From: jewell@MACE.CC.PURDUE.EDU (Larry Jewell)
Newsgroups: soc.veterans
Subject: 'Namvet Newsletter Annual #2 2/7
Date: 26 Jul 92 01:27:02 GMT


     of us have futures, and tend not to dwell in the past quite so
     much.
     
     I seem to be rambling a bit, but I was just sitting here
     thinking of the things I have wished you could have seen me do
     over the years.  First date, turning 16, being an absolute flop
     in a high school play, buying my first car with my own money,
     getting married, having my babies, oh how I wished you were
     here for all the celebrations of life.
     
     I've wanted to say all these things before, but didn't know
     where to send them until I found the International Vietnam
     Veterans Echo.  If the Echo is loud enough, I'm sure you will
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     hear me.
     
                       Love,
                       Your daughter,
                       Lindy.
     
     P.S.  Mom used to let me put S.W.A.K. on the backs of all the
     letters she sent.  Do you think I could do that here too?  I
     thought so.
     
        S  W  A  K
     















































     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 15
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

                   Mommy, Did You Kill Anybody in the War?
     
                            By Norma Boris
                               Friends BBS  Omaha, NE
                               (402) 896-2669
     
     As I read my January '84 issue of the VVA Veteran, my 6-month
     old son sleeps soundly in his room.  The articles are tingling,
     unnerving.  Particularly unnerving is one on the last page.  I
     read about a man who carried a gun, who was face to face with
     the enemy, and who killed.  I shudder as I contemplate the day
     my son asks me the question above.  After all, I'm mommy, not
     daddy.
     
     It makes me think.  Least painfully I think of the time limit we
     imposed on the Vietnamese patients with "no hope" of
     improvement.  Our doctors, knowing their litters would be left
     on the dust-off pad at the ARVN hospital, wanted them kept in
     our Casualty Receiving.  We wanted them transferred to simply
     die elsewhere.  Sure as hell, they died.
     
     Before a twelve hour limit was imposed, there were patients who
     just stayed until they stopped breathing - sometimes that was
     days.  The memories of those patients are more painful.  After a
     while I didn't suction so often, finally not at all.  I sat
     there as they breathed more and more irregularly, less and less
     frequently.  The died too - finally, taking just a little of me
     with them.
     
     Then there are the most painful.  They are of the ones I told,
     "I'll be right back..." Even when I was, it wasn't soon enough
     for them.  Their staring eyes were round, their skin American,
     no matter what color.
     
     Last, there are the memories that I do not yet allow entrance
     into my consciousness.  They are the memories of the children.
     I never knew that tiny, slanted eyes could open SO wide and that
     children in such pain could be SO quiet.  I still handle them in
     my nightmares.
     
     So, son, what do I tell you when you ask, "Mommy, did you kill
     anybody in the war?" I have a few years, a few years to hope the
     history books do NOT add the information that women went ...
     and that women killed.
     
     I have a few years to practice my "pat" answers and to hope,
     against hope, that you never hear the word "Vietnam".
     
     "Mommy, did you kill anybody in the war?" Oh my God...
     yes...
     
     Norma Boris served at the 67th Evac in Qui Nhon 1969-70.
     






     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 16
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

                      The Silent Shot: A Remembrance
                        by a Vietnam Veteran's Wife
     
                       Input by: Kathleen Kelly, Ph.d.
                                 NAM VET's PTSD Section Editor
                                 The NY Transfer BBS
                                 FidoNet 1:13/1033
                                 (718) 448-2358
     
     from: THE VETERAN, Vol.  18,  Nos.1&2,  pp.8-10,  Winter 1989 - a
     Publication of the Vietnam Veterans Against the War (VVAW).
     National Office: PO Box 408594, Chicago, IL 60640 (312) 327-5756.
     
