|WHAT IS A VIETNAM VETERAN?"
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 I wrote 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.
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
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.
Copyright © 1996 Dan
Mouer, All Rights Reserved