The Nam Ended for Me in an Unlikely Place
It has been over forty-five years since the “Paris Peace Accords” and the withdrawal of American troops from South Vietnam set the stage for the subsequent conquest of the South by the North, ending the Vietnam War. For many American Vets, including me, the war has not ended. We ache with a weary war feeling that tracks us like the dark cloud shadowing the old grey donkey Eeyore in the Winnie the Pooh stories. The anguish of war hangs over us like the smelly smoke of napalm.
Was our sacrifice in vain? America is not used to losing wars, and her surviving warriors are bewildered. They don’t know how to act.
I admit the Vietnamese on both the winning and losing sides suffered more than the Americans – it’s not even close. But I write from an American perspective.
The war has not ended for me. I am not at peace. Knowing that some Vets have found peace with Jesus, I decided to give Him a shot.
I served in The Nam in ‘70-71. Years later the public lumps all Veterans into a glorious group of heroic warriors. I reluctantly did my duty for God and country and lay no claim to heroism. There are those who serve in combat and those who do not. I was in the latter group.
I was a medic in Vietnam at the Army 3rd Field Hospital in Saigon. I never humped with the grunts nor flew an aircraft nor hunkered in a bunker or foxhole as incoming mortar and artillery exploded around. Never set up a night ambush.
It was dirty, depressing business, helping the doctors with the wounded. Years later I tried to watch “MASH” but could not. I found no humor in the show.
We did our best with the mangled bloody bodies brought to us. I thought our young doctors were amazing. Imagine the damage AK-47 bullets, machine gun fire, mortar rounds, and artillery shells inflict on the fresh flesh of a young man. The skin, the immune system, all the intricate divinely designed mechanisms of the body are helpless against hot flying pieces of metal traveling hundreds of miles per hour. Imagine what it would do to you.
It was bloody nasty business. I drank a lot in those days but by some strange discipline never sampled the weed and other drugs available to deal with the wounds of war.
I was 22 years old when I arrived in Vietnam and saw sights no one should see. Blood and guts were my companions, and I never tasted glory. I tossed many legs and arms into the medical waste dump and carted away the dead covered with a sheet.
I received my precious honorable discharge and returned home. My parents still loved me and my friends in Indy still hung out with me. My girlfriend had Dear John’d me before I flew home, so I had to find a new girl. Or girls.
America, however, did not like or appreciate me. The derision towards Vietnam Vets exceeded the praise. I returned to college and kept quiet about my military experience. I drank. I drank a lot. Once a girl I liked probed into my life, and I concocted a crazy story about having served in the Peace Corps. She saw through that, and we were done. I dared not tell her I had served in The Nam.
Americans either ignored or attacked us. For God’s sakes, I thought, the war wasn’t my idea. I didn’t even want to serve in the Army, much less go to The Nam. Focus your anger on the government, not me.
My troubled psyche could not suppress images of the mangled bodies I had treated, and now, to make matters worse, my country dissed my service. My fellow Americans insisted I should have done the honorable thing and fled to Canada or gone to jail. And that by serving I had proven myself a monster.
Hell of a note.
I sought salvation in a normal life soaked in alcohol. After The Nam, I switched majors from English to business and earned my degree; the federal government – which gave preference to vets – hired me. I met Sarah and we married and brought two children into the world.
My family became the light of my life, keeping the darkness at bay.
Oh, how I loved my girls! I coached them in sports, though neither proved a good athlete. Our favorite activity was reading – their mother let that be my special time with them. Pam and Julie are older now and hanging out with their old man is not a priority, but I treasure my time with them, especially when they were young.
Some books I read to them over and over. Goodnight Moon was a favorite. So were the “Winnie the Pooh” stories. They soaked it up, their sweet little faces full of delight. They loved Christopher Robin and Winnie the Pooh, that “silly old bear.” These stories with Winnie and his friends Rabbit and Owl and Tigger and Eeyore were so creative and endearing. Great children’s writing! I Hope A.A. Milne won awards for his books.
A dark cloud formed here, unrelated to Eeyore. Reading about Tigger depressed, not because I didn’t love that un-fierce Tiger, but because of what his name evoked.