          "As  I held his body in my arms,"  he said softly,  "he  just
     looked me in the eye, and told me he never heard the shot, the one
     that hit him. I guess you never do... hear the one that gets you."
          All  the  while  he spoke to me,  his look  was  distant.  As
     distant as Vietnam.  This was just one of his many memories,  some
     of  them unbelievable,  all of them horrifying.  I never say  much
     during these painful recollections.
          What do you say?   What CAN you say?  Don't worry about those
     children  you  killed  over there?  Like the one  that  dropped  a
     grenade  in the gas tank of your truck as you drove past,  or  the
     cartload of villagers you and your men wiped out because you had a
     suspicion that some were Viet Cong.  Or the old man sitting atop a
     water buffalo whom you used for target practice.  I know you still
     have nightmares about that one, except it's you instead of the old
     man.
          The list goes on and on. And so does the war.  Inside of him,
     and me.   It's part of my life too,  now.  A part I'd just as soon
     forget,  but  one I can't ignore.  He's tired of fighting and  I'm
     tired of losing -- losing to an enemy I cannot see.  Though not in
     material  form,  I know he's there.   Much like the one he  fought
     eighteen years ago, which to him seems like yesterday,  every day.
     I  know  what  goes  through  his mind now  when  he  sees  little
     children, or oriental people, or hears a helicopter.  Do you smell
     the napalm, Joe,  or the mud you had to lie in for days at a time?
     Or the dead bodies lying around that are later thrown in a pile to
     be burned, or to used as human sacks of sand to protect the men in
     the trenches?   I already know where he's at.   I only wonder what
     scene  in this never-ending film he's recalling.   He hasn't  come
     home yet.  I don't know that he ever will.
          "It's time to feed the dog," I told him in an effort to bring
     him out of his trance.
          "Alright...I'll feed him," he replied slowly, as he came back
     to America.  How long will you stay this time, Joe?  I wondered to
     myself.
          He  walked  over  to  the kennel to let the  dog  out  before
     feeding him.   Luke started his usual jumping and ground-stomping,
     his  regular ritual whenever either of us walked up to his kennel.
     As  Joe  opened the lock and lifted the latch,  he gave the dog  a
     stern  "stay"  command.   But  Luke,  being the strong-willed  and
     energetic  Chesapeake that he is,  darted past,  raced down to the
     end  of the yard and back up again,  all the while Joe calling his
     name,  yelling "Come!"  and trying to catch him.   I realized as I
     watched that Luke was going to get a harsh correction, although he
     wasn't the one whom Joe was really angry with.
          "I  told you to COME!"  he shouted as the dog grovelled up to
     him.   He  grabbed Luke by the scruff of the neck and dragged  his
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     75-pound  body back to the kennel door.   Luke let out a loud yelp
     as  Joe threw him as best he could into the kennel.  As he  closed
     the  latch he look at me.   He could tell I was hurt.  He knew  as
     well  as I that Luke didn't deserve that harsh correction,  and  I
     can't  stand  to see Joe take his frustrations out  on  him.  Luke
     doesn't  know about Vietnam.   But he does know he has run out  of
     the kennel before, only to receive praise because he did come back
     and not take off.
          "I don't think that was necessary," I told him.
          "I  do.  He's lucky I didn't choke him."  He looked as if  he
     were  ready  to.   "Why  do you think we spend time  in  obedience
     classes?  He knows better."
          "I think you overreacted," I said. Something he does a lot of
     these days, but has little control over.
          "Hey  --  I  didn't hurt him.  I've done worse things  in  my
     life."
          I gave up the argument.  I knew it was useless.  I also knew,
     when  he  had time to calm down,  he would regret his actions  and
     hate  himself  more.   As I turned and walked into  the  house,  I
     thought  back  on our eight-year relationship.   When I first  met
     him,  I  thought  the 14 years between our ages would be a lot  to
     contend  with,  but  that never became a  problem.   Vietnam  did,
     although I didn't know it at first.  He never talked about it.   I
     knew  he had been there,  but I didn't know much about it.  I  did
     have  a feeling something was wrong,  but I had blamed his  sudden
     mood swings on myself, the only justification I could find.  Now I
     know better, or should I say worse.
     
