnam. How hard it was for him to forget and forgive those ill-advised youths. He was still angry about the boys who ran to Canada, but he was proud of those who chose the Peace Corps. "Service to one's country is important," he said, "and no one should shirk that duty. Freedom extracts a heavy price sometimes, but you need to hold your head up and walk like a first class citizen with honor, pride and respect for your country." He paused and looked at the Moving Wall and spoke once again. "Freedom doesn't come cheap." ... I remembered two not on this wall. A little boy with his father and great grandfather came to visit the Wall. They spoke of the family tradition of serving their country whenever, wherever they were needed - the pride they had in a family name for the ancestors who had fought during the Crusades and in the French Revolution - and now the name of one generation whose name is on the Wall and how proud they were of him for serving the USA. They remembered his younger days of the sports he played and his academic achievements in high school, college, and as a Marine. ... I remembered two not on this wall. A stillness fell when the freckled faced great grandson asked, "If I go to war and get killed will my name be by grandpa's?" The father and great grandfather glanced at each other and quickly away. They both began to speak, but the old man took his great grandson by the hand and said, "We hope you won't have to go to war, but if you're called to serve your country, we know you will. But remember, just because you go to war, it doesn't mean you'll die." "But if I do, will my name be on that wall?" "No, son. No, not on this Wall." ... I sat by the Moving Wall, and wondered about the names of the dead men long forgotten and of the wars lost and won. I thought about the lessons learned and put aside by those who would revise history, and I heard myself say, "There! There they are! All those names on the wall! Those are the names we cannot - we must not forget! Etched in stone, those names will be the NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 25 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 visible proof for generations yet unborn of the cost of war in human terms. We should have more Walls that Move us and remind us - of the lives lost - and of our tears and memories." The Great Grandfather looked at me and said with the voice of conviction and great wisdom, "There is a difference in wars fought for freedom and the wars fought for the sake of war." ... I remembered two not on this wall. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 26 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 "Ho Chang" By: Rod Germain 1625 S. 4th Ave. Arcadia, Ca. 91006 I was looking through some of my stuff from Nam and came up with with the following story. After downloading your Jan. '88 NAMVET from Compuserve, I thought I'd forward it on and see if you can use it. I still have a few old "BOONDOCK BARDS" from the Stars & Stripes if you're interested. ================================================================ Ho Chang rests his rifle across a branch and focuses his telescopic site on the American Infantryman wading through the rice paddy, he waits... Ho Chang is a fifteen year old freedom fighter, a lethal marksman, and a sniper. Concealed high in a tree, a tree that not many years ago in climbed in play. He reaches and methodically plucks a leaf from his line of fire. He feels the familiar anticipation for the kill...KILLING is his single remaining pleasure. Ho Chang is a fanatic. He became one six months earlier while watching his mother, father, and beloved sister run screaming from the engulfing curl of flame and smoke that once had been their home. He watched his loved ones, each a gaping mouthed wildly gesturing torch stumbling crazily through the village and finally sprawling laying amidst the dust, eyeless, hairless black charred hunks that twitched and made sounds not human. Ho Chang crouched beside them weeping and rocking to and fro praying that he might die but only his fire seared soul would die... Their hut had been struck by a low flying American fighter plane. The American Infantryman, Private Robert Evans, is in his first day of combat. Always a peaceful boy raised in the quiet suburbs of Los Angeles. Pvt. Evans, other than playful wrestling on the lawn with neighbor boys, had never been involved in physical conflict until today. Today he has killed three people. A few hours earlier his squad had been fired on from a dense thicket by a number of the enemy. The boy beside him, his only close friend in the service, suddenly stopped and turned to him with a surprised expression on his face and a small red oozing from his forehead. The boy was dead before his body hit the ground. The sergeant shouted a command and Evans, in a blurr of rage and revenge, followed his combat training. Running a zig zag pattern firing from the hip, he charged the thicket with his squad. A flurry of shouts, of confussion and violent hand-to-hand combat resulted in Pvt. Evans shooting two uniformed boys and pulling his bayonet from the breast of a third. A slim uniformed enemy, a young girl. Their eyes had locked, his young blue irised horror, hers in brown graceful tilted long-lashed acceptance that glazed to death while he watched and whimpered... Alone now, lost from his squad, wandering aimlessly, helmet gone but still carrying his