Dean, my best friend in high school, dropped out of Purdue after two bad-grade years in mechanical engineering. He was drafted into the Marines and died in combat in The Nam in 1968, leading his officer-less platoon uphill against the entrenched North Vietnamese on some nameless hill. I went to his funeral in Indy and could barely look at his parents or two sisters.
We called Dean “Tiger” because he was fearless, in football, in cards, in finding alcohol, in approaching girls. I’ve never had a friend so bold with women. I often found happiness with his girl’s friends. Never hurts to be the patient wingman of a bold fighter pilot.
So, when I read the Winnie the Pooh stories, I sometimes skipped the sections on Tigger.
Winnie was everyone’s favorite character. You could not help but love this “silly old bear” who had these great adventures with his friends in 100 Acre
Wood. This bear “… of no brains at all” endeared himself to you.
I loved Winnie but I particularly liked Eeyore, the old grey donkey. He once lost his tail but found it with Pooh’s help at Owl’s house as a bell-rope. He lived in “a gloomy place.” Eeyore had no house until his friends built one for him. Being a negative donkey, a dark cloud followed him wherever he went.
The years passed and Eeyore’s dark cloud with its smelly napalm smoke haunted me. I coached my girls in sports. I drank. I joined my wife’s church and tried to be a good Catholic. Hope sprang in my heart that Jesus would pull me out of this mess.
I drank. I moved up the government management ladder. I prayed. I cut down on my drinking for months, then ramped it up again. Went through this cycle many times.
I commiserated with my fellow vets at the VFW but felt there was more bringing down than lifting up. Didn’t help that the drinks were cheap.
Sarah confronted me: “You’ve got to stop this drinking. Get out of this Goddamned Vietnam funk.”
I entered counseling at the VA. The Indy Roudebush Veterans Administration Hospital was one of the better VA Hospitals in the country, but it didn’t serve me well. The Vets in my support group were crazier than me. Some help. My young female psychologist was a PHD woman who knew all the buzz words, but I could not relate to her. She knew nothing of war and did not seem interested in learning. She was not a good fit for the Veterans Administration.
So, I stopped going to the VA – didn’t tell my wife at first. Even made-up stories about counseling sessions. Drank even more, tried to hide that from her too.
When Sarah discovered my double deception, she didn’t become crazy angry as she sometimes did. She sat down and composed herself. Tears welled in her eyes, and I stepped towards her. She held up hand, palm up. Stop.
“You are just too self-absorbed. That damn war is ruining you. And us. What about your girls? What about me, for God’s sake? You can’t let that Godforsaken war of long ago ruin your life. Forty years ago. God! It’s over, it’s over.”
“Not for me.”
She began crying. I had given the wrong answer but had spoken the truth. I sat down in a chair opposite her.
“So, what do you want me to do?”
She was crying softly.
I waited patiently for an answer. None was provided. “Ok, ok, I’ll go back into counseling. Not at the VA, though. Done with that place. I’m sure I can find a good counselor somewhere. We can afford it. I promise.”
I think she nodded “yes,” but when I reached for her hand, she pulled away.
She gave me the silent treatment for several days. This had happened before – I could ride it out. Finally, she came to me.
“Let’s pray together.” Sarah was a devout Catholic; I was “in process.”
She grabbed her rosary and prayed the Introduction; I tried to keep up. I had not memorized the Apostles Creed and Sarah finished my part. I was not a rosary guy, this Catholic mumbo-jumbo rote repetitive prayer was just too much for a former Protestant, a spiritual-but-not-religious guy.
Sarah began the “Joyful Mysteries” with a petition: she asked for Our Lady’s blessing on our family and healing for her husband – may his war wounds be cleansed. Grant him peace, the peace only Jesus can give, the peace that passes all understanding.”
I followed Sarah’s lead, saying my part. Frankly, I get tired of reciting one “Hail Mary” after another, but I went along. I wanted to make peace with my wife, I wanted back into her good graces, into a normal marriage.
We finished and she said, “Good. Tomorrow night we’ll do the Luminous Mysteries.” I nodded yes. What was I supposed to do? Vietnam was bad but having my wife mad at me was bad too. Maybe worse.