          Neither  of us ate dinner that evening,  a common occurrence.
     His  loss of appetite was due to stomach pains the doctors call  a
     "spasmodic  colon,"  the  result  of his bad nerves  and/or  Agent
     Orange  contamination.   My loss of appetite was caused by anxiety
     over  that knowledge.   When he first spoke of the chemical  Agent
     Orange,  he  explained it was a defoliant that had been sprayed to
     kill  existing  vegetation  in order to leave  their  enemy  fewer
     places  to  hide.   I  was appalled to know the  government  never
     admitted  for  years its adverse health effects.  Joe said it  had
     been everywhere,  in their food and in their water.  They breathed
     it  and  lived  in it.   And knowing the  deliberate  denial  only
     contributed to the decline in his patriotism, his mistrust in the
     government, and added fuel to his internal fire. And my own.
          His mother called later that evening to see if we were coming
     over  for a visit.  It was my duty to answer the phone because  of
     his  hatred  of  dealing  with  people,  even  family,  making  it
     difficult for us to attend family gatherings.  I've become his go-
     between,  his  protector.  I deal with the outside world while  he
     tends to the matter of war.
          "Are you coming over?" his mother asked.
          "No, Joe isn't here," I answered, my frequent reply.
          "Where is he?"
          "He  went to the mountains,"  I replied,  which is more often
     than  not  true.   He  spends a great deal of time in  the  woods,
     alone.  It's the only place he can relax,  somewhat.  It helps him
     more than any drug, which gives credence to the fact that the mind
     controls the body, if we both weren't proof enough.
          After  I convinced her we'd visit later that week,  I hung up
     the phone and undressed for bed. As I did so,  I noticed my steady
     decrease  in weight.   My mother always voices her concern for  my
     anorexic  appearance.   I  always insist otherwise;  it  certainly
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     isn't  intentional.   I'd be quick to invite ten additional pounds
     if I could return my nerves to their previous state.   Before this
     post-Vietnam  life.  But I never explained to her,  or any  family
     member,  the  cause of my weight loss.  I want to spare them  that
     worry.   The  worry of knowing I live with a time bomb ready to go
     off  at  any moment.   It doesn't make it any easier for  me,  but
     that's my choice, be it good or bad.
          Bad, I thought, as I looked in the mirror and noticed another
     gray  hair had crept up on me.  I held my jaw;  it felt sore  from
     clenching  my teeth,  an unconscious habit I do throughout the day
     and often during the night.
          When  I  lay  down in bed,  I noticed my muscles  ached  from
     constant  tension.   He  really didn't want this to happen to  me.
     He's  been  noticing  my forgetfulness,  my overreactions  to  the
     slightest  things.   I can't abandon him like his friends and  his
     country.   No  one else will see this through.   I may be the only
     reason  he's  still alive,  though his doctors have often said  it
     gets worse before it gets better. If it gets better.   I closed my
     eyes in an attempt to fall asleep.
          I  let  my mind drift,  to someplace far away.  To  a  jungle
     somewhere,  dark  and dense.  Sitting with my back to a tree,  not
     knowing  what the next moment would bring.  Perhaps a tiger  would
     come sneaking over the wire, and drag me off into the night. Maybe
     I'd  walk into a booby trap,  and they'd find me the next morning,
     impaled by a poisoned pungi-stick through my chest.   Or maybe one
     of  our  own men would freak out and lose it.   I wonder  what  it
     would  be like to have to shoot one of our own in the back because
     he couldn't be trusted....
     
          The  following day provided a disheartening  experience.   It
     was  one of the many days Joe was scheduled to see a  psychiatrist
     at the VA hospital.   A first for me,  the doctor wanted to see us
     both.  I had been to the other VA facility where they dealt mostly
     with physically impaired veterans, but never to the "nuthouse," as
     Joe so often calls it.
          I  sipped my morning coffee in an effort to come alive,  as I
     watched  Joe  smoke  cigarette  after  cigarette  and  take  three
     tranquilizers  and two antidepressants,  his usual morning  ritual
     repeated  several times a day.   And people wonder why he  doesn't
     work.
          "This is going to be a real trip for you,"  he told me on the
     way to the hospital.  "This place is always a trip."
          A good one or a bad one?  I thought to myself,  but I figured
     what the answer would be.
          As  we  walked  up to the hospital doors,  I  noticed  a  man
     sitting on a bench by himself.   Joe mentioned he had tried to put
     a bullet through his head but didn't quite do the job,  the result
     being   a  reconstructed  face  and  the  probable  shame  of  not
     completing a task he had, in the past, been so well trained to do.
          We  stepped  inside  the  building and  walked  down  a  long
     hallway.   Just  then a fire alarm went off by mistake,  and a man
     behind  us yelled "Incoming!  Incoming!"  which confirmed he was a
     patient.
          We  reached the cafeteria and stood in line for  coffee.   As
     Joe poured I looked around. I watched a man walk past with part of
     his  face missing.   A battle wound or another attempted  suicide?
     Joe  saw me looking and confirmed the latter,  contributing to the
     statistic  that more men have died from suicide than were actually
     killed in Vietnam.  That thought sent chills up my spine.
     
     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 19
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

          We  wandered into the seating area and sat down next to  some
     men Joe knew from group therapy. As he talked with them, I watched
     the  people  around us,  mostly patients.  I could tell  by  their
     appearance.   Almost all had long hair and beards,  and constantly
     smoked  cigarettes.   The ones most readily recognizable are those
     who  walk very slowly with blank faces,  the result of their heavy
     medication.  The "Thorazine Shuffle" as it's called.
          One  man walked up to our table,  spoke to Joe briefly,  then
     walked away.
     
          "That guy there, he killed his parents," Joe said.
     
          "Is he an inpatient?" I asked.
     
          "No,"   Joe   replied.   "He's  just  here  to  pick  up  his
     medication."
     