heavy rifle with it's dipped bayonet dried to a rust hue, he slogs through the rice patty, its water NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 27 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 almost up to his knees. Dazed, oblivious, mumbling to himself, his mind has returned home to L.A., to the high school he graduated from last year, to sixteen year old Donna who still attends the school. Donna who had promised to wait for him, who writes long chatty letters on ruled note book paper, who has been with no other boy. Both slim, both with long blond straight hair, both tanned with faded blue jeans and sandals walking hand in hand looking much the same. He remembers school days together, surfing together, getting high together, their eyes staring at each other in an innocent, loving gentle passion. Others at home wait, his brother who brags of a big brother, a hero in uniform. His father, a veteran of WW II and Korea, remembers and worries to himself, never out loud. He is proud of his son for enlisting and volunteering to defend the cause of freedom, but he has also been there and knows the price that has to be paid. He doesn't understand the new rules of engage- ment and the whole thing somehow doesn't add up. His mother, a strong woman, worries for his safe return and counts the days. Mom isn't much interested in politics, she just wants her boy home safe. Sometimes she goes into his room and just sits... Pvt. Evans' head looms large framed in Ho Changs telescopic sight. The American's hair is strange uneven brown, a few months earlier it had been pale blond, bleached by the California sun and peroxide fad adhered to by the surfing crowd. Ho Chang feels grim satisfaction at imminent destruction of another American and carefully begins squeezing the ... he pauses ... deciding against quick death, he lowers his site on the enemy figure. The rifle jumps ... kicks solidly against his shoulder ... and a violent crack of sound shattered the insect-buzzing, hot, humid day. The immediate silence that follows hangs still and ominus on the warm heavy air. The hate-altered hollow point nose bullet leaves a small smoldering hole in Pvt. Evans shirt it enters his side below the ribs and above the hip bone. Expanding rapidly it plows a deep trough across the abdomen, leaving his body in a slightly lower location on the left side. Pvt Evans throws his hands in the air and staggered awkwardly, he doesn't fall. Stunnned by the bullets slamming impact he fails to understand what has happened, but immediately the numbness begins to change to pain, a trail of dull pain across his belly. He looks down in a con- fused stupor and opens his shirt. His front is soaking red... blood.. He stands there swaying in shock, bewildered, sweat pours over his face as he stares at the gaping wound across his stomach. A wound from which his entrails now bulged, a wound that now sluggidly disgorges loud quivering glands of blue ruptured spurting arteries, of red severed nerve, jumping muscles, a hanging mutilated mass of brown leaking intestine that drops and splashes the muddy water of the rice paddy. Pvt. Evans begins shaking his head in unbelieving protest. He mumbles "No..No.. OH GOD... NO.." swaying, crying, still moving his head in denial, he clumsily grasps the mangled mess of entrails and begins to stuff them back into himself, into the open pulsating wound of his belly. A few seconds he plays the hopeless game. His legs begin to shake violently, to jump uncontrollably, they buckle... NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 28 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 Pvt. Evans slumps to his knees. He kneels there, the muddy water mixes into the wound and his blood spreads out over the muddy scummy surface of the rice paddy. He understands the futility, and dimly understands his death as he watches his weakened hands fall away and falls face forward into the paddy. Upon the sunlit surface of a far distant native rice paddy only a red smear remains, nineteen years of clean promise gone... NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 29 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 Yahrzeit '88 Submitted Anonymously My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: - John Keats "Ode to a Nightingale" She put them up in a brass and stained oak frame. Against the white satin background they didn't appear so ominous, and didn't supply a hint as to the way in which they are awarded. A pretty color, like that on the robes of royalty; pure and deep with majestic allusion. On a weekly basis, she polished the frame, keeping the brass as bright as a ray of morning sunlight. The glass was so spotless that it was possible to see quite clearly ones own reflection. She picked a conspicuous spot for them, and fastened them to the wall in the hallway. And so they hung there, waiting. Waiting. But I didn't look at them. I didn't want to see the morbid days and endless nights that caused their arrival. I didn't want to face the face that won these prizes through violent means. But she kept polishing the brass and glass, commenting "They are precious metals" to those who asked about them. And they hung there on the wall, passed each time a step was taken in the hall. And so they hung there, waiting. Waiting. Each week she would clean them, and the evening sun would cast a reflected light ray to the end of the hall. Each week