The Vietnam Reader (48 page)

Since that time, when I really got everything together and spit it out to the group, things have really been okay. The nightmares are absolutely gone. The depressions are just about gone. But Lynda Van Devanter said it better than I could ever say it again: “The war does not control me anymore. I control it.” I know the depressions will still come, but I can handle them because I know why they’re there and that they’ll go away. I know that I can’t forget those experiences, but I understand why I have them and that they’re a part of my life. I also know that I’m a better person, actually, for having lived them.

Probably my two biggest goals now are, I’ll do my damndest to keep something like that from ever happening again, and if I can help even one other woman veteran to work it through as I have, then it’s all worth it. I’m not normally an outgoing person, but I’ll spill everything if I have to, if that will help just one other person. Because nobody needs to live through this.…

From
Dear America
Letters Home from Vietnam

B
ERNARD
E
DELMAN,
E
DITOR
1985

Sept. 7th [1969]

We’re all scared. One can easily see this emotion in the eyes of each individual. One might hide it with his mouth, while another might hide it with his actions, but there is no way around it—we are all scared.

They say when fear is in a man, he is prepared for anything. When fear possesses the man, he is prepared for nothing. As of now, fear is in me. I hope I can keep it from possessing me.

This journal entry was written by PFC William A. Maguire, Jr., of Short Hills, New Jersey, who died on 28 September 1969, two days after contracting a fever while on patrol near the DMZ with the 2nd Battalion, 5th Regiment, 1st Marine Division. He was 20 years old. He had been in Vietnam only four weeks.

Dear Madeline,

Hello my dear sister.

Boy, I sure feel close to you. Since your last letter, I almost feel as if you are my sister. It’s good to have someone to tell your troubles to. I can’t tell them to my parents or Darlene because they worry too much, but I tell you truthfully I doubt if I’ll come out of this alive.

In my original squad I’m the only one left unharmed. In my platoon there’s only 13 of us. It seems every day another young guy 18 and 19 years old like myself is killed in action. Please help me, Mad. I don’t know if I should stop writing my parents and Darlene or what.

I’m going on an operation next month where there is nothing but VC and VC sympathizers. The area is also very heavily mined. All of us are scared cause we know a lot of us won’t make it. I would like to hear what you have to say about it, Madeline, before I make any decisions.

Oh, and one more favor. I’d like the truth now. Has Darlene been faithful to me? I know she’s been dating guys, but does she still love me best? Thanks for understanding. See ya if it’s God’s will. I have to make it out of Vietnam, though, cause I’m lucky. I hope. Ha ha.

Miss ya,

Love,
Ray

PFC Raymond C. Griffiths went to Vietnam just after Christmas in 1965 and was assigned to Company A, 1st Battalion, 9th Marines, 3rd Marine Division. He wrote this letter to Madeline Velasco, a friend from high school in San Francisco, California, in June 1966. He was killed a few weeks later, on the Fourth of July. He was 19 years old.

Dec. 18, 1971

Hi, Frank

Do you still remember me? Well I’m Roger, the one who sent the Christmas stuff to you. Well now you know me I’ll finish the rest of my letter.

I liked your letter but Frank why did you join the war? I’m sorry about your friends who died. And I hope they let you get out this Christmas.

And Frank I will pray for you and your friends.

I might get to send you another present if my mother lets me. Have a nice Christmas to and I hope you get some presents.

And have a nice time to won’t you.

Have you had snow yet? Well we have and we got three snowmobiles. Last year me and my little brother rode the snowmobiles and every time I turned the corner real fast I tipped the snowmobile and then I looked back and he was laying on the ground.

Well, by and have fun
Roger David Barber

Sp/4 Frank Russo received this second letter from his pen pal, eight-year-old Roger Barber, a week before he left Vietnam.

6 Dec. ’69
1230 hr.

Dear Gail:

Hi, doll. How’s my girl today? I hope you are not feeling too blue. Well, we are on the move again. We got the word to pack our stuff, and we are going to Ban Me Thuot. We are not going to the village itself, but to the airfield. I think we are going to guard the airfield for a while. From what we have heard, we can get showers there and we can even get sodas or beer. Boy, we have not had anything cold to drink in a long time. It does get us mad that we have to move again. We just got our bunkers built—it took us about 1,000 sandbags to build [them]—and now some other company is coming in and using them. That’s the way it seems to be all the time. We do all the hard work and then we have to move. Well, that’s the Army for you.

I remember in one of your letters you said you were surprised that I said I don’t mind being here. Well in a way, that’s true. Sure I want to be home with you and have all the things we dream about. But yet being here makes a man feel proud of himself—it shows him that he is a man. Do you understand? Anyone can go in the Army and sit behind a desk, but it takes a lot to do the fighting and to go through what we have to. When we go home, we can say, “Yes, I was in Vietnam. Yes, I was a line dog.” To us it means you have gone to hell and have come back. This is why I don’t mind being here, because we are men.…

Love,
Pete

Sp/4 Peter H. Roepcke, from Glendale, New York, served as a “line dog”—an infantryman—with Company A, 3rd Battalion, 506th Infantry, 101st Airborne Division, from September 1969 until April 1970, operating in I Corps, when he broke his leg while jumping from a helicopter. He died of a heart attack in October 1981.

Lament

Mother.
I am cursed.
I was chosen
trained to kill
asked to die
I could not vote
I can’t ask why

Mother
I am cursed
spit on
and shunned
by long-haired doves

Mother
I am cursed.
I’m a soldier
in an age
when soldiers aren’t in fashion.

—Tom Oathout

Sgt. Thomas Oathout served with the 172nd Military Intelligence Detachment, assigned to the 173rd Airborne Brigade, operating in II Corps, from August 1970 through July 1971. He lives in Bear, Delaware, and works in Philadelphia as a salesman for a publishing company.

Feb 14th 66

Dear Mom,

… I’ve seen some things happen here lately that have moved me so much that I’ve changed my whole outlook on life. I’ll be the same in actions I guess, but inside I’ll be changed. I feel different now after seeing some horrible things, and I’ll never forget them. It makes you glad you’re just existing. I can’t say what I mean, but some of the things you see here can really change a man or turn a boy into a man. Any combat GI that comes here doesn’t leave the same. I don’t mean the cooks, clerks or special service workers, but the fighting man. I doubt if anybody realizes what combat is really like. I
thought
I knew until a few days ago when I started facing harsh realities and forgetting TV and movie interpretations. I never had much respect for GIs even after I was in for a while, but since I’ve seen what his real job is, I have more respect for him than any man on earth. To shoot and kill somebody, turn your head and walk away isn’t hard, it’s watching him die that’s hard, harder than you could imagine and even harder when it’s one of your own men.