          I  wasn't frightened,  just saddened.  I suppose they're  all
     murderers in a way, though not by choice.  The longer I sat there,
     the more I realized I wasn't all that uncomfortable being in their
     presence.   I  guess  I knew where they were coming from and  what
     they were all about.  And they knew the same of me.
          I  suggested we make our way up to the shrink's office and as
     we  did,  Joe mentioned some of the men there never made it  home,
     physically.   "They  came  straight from 'Nam to this  place,"  he
     said. "Most of their families have forgotten them."
          We  reached  the  waiting area and,  as I took  a  seat,  Joe
     checked in.   I lit a cigarette which I desperately needed by this
     time, and watched people filter in and out of the waiting room.  I
     noticed  an  older  man in a wheelchair waiting by  the  elevator.
     World  War  II?   He didn't appear as if he knew where he  was.  I
     watched as he raised his arms as if he were pointing a rifle at an
     invisible enemy.   Then he yelled "BANG"  and his arms jerked back
     as a rifle would kick after being fired.
          At  that  point I just wanted to get up and walk out,  but  I
     stayed -- if not for Joe then for the sake of the man sitting next
     to  me  who was proceeding to tell me his war stories.  He  was  a
     large man with light brown hair and sunglasses,  smoking cigarette
     after  cigarette.   Most of what he told me I already knew,  but I
     didn't say anything.   He seemed comfortable talking to a complete
     stranger;  maybe  he  needed  someone to talk  to.  And  maybe  by
     listening I was helping him to stay alive just one more day.
          Someone  from the desk called him over and as he walked away,
     I felt numb with depression. Now I had to talk with this doctor. I
     knew there wasn't much he could tell me, either.
          Joe  came over and told me I could go in and see the  doctor.
     He didn't want to go in with me,  he'd go in by himself when I was
     through.  It didn't matter to me; I just wanted to get out of that
     place.   We met the doctor as we walked down the hall to his room.
     As Joe wished, I went in by myself.
          Dr. Peterson was a tall, heavyset man with a balding head and
     a completely paralyzed left arm.
     
          "Joe  has  what we call Post-Traumatic Stress  Disorder,"  he
     told me.  I nodded. He continued, "I think he should come into the
     hospital  for  a  while;  he hasn't been talking  these  past  few
     sessions.  This is a bad time of year for him."
     
          This  time  of  year is bad for him,  I repeated  to  myself.
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     Eighteen  years ago this time,  Joe was due to come home.  He  had
     only  a month of duty left,  and since he was still in one  piece,
     they wanted to send him home that way.  So they put someone new --
     just over from the States -- into his job,  driving his truck.  "A
     young kid," Joe always says.   Young?   They were all young,  just
     out of high school.  Maybe Joe felt older after 13 months of duty.
     They aged quickly over there.
          The  day the switch of duty took place all the vehicles  were
     blown  away,  all  the men killed.  Joe has felt extremely  guilty
     about  that.   He always felt it should have been him.  And  along
     with  the guilt comes the vivid memory of having had to clean  the
     truck  of all the blood and pieces of friends and comrades he  had
     just  spoken  to  that morning.   When he had told  me  this,  I'd
     realized why it was difficult for him to get close to anyone,  and
     why it took me a long time to break through that barrier.
     
          I  agreed  with the doctor that he should go in the  hospital
     and  told  him I could talk Joe into going in better  than  he.  I
     thanked Dr.  Peterson and promised to remove all the guns from the
     house, more for Joe's sake than mine.
          Within  the next week,  Joe was an inpatient.   I wasn't sure
     how long he'd be in.  I needed the break as much as he did,  but I
     didn't  know  if  his stay would help him or make  him  worse.  It
     certainly  isn't  a  good environment for someone  suffering  from
     anxiety and depression.   I did feel safe in that he couldn't hurt
     himself  or anyone else.   They're very strict about the  personal
     belongings  brought in,  and should someone get out of hand,  they
     pin them to the floor, put them in restraints, and throw them in a
     room by themselves.  I knew Joe couldn't handle that.  I knew he'd
     do his best not to lose it.
     
          No sooner was Joe out of the hospital than he was gone again.
     To  the  woods.   The only place he could find a little peace  and
     comfort,  away  from people.  The next day was opening day of deer
     season.   But  he wasn't going for the hunt.   The absence of  his
     firearms  prevented that.   He just wanted to be alone.  "I  don't
     think I could stand the sight of blood," he told me.
          I missed him that first night.  I had been looking forward to
     his  return from the hospital,  although sometimes when he's  with
     me, I feel alone.  I missed his presence anyway.  As I lay in bed,
     I  wondered  where he was at,  what he was thinking.  I  tried  to
     remember the last time he lay in bed beside me.   He always sleeps
     on  the couch for fear of hurting me in his sleep.   As much as it
     keeps me close to him,  it keeps me away from him.  I wondered how
     much longer I could live this way.
     