she would polish them with a tenderness as if they were children to be held. She never said a word about them, but it was easy to tell she was extremely curious about their origins. And so they hung there, waiting. Waiting. Any appeal to remove them was met with stern disapproval. She wanted something to remind her of what had happened, even if she didn't know exactly what that was. She never pried, but held me gently on the nights I would wake up soaked in sweat and tears. She never complained, and never wanted out; instead she would shed tears for my fears, and cry for my sorrows. And every week, she would clean and polish them, until like a beacon they shone. And so they hung there, waiting. Waiting. The sleepless nights faded into the past, the weeks melted into months, and the months passed into years. And each week she would polish them, not voicing a bit of curiosity. She understood the pain, because it was evident in her eyes each morning after a dream of return had come. Her soft touch and wavering voice exposed the silent melancholy her heart felt and she tried so hard to hide. And each week, she returned to them, polishing them brightly. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 30 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 And so they hung there, waiting. Waiting. The tenderness, style and beauty was taken from her in an instant she never realized. I never had a chance to explain to her the prize was one of immense sorrow. She would polish them as if they were the most important thing in our existence. She held them as tenderly as she had held me on the occasions that it was needed. She understood that the key to my welfare was locked in that frame of brass and oak, and the only way to release the demons was to face the face in the reflected glass. And so they hung there, waiting. Waiting. Her funeral was a complete shock. The realization of death I thought had died many years ago. Death was something benign, something that didn't affect me anymore. Yet here she was, the Joy, Beauty and Truth of my life, lying in grassy solitude. She was no longer there to polish the brass and oak frame, so the dust and tarnish collected, dimming the Light they reflected in the past. And so they hung there, waiting. Waiting. What the war couldn't accomplish, I thought pills could. G-d it's such a hard life! The pills: they can fix everything. If I take enough of them.... And like a memory hidden by time, the brass greened and the oak cracked. And so they hung there, waiting. Waiting. Waking up in the hospital, I was told death had been a breath away. My first reaction was anger for failing, then anger for trying, and finally settled into weeks of self imposed isolation, purging the pent up feelings in emotional self-abasement. The questions came faster than I could possibly answer, and I closed myself off even further. Ignoring all life around me. And so they hung there, waiting. Waiting. I got home with the feeling she had deserted me; leaving me in not so silent agony. The first thing I noticed was they were polished, bright as any day she had cleaned them. I asked who polished them, and everyone said they didn't know. I took them off the wall, excused myself and went into my private chambers. For the first time I was able to look at them since they were hung around my neck by the powers that warranted their action. For the first time I was able to look at the face that won them, and realize that it was a face of an ordinary man, and not a maniacal killer. I held them and finally the tears came. The tears that would begin to wash away the stench of guilt and sorrow of the years past. The tears that would finally release me from the unbearable torments of my dreams. As I moved to wipe the fallen tears from the polished glass, I looked and saw her face, as clearly as she was sitting there with me. She was smiling a smile of extreme serenity, and lipped the words "Welcome home. I love you." And just as suddenly, she was gone. I knew then who returned the lustre to them. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 31 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 And they no longer hung there, waiting. Waiting. I took the medals and wrapped them in a bedsheet and boxed them up. The box was taken to a family storage place, where they will be safe and cool. The brass and oak frame that she polished so persistently will be safe from corrosion and decay until I decide to take them out again. But for now, they have served their purpose. The Marines gave them to me for my conduct. My wife gave them to me for my sanity. And they no longer hang there, waiting. Waiting. 