Driving with Sarah to her family reunion at Barron Lake, Michigan over July 4th weekend, I begin thinking about my seven-week-old promise to return to counseling. I had checked out several psychologists but had yet to book a counseling session. My tab for alcohol had not diminished. Sarah adopted a familiar strategy: when I retreated to my Vietnam funk, she took solace in her mad-at-her-husband funk.
I guessed that rosary praying had not produced a positive result.
Barron Lake was a pleasant little lake in Michigan, 155 miles from Indy; it was an easy drive, even with holiday traffic, four-lanes most of the way. We’ve gone every year – but one – since our marriage. My two daughters used to love it but do not attend our celebrations anymore.
Trepidation ripples through me as we near the lake. So many people – I recognize most of the adult faces but struggle with the names. Can’t connect the marital and family ties. Hope not to embarrass myself. I need a printed family tree, or at least name tags. Most of the people I only see once a year.
There is a lot of talking at Barron Lake. And swimming and water skiing and tubing. A lot of drinking too – supplemented by snacks and two meals a day.
Sarah and I stay at the Holiday Inn six miles away. Given that we are in the midst of a martial fracas, we appreciated the two queen beds in our room.
Sometimes in the afternoon I sneak back to the hotel for a nap and time on the treadmill. And a break from the family. As my deceased brother-in-law once said, “I’m all peopled out.”
This valuable lake property is owned by the Anderson family, three first cousins of my wife: Mike, Kathleen, and Mary. Mary and Mike live in Michigan, Kathleen in California. None of them have lived at their lake property in years; or have any plans to live there. Not sure why they don’t sell the place – as a financial guy, I would. I am amazed at their hospitality to this large group of family each year. Despite my nascent Christian identity, I could not do it. Hospitality is not one of my virtues.
For years I have been asking Jesus to poof away the Eeyore Vietnam cloud that’s been trailing me, and this year He finally waved his magic wand.
It happened in a strange, unexpected way – just the sort of thing Jesus would do.
Through Facebook I learned that Mike, divorced from a Korean woman several years ago, had remarried in 2019 in a civil ceremony. His bride Phuong was from Hanoi, the capital of Vietnam. The word “Hanoi” flashed like lightning through me. Once it was the heart and soul of our enemy, the North Vietnamese, the ruthless, communist North Vietnamese, who were fighting to take over South Vietnam, part of their ancient country, but governed now by a semi-democratic corrupt government who supported – at least theoretically – Western ideals, including freedom of religion. The North Vietnamese, joined by their guerilla brethren in the South, were the deadly enemies of the South Vietnamese and we Americans, their staunch ally.
General Westmoreland, commander of the American forces in Vietnam, once aptly described the North Vietnamese as the “…Prussians of the orient.” This was a compliment. They were fierce, disciplined, ruthless warriors.
Mike introduced me to Phuong. She didn’t look at all like a “ruthless warrior.” Her beauty struck me, how feminine and pretty she was. Her English was not as good as expected. Maybe she was just being demure.
She reminded me of the attractive bar girls I had patronized in Saigon. Once the Viet Cong bombed a bar I frequented. I was on my way there after work, and when I arrived the police were cordoning off the place. I saw several dead bodies lying on the street, one a young woman in a blood-stained skirt and a torn blouse. What a pretty face, lost to the world. I never accepted our enemies’ deliberate attacks on civilians. Of course, one feature of the war was determining who was a “civilian” and who was the “enemy.”
I tried to address Phuong with her name; Mike corrected me and said it rhymes with tongue.
At 6’3,” Mike towered over her. I guessed she was in her 30s. One look and you understood Mike’s infatuation. Guess Mike has a thing for Asian women, though his marriage to the South Korean had not worked out. Wonder how his American female cousins processed this. Single, successful, attractive, he would be a good catch for any woman. Gazing at all the overweight women at the family reunion (to be fair, most were older than Phuong) – you could understand how Mike could go for Phuong. And maybe Asian women were less demanding of their spouses.