                                   . . .
     
                                 Epilogue
     
          The woods were just coming alive as I made my way through the
     fallen  leaves and over the trees that lay in my path.  The birds'
     songs  echoed  through  the  trees and  some  squirrels  above  me
     chattered  loudly,  letting everything in hearing range know I was
     approaching.  I was making enough noise,  between my footsteps and
     the  pick  and shovel I dragged behind me,  to sound like a  small
     army.  I held the urn close to my body and looked around,  getting
     my bearings and realizing why Joe loved the woods so much.  It was
     here he was truly at peace, it was here he would stay.
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     
          I  looked  up at one tree and noticed a  hunter's   treestand
     that  had been left behind.   I kept repeating in my mind:  Was it
     truly  an  accident?   That  someone  would  have  mistaken  Joe's
     movement  through the woods for a deer is not hard to believe;  on
     opening  day especially,  they'll shoot at anything that moves.  I
     couldn't  understand why Joe had not been wearing any  fluorescent
     orange which all hunters are required to wear,  even if he weren't
     hunting.  He knew how trigger-happy any hunter can be.
     
          I  came  to a small clearing,  with a stand of pines  in  the
     center.  Among them was a blue spruce, and I picked a spot beneath
     it.   As  I dug the hole,  I thought to myself:  Was it really too
     much for you,  Joe?   Have you finally found the peace and freedom
     you so desperately wanted?  Or was it for me?  Is this your way of
     releasing  us both?   The war that had a hold on both of us,  that
     robbed  us of so many things,  had ended with his life.   I filled
     the  hole,  and  looked down upon it.  I wondered if he heard  the
     shot,  the  one that got him.   I wiped my tears and walked  away.
     Yes, Joe, for me too, the war is finally over.







































     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 22
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

                             NOT ON THIS WALL
                              By: Joan Renne
                                  Friend's BBS  Omaha, Ne.
                                  (402) 896-2669
     
     Walking toward the Moving Wall, my heart began to pound and I
     was afraid my emotions would overwhelm me.  Afraid that I'd fall
     apart if someone would ask me if I knew someone whose name was
     there.  I could say yes, and that would be true, but there are
     other names missing that ought to be there.  How could I hide my
     tears, my memories and pain from others?
     
     The 101st Airborne was in town for their reunion and came to pay
     tribute to fallen friends and comrades; share their memories and
     experience with each other and those of us who came to visit the
     names on the Moving Wall.  Seeing old friends suddenly recognize
     each other and shout for joy and relief at the knowledge they
     had survived Vietnam.  Twenty or more years of wondering, and at
     last they knew! You could feel the electricity surrounding them
     when they yelled, "Welcome home, buddy! Damn, I'm glad you made
     it!" The first questions were, "Have you seen the guy we called
     Captain Midnight, or the dude we called Clearasil?" The names
     bounced back and forth as other men joined them for yet another
     round of names.  It felt good to see them, and to share a moment
     of their lives and laughter.
     
     But I remembered the two whose names were not on the Moving Wall
     - or on any other than that of my heart.  One, killed in 1959 in
     an unnamed country in southeast Asia - with no medals or
     recognition; the other, a 100% disabled Vietnam Veteran who
     killed himself in 1978.  He had medals and recognition until he
     took his own life.  It's so hard to keep back the tears for the
     two not on the wall.
     
     I watched and listened to the curious people as they passed the
     Moving Wall, and I heard them turn to each other with tears and
     sometimes shock as the realization of how many men, sons,
     fathers and daughters died in the Vietnam war.  Seeing all those
     names seemed to strike them as a bayonet in the middle of their
     quiet comfortable lives.  I heard many comment, "So many names,
     I didn't know .  .  .  " or, "It was such a long time ago.  I
     didn't remember that so many died .  .  ." A sad and mournful
     remark repeated over and over: "This is one hell of a statement!
     I don't think I can forget this."
     
     ...  I know I'll never forget.
     
     There were others struggling with emotions and I wanted to reach
     out to them and hug them and let them know they weren't alone.
     But sometimes it's just too painful to share or burden others
     with my loss and pain.  I back away when my throat begins to
     hurt as I try to stop the sobs and tears.  I want to run away
     from the Moving Wall, but it's the only place where I might find
     some peace, at least for this day.
     