15 years ago I finished my SEA tour. 10 years ago my wife died, taking that beautiful smile and that full life with her. With this, the tenth anniversary of her death, I would like to let the world know that she was with me when all others had given up hope, and loved me when I didn't seem to love her back. So my continuing love for her I express poorly in these words: You were all of life to me. Yet when I thought that you had abandoned me in death, you still managed to pull me through life. You gave me back that burning desire for life I had lost. Even as you could support me in life, you saved me in death. I cannot offer anything other than the troth I pledged before, to reaffirm before G-d and man to love you for all eternity. # # # Semper fidelis NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 32 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 Why Do We Feel So Guilty? By: Joan Renne Friend's BBS Omaha, Ne. (402) 896-2669 I'd like to add an observation about some of my callers that do read and comment to the International Vietnam Veterans Echo; some who avoid it like the plague and others that tell me in feedback how much they appreciate the Echo, and still others that tell me it is a damn shame to carry the Echo and that they won't be calling back. That last group I didn't need to begin with in the first place. Frequently I get feedback saying the user doesn't feel they are qualified to enter messages because, although they were in the military during the years of the Vietnam war, they are not "Real Vietnam Vets." It's a bit strange to me, but I think I am beginning to understand that there is still a whole lot of "Guilt" running around out there in LaLa land. It's possible "they" have a whole lot of feelings they are afraid to voice for fear of being ridiculed. I also notice a tendency by some of the folks that enter messages in the echo to 'put down' those questions asked by this generation (18 and up). One incident in particular, a frequent user on Friends BBS in Omaha who is a college student genuinely interested in political belief systems made the mistake of calling Vietnam Vets "You people." She was thoroughly trounced on in following messages. I'm not saying it was wrong to correct her wording, but the comments aimed at her were certainly not the kind that would elicit further questions from her or others in her age group . . . the next generation who will probably be involved in a war of some kind. Perhaps we, collectively, have great doubts or fear that we somehow have not yet made OUR OWN peace with ourselves and our treatment of the Vietnam Veterans. An example of that took place last Thursday evening on a Hotline call. The man who called was suicidal but reached out one last time to someone he thought might be interested enough to understand and maybe help him through this crisis. Reaching out for help is not easy for anyone, but he felt that if anyone could or would understand it might be AA. He knew there might be someone to help him through a horrible time. He was feeling very much alone and could not get through to the reasons why by himself. I'm not a counselor by any means, but I did pick up on a comment he made about January being an extremely rough time for him. I asked him why January, and his reply was that he had lost both his parents in January a long time ago, and had lost a lot of friends shortly after that. My thoughts (because of the IVVEC Echo) were, "I wonder if he is a NamVet?" So, I asked him. His immediate reply, with no hesitation what-so-ever, was NO!, and he wanted to know why I asked. I told him about the Vietnam Veterans Echo that I carry on the BBS, and that I knew January was the anniversary of the Tet offensive and that a NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 33 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 lot of guys didn't make it back. We talked for quite awhile and he finally said, "Yes, I am a Vietnam Veteran, and I was in country when the word came about my folks. I made it home, but a few days later my platoon was wiped out to the man. I was the only one left. Losing my parents was bad, but losing all my buddies was too much." He went on to say that he was discharged on a Hardship basis since he was the only adult member of his family to take care of 3 brothers and one sister. During the next few years he got lots of abuse about having been a Vietnam Vet and had finally just started saying no when questioned. The time came when the kids were grown and married he turned to alcohol and drugs to sort of "not feel," (Something I am all to familiar with) and though sober and clean for about 3 years, he had reached the point where the pain was just about too much. I finally got his phone number and called a friend that has come through something very similar but who finally landed on his feet, and had him call the man. The report I heard this morning from my friend is positive. The suicidal caller is in the VA Hospital and is going to be receiving help (I hope) to overcome what I would tend to say is PTSD, but there again, I'm not a counselor. Granted, the man spent some time in Nam, and apparently was in a combat zone. However, I think his feelings are similar to those who served during the Vietnam Era but who did not go to NAM. Even those who did go to Nam but did not see combat have a lot of feelings that I feel are not being expressed. We also have a generation of people who violently opposed the war, and who avoided the draft with one excuse or another and now feel guilty for their treatment of the ones who did serve. Guilt is an ugly thing to live with on a daily basis. But is it our right or our place to place guilt on others? I think not. The blame has been laid in many of the wrong places and maybe we need to take a look at that. Political animals sent you to Vietnam with good intentions. Political people tried to stop the killing in any fashion that would bring the nation to an awareness of the wrong being done. Political creeps spat upon those who served in the military and called them "baby killers". Vietnam Veterans have received the worst kind of media coverage possible, beginning before the My Lai atrocity and which still continues whenever a vet goes berserk and goes on a killing rampage. It's almost automatic to hear, "the gunman was/is a Vietnam Veteran." And last of all, it's the Vietnam Veteran who still suffers, even though the nation has finally recognized them and welcomed them home. There is a great big "BUT..." in there and I know you heard it. May I say that they/we are trying? Answer our questions without recrimination; that will help all of us. Go ahead, spill your guts and let us learn what it's like now and what it was like then. Teach us, but don't blame us. Help us heal as you are healing yourselves. Help us shed our own guilty feelings for the years we avoided you and misunderstood you. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 34 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 Help us to the realization of what we can do to help you and in so doing help ourselves. I'm not sure I have made my point, but I've tried. - - - Joan Renne is a Korean war veteran and the Sysop of Friends BBS System in Omaha, Nebraska. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 35 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 The Other Forgotten Warriors by: Aphrodite Matsakia - in - April 1989 edition of VFW Magazine ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Dr. Matsakis is the author of "Vietnam Wives" and is a VA psychologist who has counseled Vietnam veterans since 1975. Input by: G. Joseph Peck NAM VETs Managing Editor VETLink #1 Pittsfield, MA (413) 443-6313 "I hate Vietnam!" Jessica sobs. "Ed went over there a warm, outgoing person. He came back angry, withdrawn, taking out all his anger on me and the kids. Why he has to turn on us - the ones he loves the most - I just don't understand. The verbal abuse - the yelling, the being called every name in the book - it hurts deep, very deep, even more than the physical abuse. "He's angry at me, his own wife, almost all the time. It's like I'm another person to him, a stranger, not the wife who has stood by him for fifteen years. Maybe I remind him of 'Nam or something." Jessica is the petite attractive wife of Ed, a Vietnam combat veteran she met just before he went overseas, and she has been his faithful partner ever since. For over a year now, Jessica has been attending a women's group at a local Vietnam Veteran's Outreach Center. In this group, Jessica, like the other Vietnam wives, shares her pain, her fears and her profound loneliness. Although still living with Ed, Jessica feels alone and abandoned. Her husband, it seems is involved with another woman. The other wives have the same complaint - their husbands are involved with another woman too - the SAME other woman. Her name is Vietnam. She is ugly and battle-scarred, but her power over the husbands is great. Somehow this "other woman" can hold and entice the men more than their own wives. More than 58,000 Americans died in Vietnam, but many more are dying emotional and spiritual deaths here at home as they struggle daily with PTSD, or Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. That is the current psychiatric label given to a malady more commonly known as shell shock, combat fatigue, or war neurosis, which caused the evacuation of some 10% of enlisted men during WWI and, at various points, of many more during WWII. PTSD is not a sign of insanity or a personality deficiency, but a normal reaction to an abnormal amount of stress. Imagine being in a car accident, 20 times a month, 12 months in a row, or being raped, twice a week, for an entire year. How might you feel? Even if these terrible things were not happening to you directly, what if they were occurring to people all around you and you were powerless to stop it? What if you know that at any moment, you might be the next victim? NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 36 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 That's what it was like in Vietnam, during a war where bar girls had hand grenades and even babies were booby trapped, where almost anyone, man, woman, or child, could be a possible enemy. Under such conditions, the soldier tended to stifle his emotions. He had to, for if he had connected with his grief, anger, fear, and sense of powerlessness during combat, he would have been less able to figure out what to do next in order to save himself or others. In the face of a traumatic event, this emotional repression, called psychic or emotional numbing, is an entirely appropriate response. Problems arise, however, when the numbing is carried over into present-day situations where there is no danger, as is the case with PTSD-afflicted veterans. Psychic numbing is a central feature of PTSD. Other symptoms include nightmares, insomnia and other sleep disturbances; survivor guilt, social withdrawal and alienation; flashbacks, hyperalertness (the startle response), depression and anger. Some, but definitely not all, veterans may use alcohol and/or drugs to fight the memories and the seemingly unbearable feelings associated with those memories, powerful feelings such as sorrow, rage, fear and moral confusion. Healing for the veteran involves learning how to confront his war experiences directly, by talking about them and sharing them with other veterans, rather than indirectly, via symptoms, substance abuse, workaholism, self- isolation and other self-destructive behavior. The root of PTSD is fear of death or dismemberment or