This story is dedicated to Donald Trump.
So, as I understand it, a man who hid behind five deferments feels qualified to lecture Vietnam War veterans on the merits and definition of bravery and what constitutes a hero?
Only thing sadder was when Republicans stood aside and John Kerry was maligned when he was “swiftboated” because he was an anti-war combat vet who dared run for the presidency. Haven’t enough died in combat and since from lingering wounds, suicides and Agent Orange poisoning to satisfy the bloodlust of chickenhawks?
Can you keep your sleazy politics to yourself just this one time! Go back to making billions of dollars and don’t pretend to know what you’re talking about. You know not what you say.
Welcome Home
I’ve dreamt of this flight a thousand times. They seem so real; I swear I can reach out and touch the rolling waves, smell the salty water. Which is, of course, absurd, seeing that the dream places me aboard a “Freedom Bird” at 5,000 feet above the ocean.
A Freedom Bird is a passenger plane full of veterans taking off from Vietnam, heading home. But this time — I’m coming home — it’s not a dream!
Thirteen months is a long time. I left a boy of 18, coming home a man at 19. I was newly wed then. Now I’m expecting to see my 8-month-old daughter in the arms of my wife, Nancy.
I left a naïve Marine, gung-ho to meet the enemy head on. I’m older now. To tell you the truth, ancient is what I feel; also sadder … wiser.
It’s the kind of wisdom that comes with living deadly lies. Deceit ages you. So do all the blood, death and destruction.
In the beginning I believed in something that wasn’t. That myth soon perished with the suffering of my comrades, and the true body count of the peoples of the land. In the end days, I fought merely to survive.
Moreover, to keep my promise to Nancy that I reaffirmed nightly in my prayers that I would return home to her. Wearily, I acknowledge the hard truth — the first thing you learn in combat is that survival has nothing to do with your wants, or desires, nor nightly prayers. Death comes happenstance on its own timeframe, its own whim.
Looking at the ocean below to settle my fried nerves, I drink in the tranquilizing scenery: The fast-moving whitecaps, the crystal-blue expanse reaching to forever on the horizon.
It’s the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. So unlike the mountains I’ve grown used to the last 13 months along the Vietnam-Laotian border.
The thought of that dreadful place, the A Shau Valley, sours my mood. It’s a primordial, dark and deadly place. Giant, ancient trees towered over us. Fast-moving rivers tumbling over sheer rock ledges. Thick fog smothers the land. And a deadly enemy haunted our every step. How did they expect us to fight in such a foreboding place?
I grabbed the armrest in fear as a flashback rocks my soul. I’m back, lying alongside that trail. My unit is acting as a blocking force while the rest of the company is choppered out of the A Shau.
Heavily armed North Vietnamese have a different idea for our fate. The only thing that stood between us, and being overrun is a wall of steel and a river of napalm supplied by waves of F-4 Phantom fighter-bombers.
A sense of dread washes over me. There is nowhere to hide. Steel shrapnel rains over me as the bombing strikes hit ever closer, telling me that the enemy is closing in. I remember the sounds of the steel slivers whistling through the air, the oily smell of napalm inhaled deeply.
Then that moment of impact when one of the deadly shrapnel hits me, burning though flesh and blood, searing my soul.
I black out. Come to aboard a hospital ship. The kind nurse holding my hand has soft eyes, a hard-set mouth. I imagine she’s seen a lot. She bathes my face. I’m so happy being out of that hellhole, with her kind, caring ways. I try to convey my thanks, but words fail me.
Back to the present on the 707, I look over to the Marine in his dress blues. I look down at my tattered jungle uniform. Embarrassed, I am thinking what Nancy will think of me. But I let that emotion go. She will be as happy as I am, regardless of how I look.
The coast of California comes into view. My heart leaps to my throat. I look over to my traveling companion, wanting to hug him. I want to cry out: “We beat Death at his game!” Instead, he looks pensive, withdrawn. Perhaps he has no one to welcome him home.
Again my emotions turn dark. I’ve heard stories of returning combat vets being shunned. Not fair! We didn’t start that stupid war, didn’t lie our country into it. Those fools encased safely in Washington did! Let it go, I tell myself. He’s got his problems. I’ve got mine.
The plane rolls in. A thud, then jets scream as they are slammed into reverse. Finally, we come to a standstill. All is unnaturally quiet, it seems to me. There should be shouts of joy. We’re home! Nothing matters but that.
But then I become frustrated, turning to red-hot madness. They’ll only allow us to depart the plane one at a time. It takes all my self-restraint not to rush the exit. But then I think of Nancy. Wouldn’t want to embarrass her. Perhaps I can see her?
Yes! There she is. She’s holding my baby daughter! My heart leaps in joy. And, of course, her mother and father are with her. Always could count on those two. Should have listened to her dad when he told me Vietnam was unlike his war. It was unlike any other war, I think darkly.
My turn! It’s my turn! My companion stands as do five others. Gentle, yet firm hands lift me. I must be on a stretcher. Guess I was hurt more than I thought.
But my Nancy will accept me as I am. I know that. Our love is deep. I look over to her. Tears fall down her cheek. Joy! She is joyful — but not.
Something is wrong. Terribly wrong. Her tears are those of anguish. I can feel the searing pain in her heart. Come to think of it, why is she wearing black? Bright sunlight spills into the plane. Finally, I’m on the ground. I have never heard “Taps” sound so soulful, so full of sadness and sorrow.
I watch Nancy place our daughter in her father’s arms. He, too, is crying. She runs over and throws herself on me. On my coffin! The six Marines quickly place it down, unable to handle the extra weight.
“Welcome home my beloved,” Nancy says softly.
“NO!” This is unfair … Total darkness engulfs me as Death casts his shadow.
The pain of lost love is too much to bear. I will never hold my wife in my arms again. I will never kiss my daughter. I have died for a war that my country has turned its back to, leaving us behind to become the last to die.
It is a war that history will judge unnecessary. Unjust. Ill-advised — what the hell does that mean? Millions killed. Millions wounded. Millions displaced.
But this is personal. For one family, my family, a crushing end to so many promises. So many beginnings are ending …
— Ken Williams has been a social worker for the homeless for the past 30 years, and is the author of China White, Shattered Dreams: A Story of the Streets and his first nonfiction book, There Must Be Honor. Click here to read previous columns. The opinions expressed are his own.