     But then, as she gently touched a name on The Moving Wall, I
     heard a woman say, "I remember your laughter when you were such
     a little boy." - and an old man pointing to a name and saying,
     "There! You see that name? That's my son."
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     
     I watched a young woman lean against the Wall and whisper, "Oh,
     Dad! I miss you so much.  I wish the war in Vietnam had never
     happened.  I was so little.  I can barely remember you."
     
     A tall young man, finding the name he wanted, quipped, "Well,
     how about that! I had a real dad after all!" I watched his
     mother sigh as she wiped her tears and listened to her say, "I
     never lied to you, I don't know why you thought that way."
     
     A little girl and her mother left a tiny picture tucked at the
     base of the Moving Wall and I heard the words, "Hey there, big
     brother, look at us! We're all grown up now and here's a
     snapshot of us the way we look today."
     
     ...  I'm not alone.
     
     One man asked another, "Why wouldn't they let our boys win that
     war?" His friend answered, "Who knows? I lost my dad in Korea,
     and we didn't win that one either."
     
     ...  I remember Korea and men no longer living.
     
     A woman, young man by her side, ducks her head and takes a deep
     breath.  I can hear her sigh and feel the words not spoken as
     they look at the matching bracelets of their MIA/POW.  The young
     man hugs her and I hear him say, "Maybe at this reunion we'll
     find someone who knows about dad..."
     
     My tears overflow as I reach out to them.  They ask me if I have
     a MIA/POW.
     
     "No - only two whose names are *Missing* - from this Wall.
     
     The visitors talked with each other of memories of those years -
     the 50s, 60s and the 70s - all those years of pain, anger,
     remorse; hope followed by frustration, fear, and finally the
     loss.  They spoke about other feelings deep inside--the ones
     that dont have names--and just can't be described.
     
     ...  I'm not alone.
     
     They spoke of the anti-war movement, the demonstrations and the
     riots, of Jane Fonda and Hippies; Haight-Ashbury, drugs, flower
     power, Timothy Leary, the bombings, Joan Baez and folk music,
     the counter-culture and "old what's his name, Fonda's husband?"
     All this and more about Nixon and students staging sit-ins,
     draft card burning and of course, the SDS and Abbie Hoffman.
     
     ...  it seemed like traveling back in time, to when America lost
     her innocence.
     
     They spoke of Kent State and how sad it made them feel - then
     and now.  They remembered things about JFK, LBJ, Ho Chi Minh,
     Bobby and Martin; the trouble in the cities and the National
     Guard.  One woman told of her anger at a perfume company for
     naming a fragrance "Charlie."
     
     ...  do I dare remember how I felt then?
     
     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 24
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     
     I listened closely as they talked about Duty, Honor, Country.
     They talked about freedom and how we must defend that freedom
     for ourselves and our children; the importance of knowing and
     understanding the Constitution of the United States with all of
     its Amendments.  They reminded each other of the
     responsibilities that go with being a free citizen of this great
     land.
     
     ...  It was good to hear these topics again.
     
     A World War II veteran spoke of his anger and rage when he saw
     the American Flag burned and otherwise abused during the era of
     Vietnam.  How hard it was for him to forget and forgive those
     ill-advised youths.  He was still angry about the boys who ran
     to Canada, but he was proud of those who chose the Peace Corps.
     
     "Service to one's country is important," he said, "and no one
     should shirk that duty.  Freedom extracts a heavy price
     sometimes, but you need to hold your head up and walk like a
     first class citizen with honor, pride and respect for your
     country." He paused and looked at the Moving Wall and spoke once
     again.  "Freedom doesn't come cheap."
     
     ...  I remembered two not on this wall.
     
     A little boy with his father and great grandfather came to visit
     the Wall.  They spoke of the family tradition of serving their
     country whenever, wherever they were needed - the pride they had
     in a family name for the ancestors who had fought during the
     Crusades and in the French Revolution - and now the name of one
     generation whose name is on the Wall and how proud they were of
     him for serving the USA.  They remembered his younger days of
     the sports he played and his academic achievements in high
     school, college, and as a Marine.
     
     ...  I remembered two not on this wall.
     
     A stillness fell when the freckled faced great grandson asked,
     "If I go to war and get killed will my name be by grandpa's?"
     
     The father and great grandfather glanced at each other and
     quickly away.  They both began to speak, but the old man took
     his great grandson by the hand and said, "We hope you won't have
     to go to war, but if you're called to serve your country, we
     know you will.  But remember, just because you go to war, it
     doesn't mean you'll die."
     
     
     "But if I do, will my name be on that wall?"
     
     "No, son.  No, not on this Wall."
     