losing others. It can be suffered by anyone who has experienced an event or series of events of such magnitude of pain and horror that they would overwhelm almost anyone's natural coping mechanisms. Hence PTSD has been found among survivors of the Nazi concentration camps and the bombing of Hiroshima, among prisoners of war and refugee children and survivors of natural catastrophes, such as earthquakes, floods and fires. Victims of rape, incest, wife abuse and other assaults also have suffered from PTSD, as have persons who, although they do not experience trauma directly, witness trauma on a daily basis or are subject to unremitting stress as a part of their job. Among them are police officers, firefighters, rescue workers and health-care workers. While experts disagree on the extent of PTSD, most put the figure at from 500,000 to 1 million. Since PTSD is by definition a delayed response to the war, the number of veterans eventually in need of help may reach as many as 1.5 million or more. Based on this figure, an estimated 900,000 Vietnam wives and partners and approximately 1.098 million children also may be affected. Until recently, the Vietnam veteran was aptly named the "forgotten warrior." His experiences in Vietnam and subsequent readjustment problems upon return were too often readily swept aside by a society that for the most part wanted to forget about Vietnam. Only during the past two or three years have Vietnam veterans finally been given some public recognition for their many contributions. Nevertheless, the psychological effects of Vietnam experience are still poorly understood, not only by the NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 37 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 general public, but by many veterans and their families. Even less understood are the effects of PTSD on family life. To date, fewer than two dozen articles have been published on the wives and children of Vietnam vets, the other "forgotten warriors." "Vietnam Wives" is the first book which focuses directly on the impact of PTSD on the wives and children of Vietnam veterans. In many ways, the Vietnam veteran has borne the burden of our national shame, guilt and confusion regarding the Vietnam War. His wife, however, has borne society's burden for the veteran. More often than not, it is the Vietnam wife and nobody else who has nursed her husband through his flashbacks and nightmares, through his depressions and suicidal episodes and through his mourning, as well as his rage reactions. Usually it is she and she alone who has maintained her husband's will to live and has served as a buffer between him and the world. Even when abused by her husband, the Vietnam wife has often remained by his side, not only from fear, but from compassion, realizing that her husband's rejection of her or his explosions were not due solely to his individual temperament but were due to the frustrations and stigmas imposed upon him by others and by a variety of social institutions. Intuitively, the Vietnam wife often sensed that underneath her husband's abrasiveness or coolness lay enormous amounts of self-hate and confusion. The Vietnam wife has sacrificed much. Yet, despite her many sacrifices, she has been treated like a footnote. Outside of Vet Center women's support groups, she has received practically no acknowledgement of her pain, anger or anguish. In many cases, she has been as misunderstood and as unsupported by her family and community as her PTSD afflicted husband. To the extent that the vet has been perceived as crazy, the Vietnam wife also has been perceived as crazy - for staying with him, for loving him and for helping him through his "PTSD attacks." Like their husbands, Vietnam wives have their war stories too. Most of the women feel emotionally neglected, if not outright abused. Their chief complaint is that their husbands often use them as scapegoats for problems having to do with Vietnam or with life in general. Many of the women have been hit at least once. However, in my experience only about a fourth fall into the battered woman category, where the abuse is repeated and severe and where the man exercises an emotional and financial, as well as physical, stranglehold over his wife. (This rate, however, is based on a limited sample and is not significantly different from rates of wife abuse found among other groups in our society.) Where there is no overt emotional or physical abuse, often another form of emotional abuse, a stony silence, prevails. Many wives feel as if they are living with strangers, not husbands. Some of the women are in touch with their anger; others are not. Most have ambivalent feelings about their anger. On the one hand, they feel it is a legitimate response to being mistreated, unloved and overburdened. The majority of the wives are the economic, as well as the emotional, mainstays of the family, holding down two jobs - one at home, one at work.) On the other hand, the women feel that, since their husbands suffered through various hardships in Vietnam, they should be NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 38 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 more understanding and patient. Jane, for example, works two jobs while caring for three children. She drives her sons to ball practice, her daughter to ballet. Her husband, Dan, is often so depressed he can do very little around the home. Since