My wife and I and her siblings discussed Mike’s marriage to Phuong. How did they meet? How well did they know each other? Was it too hasty? Could they overcome a language barrier? Was he on a divorce rebound? Was her motivation solely a new life in America for her and her children? Was she just trying to escape communist Vietnam?
Why had Mike ever traveled to Vietnam in the first place? I would never set foot in that place, for if I did, I would never escape my funk.
I couldn’t help but wonder if any of his immediate family were at the wedding, including his two grown children of his Korean wife. Some American weddings were way too elaborate and expensive, and some not elaborate enough. If you do not invite a lot of relatives to your nuptials, what does that mean? Why all the secrecy? Aren’t you proud of your marriage and your spouse? Don’t you want a big party to welcome her into your family? Guess I’m starting to think like a Catholic.
Mike’s marriage to Phuong was a civil affair. Raised Catholic, Mike had abandoned the faith years ago. That was probably true of most of my wife’s cousins. One reason the reunion was so large was that the parents of my wife’s family were Catholic and had large families. Their children did not follow in their footsteps.
I was stunned a year or two ago when Mike said Mohammed was a great religious leader and prophet. He also made a positive comment about the LBGT crowd. Guess he didn’t know what Mohammed would do to his LBGT friends. He did not need Jesus like I did.
I gave Mike a pass on The War. Twenty years younger than me, he was the youngest cousin and had missed the whole Nam thing.
Phuong’s mother was present that weekend. She was shorter than Phuong. Mike told me she was returning to Hanoi in a few weeks. Phuong and her two children would live with Mike in their house in Ann Arbor, where Mike was the CEO of an architectural firm. The two children would enroll in public schools in Ann Arbor this fall.
Phuong’s mother did not speak English but smiled when I tried to converse with her. Guessed she was 55 or older. Considering her age, she had to have been affected by the heavy American bombing of Hanoi in 72-73. Wonder how she felt about breaking bread with the imperialist aggressors who tried to bomb her country into submission?
Phuong had two children – a girl aged nine and a five-year-old boy. Never did catch their names.
For hours at a time, I sat in my beach chair in the shade by the lake. Lots of talk with my wife’s immediate family. And some chatter with other cousins. And their children.
And lots of people-watching, especially those in the water. Mostly kids. Members of our large family generously brought boats for the weekend: two speedboats, a jet ski, and a pontoon. People, mostly kids, water-skied, tubed and knee-boarded. The lake was crowded with boats, you had to be careful. I prayed no drunk would ruin everyone’s fun. I had given up water skiing 15 years ago and was now a regular on the pontoon booze cruise.
Naturally, there were young women in bikinis that I tried to ignore. A few came and chatted with me, and I tried to be casual and friendly and avuncular and realized, somewhat sadly, that I was too old to be perceived as a sexual threat. Too bad that a family gathering can lead to temptations for a senior seeking the straight and narrow.
Sarah and her sister went tubing and I could barely watch, fearing injury. Fortunately, my brother-in-law drove the speed boat pulling the tube and did not engage in a lot of sharp moves designed to throw the tubers off. Sarah survived but hurt her leg later jumping from the raft to the dock.
Phuong’s little boy played close to the shore. He did not wear a life jacket or arm floaties, as many young kids did. Sometimes his grandmother watched him; at other times it was his American stepsister, a recent graduate of the University of Michigan. Quite a scene watching her mother her new stepbrother. Especially when she lathered him up with sunscreen.
Off and on this Vietnamese boy played in the water with American kids. They accepted him. Wonder how good his English was.
Phuong’s daughter played farther out in the water. Mike told me that before this weekend she did not want to play in the lake or put her head under water. She seemed quite comfortable now, just another fish like her American in-laws.
The older kids played on a floating rubber raft. They sat on it, dove off it, and played king of the raft. Phuong’s daughter more than held her own with the American boys and girls. Several times she was the only one left standing on the raft.
The War ended for me as I watched Phuong’s Vietnamese children play with American kids. Eeyore’s dark cloud may follow him forever, but it longer follows me.
I cannot help but think Jesus had something to do with this.
The war is over. I am at peace.
The war is over.