     ...  I sat by the Moving Wall, and wondered about the names of
     the dead men long forgotten and of the wars lost and won.  I
     thought about the lessons learned and put aside by those who
     would revise history, and I heard myself say, "There! There they
     are! All those names on the wall! Those are the names we cannot
     - we must not forget! Etched in stone, those names will be the
     
     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 25
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     visible proof for generations yet unborn of the cost of war in
     human terms.  We should have more Walls that Move us and remind
     us - of the lives lost - and of our tears and memories."
     
     The Great Grandfather looked at me and said with the voice of
     conviction and great wisdom, "There is a difference in wars
     fought for freedom and the wars fought for the sake of war."
     
     ...  I remembered two not on this wall.
     

















































     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 26
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

                                 "Ho Chang"
     
                              By:  Rod Germain
                                   1625 S. 4th Ave.
                                   Arcadia, Ca. 91006
     
       I  was looking through some of my stuff from Nam and came up
     with with the following story. After downloading your Jan. '88
     NAMVET from Compuserve, I thought I'd forward it on and see if
     you can use it.   I still have a few old "BOONDOCK BARDS" from
     the Stars & Stripes if you're interested.
     
     ================================================================
     
     Ho  Chang  rests  his  rifle  across a  branch  and  focuses his
     telescopic  site on the American Infantryman wading  through the
     rice  paddy, he waits...  Ho Chang is a fifteen year old freedom
     fighter, a lethal  marksman,  and  a sniper. Concealed high in a
     tree,  a tree  that not many years ago in climbed  in  play.  He
     reaches and methodically plucks a leaf from his line of fire. He
     feels the  familiar anticipation for the kill...KILLING  is  his
     single remaining pleasure.
     
     Ho Chang  is a fanatic.  He became one six months earlier  while
     watching his mother,  father,  and beloved sister run  screaming
     from the  engulfing curl of flame and smoke that once  had  been
     their home.  He watched his loved ones,  each a  gaping  mouthed
     wildly gesturing torch stumbling crazily through the village and
     finally  sprawling  laying  amidst  the  dust, eyeless, hairless
     black  charred  hunks  that twitched  and made sounds not human.
     Ho Chang crouched  beside  them weeping  and rocking  to and fro
     praying that  he might die but  only his  fire seared soul would
     die...   Their hut  had  been struck  by a low  flying  American
     fighter plane.
     
     The American Infantryman, Private Robert Evans,  is in his first
     day of combat. Always a peaceful boy raised in the quiet suburbs
     of Los Angeles.  Pvt. Evans, other than playful wrestling on the
     lawn with  neighbor boys,  had never been involved  in  physical
     conflict until today.  Today he has killed three people.  A  few
     hours  earlier  his squad had been fired on from a dense thicket
     by a number  of the enemy.  The  boy  beside him, his only close
     friend in the service, suddenly stopped and turned to  him  with
     a surprised  expression on his face  and a small red oozing from
     his forehead.  The boy was dead before his body hit the ground.
     
     The sergeant shouted a command and Evans, in a blurr of rage and
     revenge, followed his combat training. Running a zig zag pattern
     firing from the hip, he charged the thicket with  his  squad.  A
     flurry of shouts, of confussion and violent hand-to-hand  combat
     resulted  in Pvt. Evans shooting two uniformed boys and  pulling
     his bayonet from the breast of a third.  A slim uniformed enemy,
     a young girl.   Their  eyes  had  locked,  his young blue irised
     horror,  hers in brown  graceful tilted  long-lashed  acceptance
     that glazed to death while he watched and whimpered...
     
     Alone now, lost from his squad, wandering aimlessly, helmet gone
     but  still carrying  his heavy  rifle with  it's dipped  bayonet
     dried to a rust hue,  he slogs through the rice patty, its water
     
     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 27
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     almost up to his knees.   Dazed, oblivious, mumbling to himself,
     his  mind  has  returned  home to L.A.,  to the  high  school he
     graduated  from  last year,  to sixteen year old Donna who still
     attends the school. Donna who had promised to wait for him,  who
     writes  long  chatty  letters on  ruled note book paper, who has
     been with no other boy. Both slim, both with long blond straight
     hair, both tanned with faded blue jeans and sandals walking hand
     in  hand  looking  much  the  same.  He  remembers  school  days
     together,  surfing together,  getting high together,  their eyes
     staring at each other in an innocent, loving gentle passion.
     
     Others  at home wait, his brother who brags of a big brother,  a
     hero in  uniform.  His father,  a veteran of  WW II  and  Korea,
     remembers and worries to himself, never out loud. He is proud of
     his son  for  enlisting and volunteering  to  defend  the  cause
     of freedom, but  he has also been there and knows the price that
     has  to be paid.  He doesn't understand the new rules of engage-
     ment and the  whole thing somehow doesn't add up.  His mother, a
     strong  woman,  worries for his safe return and counts the days.
     Mom  isn't much  interested  in politics, she just wants her boy
     home  safe.  Sometimes she goes into his room and just sits...
     