the war, Dan has been in and out of treatment for PTSD and is able to contribute little to the family income other than his disability check. In deference to Dan's ego, Jane keeps her complaints to herself or shares them only with the group. Like many Vietnam wives, Jane is exceptionally dedicated and loyal to her husband, very sensitive to the fact that her husband lost his hearing in one ear in Vietnam. "Half his unit was wiped out too. After all he went through, maybe I have no right to moan. But it's been 13 years of me being Supermom. I'm worn out and I keep wondering when is he going to get over this thing? I try to be patient, but when I come home and the dishes aren't even done, I blow up. Then he says I'm aggravating his PTSD." In group, Vietnam wives learn it is perfectly possible and normal to be both understanding and angry at their husbands at the same time. Nevertheless, most of the women hide their anger. Some fear their husband's rage. Others do not want to interfere with their husband's healing process. Still others keep quiet because their husbands are suffering from, or slowly dying of, exposure to Agent Orange or because their husbands have talked about suicide. This is a real possibility for some Vietnam veterans. Although there are no definitive statistics, some sources allege that as many veterans have died by their own hand as were killed in Vietnam. Equally distressing are the high number of deaths and injuries due to one-car collisions and other "accidents" among Vietnam veterans that are often viewed as suicidal in nature. When the veteran suffers from PTSD, his children may be affected also. Low self-esteem and self-blame for their father's unhappiness are the two most common problems seen so far. Some children show symptoms similar to the fathers', e.g. nightmares. Vietnam wives often feel as if they are single parents with the burden of the children's emotional and physical well-being on their shoulders. Often, they try to compensate for their husband's difficulties by being Supermothers. According to some Vet Center counselors, the future may well see self-help groups for adult children of Vietnam veterans similar to contemporary groups for adult children of alcoholics. Help is available at VA medical centers. Twenty-eight of them have inpatient PTSD units and at 189 Vietnam Veterans' Outreach Centers. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 39 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 AND I WAITED . . . Submitted Anonymously I married you because I loved you, and because you were handsome, and even though there was a difference of 15 years in our ages, I trusted you. We waited for your orders not knowing where we were going or if I could go. You told me it wasn't easy being married to a 'lifer', and I believed you, for you always told me the truth. And I waited . . . Hurray! WE are going to Japan! And I worried what it would be like living in a foreign country. You told me not to worry and I believed you for you always told me the truth. And I waited . . . You were right, I loved Japan, and I learned to speak Japanese as would a child. Your hours were long, and it seemed we seldom saw each other, but you told me it would soon be better and I believed you, for you always told me the truth. And I waited . . . I worried about the missiles Cuba, and you told me not to worry, and I believed you, for you always told me the truth. But, one November day came the news of the assassination of our president, and I didn't see or hear from you for eleven days. And I waited . . . Johnson was the president now, and things were looking grim in Southeast Asia, but you told me not to worry, and I believed you. I began to wait, and wait, because you were TDY so often and couldn't tell me where you had been, but you told me you were safe and I believed you, for you always told me the truth. And I waited . . . For our orders back to the States, and to a nice house and maybe a family, but you told me we had orders for Thailand. You said I would like it and I believed you, for you always told me the truth. I saw you even less in Thailand for you were always going TDY to places you said you couldn't talk about, but that you were safe and I shouldn't worry, and I believed you, for you always told me the truth. New orders for you came suddenly, and we talked a lot those last few days, and we decided it would be okay for me to stay in Japan with friends as you didn't think your assignment would take very long. You said I would be okay and not to worry about you, and I believed you, for you always told me the truth. And I waited . . . . . . for 364 days and you were back in Japan. You spoke NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 40 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 few words about South Vietnam but told me you were shipping over for six more years, but I musn't be upset, we had plenty of time for a family. I believed you . . . And I waited . . . And another tour in the Far East. The next three years you were TDY more than with me in Japan. It seemed what I did best those years was waving goodbye at an aircraft leaving the end of the runway. You told me being married to a 'lifer' wasn't easy, but I already believed that. And I waited . . . You told me you had orders for a tour in Vietnam, but not to worry, you knew the language and the people and you knew you would be okay. And I believed