What is a
Vietnam Veteran?
Received this from President of American Legion Riders,
Post 318, Port St Lucie, Florida
(courtesy of Jon Lachmann)
> A
college student posted a request on an internet newsgroup asking for
> personal narratives from the likes of us addressing the question:
"What is
> a Vietnam Veteran?" This is what he received back.>
>
>
________________________________
>
> Vietnam veterans are men
and women. We are dead or alive, whole or maimed,
> sane or haunted.
We grew from our experiences or we were destroyed by them
> or
we struggle to find some place in between. We lived through hell or
we
> had a pleasant, if scary, adventure. We were Army, Navy, Marines,
Air
> Force, Red Cross, and civilians of all sorts. Some of us
enlisted to fight
> for God and Country, and some were drafted.
Some were gung-ho, and some
> went kicking and screaming.
>
>
Like veterans of all wars, we lived a tad bit--or a great bit--closer
to
> death than most people like to think about. If Vietnam vets
differ from
> others, perhaps it is primarily in the fact that
many of us never saw the
> enemy or recognized him or her. We heard
gunfire and mortar fire but
> rarely looked into enemy eyes. Those
who did, like folks who encounter
> close combat anywhere and anytime,
are often haunted for life by those
> eyes, those sounds, those
electric fears that ran between ourselves, our
> enemies, and the
likelihood of death for one of us. Or we get hard,
> calloused,
tough. All in a day's work. Life's a bitch then you die. But
>
most of us remember and get twitchy, worried, sad.
>
> We are
crazies dressed in cammo, wide-eyed, wary, homeless, and drunk. We
> are Brooks Brothers suit wearers, doing deals downtown. We are
housewives,
> grandmothers, and church deacons. We are college
professors engaged in the
> rational pursuit of the truth about
the history or politics or culture of
> the Vietnam experience.
And we are sleepless. Often sleepless.
>
> We pushed paper; we
pushed shovels. We drove jeeps, operated bulldozers,
> built bridges;
we toted machine guns through dense brush, deep paddy, and
> thorn
scrub. We lived on buffalo milk, fish heads and rice. Or C-rations.
> Or steaks and Budweiser. We did our time in high mountains drenched
by
> endless monsoon rains or on the dry plains or on muddy rivers
or at the
> most beautiful beaches in the world.
>
> We wore
berets, bandanas, flop hats, and steel pots. Flak jackets, canvas,
> rash and rot. We ate cloroquine and got malaria anyway. We got
shots
> constantly but have diseases nobody can diagnose. We spent
our nights on
> cots or shivering in foxholes filled with waist-high
water or lying still
> on cold wet ground, our eyes imagining Charlie
behind every bamboo blade.
> Or we slept in hotel beds in Saigon
or barracks in Thailand or in cramped
> ships' berths at sea.
>
>
We feared we would die or we feared we would kill. We simply feared,
and
> often we still do. We hate the war or believe it was the
best thing that
> ever happened to us. We blame Uncle Sam or Uncle
Ho and their minions and
> secretaries and apologists for every
wart or cough or tic of an eye. We
> wonder if Agent Orange got
us.
>
> Mostly--and this I believe with all my heart--mostly,
we wish we had not
> been so alone. Some of us went with units;
but many, probably most of us,
> were civilians one day, jerked
up out of "the world," shaved, barked at,
> insulted, humiliated,
de-egoized and taught to kill, to fix radios, to
> drive trucks.
We went, put in our time, and were equally ungraciously
> plucked
out of the morass and placed back in the real world. But now we
>
smoked dope, shot skag, or drank heavily. Our wives or husbands seemed
> distant and strange. Our friends wanted to know if we shot anybody.
>
>
And life went on, had been going on, as if we hadn't been there, as
if
> Vietnam was a topic of political conversation or college protest
or news
> copy, not a matter of life and death for tens of thousands.
>
>
Vietnam vets are people just like you. We served our country, proudly
or
> reluctantly or ambivalently. What makes us different--what
makes us
> Vietnam vets--is something we understand, but we are
afraid nobody else
> will. But we appreciate your asking.
>
>
Vietnam veterans are white, black, beige and shades of gray; but in
> comparison with our numbers in the "real world," we were more
likely
> black. Our ancestors came from Africa, from Europe, and
China. Or they
> crossed the Bering Sea Land Bridge in the last
Ice Age and formed the
> nations of American Indians, built pyramids
in Mexico, or farmed acres of
> corn on the banks of Chesapeake
Bay. We had names like Rodriguez and Stein
> and Smith and Kowalski.
We were Americans, Australians, Canadians, and
> Koreans; most
Vietnam veterans are Vietnamese.
>
> We were farmers, students,
mechanics, steelworkers, nurses, and priests
> when the call came
that changed us all forever. We had dreams and plans,
> and they
all had to change...or wait. We were daughters and sons, lovers
>
and poets, beatniks and philosophers, convicts and lawyers. We were
rich
> and poor but mostly poor. We were educated or not, mostly
not. We grew up
> in slums, in shacks, in duplexes, and bungalows
and houseboats and hooches
> and ranchers. We were cowards and
heroes. Sometimes we were cowards one
> moment and heroes the next.
>
>
Many of us have never seen Vietnam. We waited at home for those we
loved.
> And for some of us, our worst fears were realized. For
others, our loved
> ones came back but never would be the same.
>
>
We came home and marched in protest marches, sucked in tear gas, and
> shrieked our anger and horror for all to hear. Or we sat alone
in small
> rooms, in VA hospital wards, in places where only the
crazy ever go. We
> are Republicans, Democrats, Socialists, and
Confucians and Buddhists and
> Atheists--though as usually is the
case, even the atheists among us
> sometimes prayed to get out
of there alive.
>
> We are hungry, and we are sated, full of life
or clinging to death. We are
> injured, and we are curers, despairing
and hopeful, loved or lost. We got
> too old too quickly, but some
of us have never grown up. We want,
> desparately, to go back,
to heal wounds, revisit the sites of our horror.
> Or we want never
to see that place again, to bury it, its memories, its
> meaning.
We want to forget, and we wish we could remember.
>
> Despite
our differences, we have so much in common. There are few of us
>
who don't know how to cry, though we often do it alone when nobody
will
> ask "what's wrong?" We're afraid we might have to answer.
>
>
Adam, if you want to know what a Vietnam veteran is, get in your car
next
> weekend or cage a friend with a car to drive you. Go to
Washington. Go to
> the Wall. It's going to be Veterans Day weekend.
There will be hundreds
> there...no, thousands. Watch them. Listen
to them. I'll be there. Come
> touch the Wall with us. Rejoice
a bit. Cry a bit. No, cry a lot. I will.
> I'm a Vietnam Veteran;
and, after 30 years, I think I am beginning to
> understand what
that means.