     Pvt. Evans'  head  looms large framed in  Ho  Changs  telescopic
     sight. The American's hair is strange uneven brown, a few months
     earlier  it  had been pale blond, bleached by the California sun
     and peroxide fad adhered to by the surfing crowd. Ho Chang feels
     grim  satisfaction  at  imminent destruction of another American
     and carefully begins squeezing the ...  he pauses  ...  deciding
     against quick death, he lowers his site on the enemy figure. The
     rifle jumps  ...  kicks solidly against his shoulder  ...  and a
     violent crack of sound shattered the insect-buzzing,  hot, humid
     day.  The immediate silence that follows  hangs still and ominus
     on the warm heavy air.
     
     The  hate-altered  hollow  point  nose  bullet  leaves  a  small
     smoldering hole in Pvt. Evans shirt it enters his side below the
     ribs and above the hip bone.  Expanding rapidly it plows a  deep
     trough across the abdomen, leaving his body in a slightly  lower
     location on the left side. Pvt Evans throws his hands in the air
     and  staggered  awkwardly,  he doesn't  fall.  Stunnned  by  the
     bullets   slamming  impact  he  fails  to  understand  what  has
     happened, but immediately the numbness begins to change to pain,
     a trail of dull  pain across his belly.  He looks down in a con-
     fused  stupor  and opens his shirt.  His front is soaking red...
     blood..  He  stands there  swaying in  shock,  bewildered, sweat
     pours over his  face as he stares at the gaping wound across his
     stomach.  A wound from  which his  entrails now bulged,  a wound
     that  now  sluggidly  disgorges  loud  quivering  glands of blue
     ruptured  spurting  arteries,  of  red  severed  nerve,  jumping
     muscles, a hanging  mutilated  mass  of brown leaking  intestine
     that drops and splashes the muddy water of the rice paddy.
     
     Pvt. Evans  begins shaking his head in unbelieving  protest.  He
     mumbles "No..No.. OH GOD... NO.."  swaying, crying, still moving
     his head  in  denial, he clumsily grasps  the  mangled  mess  of
     entrails and begins  to  stuff them back into himself,  into the
     open pulsating wound of his belly.   A few seconds he plays  the
     hopeless  game.   His legs  begin  to shake violently,  to  jump
     uncontrollably, they buckle...
     
     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 28
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     
     Pvt. Evans slumps to his knees. He kneels there, the muddy water
     mixes into  the wound and his blood spreads out over  the  muddy
     scummy surface of the rice paddy.  He understands the  futility,
     and dimly understands his death as he watches his weakened hands
     fall away and falls face forward into the paddy.
     
     Upon  the sunlit surface of a far distant native rice paddy only
     a red smear remains, nineteen years of clean promise gone...
     

















































     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 29
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

                               Yahrzeit '88
                               Submitted Anonymously
     
             My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
               My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
             Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
               One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
     
                            - John Keats "Ode to a Nightingale"
     
     She put them up in a brass and stained oak frame.  Against the
     white satin background they didn't appear so ominous, and didn't
     supply a hint as to the way in which they are awarded.  A pretty
     color, like that on the robes of royalty; pure and deep with
     majestic allusion.  On a weekly basis, she polished the frame,
     keeping the brass as bright as a ray of morning sunlight.  The
     glass was so spotless that it was possible to see quite clearly
     ones own reflection.  She picked a conspicuous spot for them,
     and fastened them to the wall in the hallway.
     
     And so they hung there, waiting.  Waiting.
     
     But I didn't look at them.  I didn't want to see the morbid days
     and endless nights that caused their arrival.  I didn't want to
     face the face that won these prizes through violent means.  But
     she kept polishing the brass and glass, commenting "They are
     precious metals" to those who asked about them.  And they hung
     there on the wall, passed each time a step was taken in the
     hall.
     
     And so they hung there, waiting.  Waiting.
     
     Each week she would clean them, and the evening sun would cast a
     reflected light ray to the end of the hall.  Each week she would
     polish them with a tenderness as if they were children to be
     held.  She never said a word about them, but it was easy to tell
     she was extremely curious about their origins.
     
     And so they hung there, waiting.  Waiting.
     
     Any appeal to remove them was met with stern disapproval.  She
     wanted something to remind her of what had happened, even if she
     didn't know exactly what that was.  She never pried, but held me
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