you . . . And I waited . . . When you came back to Japan you were different, but I couldn't say just what it was. You talked less and you were jumpy and the small sounds of traffic or a knock on the door nearly drove you crazy. You were icy cold at times, and there seemed no way I could reach you. I heard you cry out in a dream one night, and when I touched you, it was like an explosion. You hit me and you kicked me and you were so sorry when you realized it was only me. The orders came for Thailand again, but this time I couldn't go. You said it would be good duty, and not to worry and I believed you.. And I waited . . . Then you said you had another tour 'down south' and I worried. You came back again seven months later, with scars on your back and shrapnel in your legs and a two new ribbons on your chest, a Purple Heart and a Silver Star. You had the 'jitterin screamin meanies,' and jumped at every sound. The dreams had been bad before, but now they were even worse. I knew by now not to touch you in your sleep, and only to call your name. You had an ugly rash that wouldn't go away, and your nightmares were scaring me to death. You stared at every person you saw and you watched every move of the trees in the wind. You drank too much, but you said it would be okay soon and you were ready to retire. That was fine with me, I still wanted that family. We came back to 'the world' and you retired with 26. You were so spooky at times and the dreams were so bad I didn't think I could stand it anymore. I couldn't imagine how you dealt with the trauma of the dreams you had night after night. But you kept telling me you'd be okay, and I had no reason not to believe you. We had a child so sweet and dear, but she died of cancer within the year. We cried and mourned together for a short NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 41 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 while, and then you told me it was your fault and that you should never have fathered a child. I didn't believe you then and I won't believe that now. And I waited . . . The VA couldn't help the rash, and they kept cutting out the lumps that grew on your face and neck and arms. Your nerves were shot and you wouldn't talk to anyone about what was going on inside you, not even to me. You began to have terrible headaches and you said your vision changed at night. The VA didn't believe you but I saw you, and I believed. You got so angry at VA doctors when they told you the headaches were psychosomatic, and you flew into rages at everything and everybody, and even at God. I tired to get you to see a civilian doctor, but you said the country owed you, and you would get what you needed from them. You wouldn't talk to me, and you said I wouldn't understand, and I believed you. And I waited . . . I tried so hard to help and there wasn't anything I could do. The people we met didn't want to hear about Vietnam, and you told me not to tell anyone them you had been there. You said they were naive and cruel and they had killed your men one by one, not with bullets or bombs but with traitorous words and deeds. You told me you had been fighting for a country whose people did not care, and that U.S. policy was geared to public opinion by a President who would not let you win. The riots were going strong and Watergate was all the talk. Nixon pulled the troops out of Vietnam with 'honor' and you cried. The P.O.W.s came home and you cried, you said that wasn't all of them, and I believed you. You told me so many of their names and I wondered how you knew. You said we needed something to care for and we bought an Irish Setter pup and you taught it to quarter a field. You have him a funny Vietnamese call name and he grew and grew. You worked with him so hard and you loved us both. He grew and grew and became a Champion Working Dog. You told me you were going hunting and not to worry that you'd be back the next night. And I believed you. Now I sit and wait, and wait, and wait for the sound of the gate and your footsteps, and stories of the great hunt. I've been to the Wall and I've seen all the names, and I wonder why yours isn't there. But it's all right, you didn't die in Vietnam, you died as a result of the combat within yourself. I often wonder how many other women sit and wait for the sound of a footstep, or who awake in the night and find our beds so empty. I wonder how many children wonder why their fathers could no longer bear to be with them. I wonder why you never told us you hurt so much. Three wars couldn't kill you, but you did. NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition Page 42 Volume 2, Number 1 November 11, 1989 Two Walls by G. Joseph Peck NAM VETs Managing Editor VETLink #1 Pittsfield, MA (413) 443-6313 I heard them talk about putting their duffle bags in a little building by the 'Nam airbase. "Yeah," said one Marine, "Ours stayed in there for 13 months! For you Army and other guys, it was only 12 months before you were picking them up and riding your Freedom Bird home!" Esprit de Corps... loyalty to YOUR branch of service... still strong 15 - 20 years after civilian clothes became, again, the uniform of the day. Outside, puffy white clouds drifted across a full moon as the bus carrying me and members of Pittsfield, MA's Vietnam Veterans of America Chapter 65 rolled towards Washington, D.C. and, for me, another face-to-Wall confrontation with "the guilty's".