From: bergman@AFPAN.PA.AF.MIL (CMSgt Mike Bergman)
Newsgroups: soc.veterans
Subject: Welcome Home, Brother
Date: 20 Aug 92 13:52:11 GMT
Organization: Hq Air Force News Agency/SCC


Welcome Home, Brother

By Evelyn D. Harris
American Forces Information Service

     Two years ago, Pentagon lawyer Lewis B. Puller Jr. stopped
having nightmares about the Vietnam War in which he lost both legs
and much of his left hand.  He sometimes goes three days without
thinking about the war.
     But he still puts on a bush hat, pins on his medals and visits
the Wall -- the Vietnam Memorial -- every Veterans and Memorial
Day.  And when he signs a copy of his Pulitzer-Prize-winning book,
"Fortunate Son," for a Vietnam vet, he pens, "Welcome home,
brother."
     Puller's father was Lt. Gen. Lewis B. "Chesty" Puller Sr., the
"Marine's Marine," hero of World War II and the Korean War and
history's most decorated Marine.  So it was natural for the younger
Puller to go to Vietnam in 1968 when many of his classmates from
the College of William and Mary were going for deferments.
     It was also natural for him to sign up for the most dangerous
job, leading Marine combat troops deep in-country.  During the hot
Vietnam days, he began writing long letters to his pregnant wife,
Linda "Toddy," and longer ones to his father, with whom he felt a
new bond.  When he could get alcohol, he also drank to numb the
pain of seeing his men killed and wounded.  But overall, he felt he
was doing a pretty good job as a leader of men.
     Then in Vietnam's ironically named "Riviera," he stepped on a
booby-trapped howitzer round.  "I felt as if I'd been airborne
forever," Puller wrote in his book.  "Color and sound became muted,
and although there was now a beehive of activity around me, all
movement seemed to me to be in slow motion.  I thought initially
that the loss of my glasses in the explosion accounted for my
blurred vision, and I had no idea that the pink mist that engulfed
me had been caused by the vaporization of most of my left and right
legs."
     Second Lt. Lewis B. Puller Jr. had also lost his right thumb
and little finger and most of his left hand.  "The word prehensile
no longer applied to me," he wrote.
     Puller recalls vivid details about his Vietnam experiences.
"I used the letters I had written and almanacs to get dates
correct," he said of his bookwriting technique.  "Also, when people
are shooting at you, it has a remarkable way of concentrating your
attention."
     Puller said the doctor who first treated him later wrote he'd
prayed for his patient's death -- believing death was better than
life with such extensive disabilities.  Puller said lack of
mobility was the only thing that kept him from hurling himself from
his 12th-floor hospital window.
     Fortunately, at the Naval Hospital in Philadelphia, his
roommate was Lt. Paul Berents, a double above-the-knee amputee.
Berents' can-do attitude showed him there was life after
disability.  At the hospital, he also admired Lt. Bob Kerrey, a
Navy SEAL, who received the Medal of Honor for bravery in the
battle that cost Kerrey his leg.
     Kerrey refused pain medication and raised hell in the
hospital, said Puller.  Kerrey's hero status allowed him to get
away with the hell-raising until the day he sent a flaming model
airplane into the hospital parking lot.  Puller is still friends
with Berents and Kerrey and may write Kerrey's biography.
     He was also fortunate to have a physical therapist who did him
the kindness of showing no pity.  Navy CDR Kay Shaughnessy repeated
the words "balance and strength" constantly and wasted no time
pushing him to learn to write again.  On his first day of therapy,
he used his second and third fingers to scrawl, "I love you Toddy."
     Shaughnessy also pushed Puller to learn to walk on his
artificial legs, a difficult feat for a man whose legs were cut off
just below the torso.  As a special treat for his father, he walked
on the legs at Christmas.  Puller said, "I knew and had known for
some time that I would never be able to fill his shoes, but it was
gratifying to be able to look him in the eye."
     Later, Puller decided that the pain of using the artificial
legs wasn't worth it and now stays in his wheelchair.
     Puller said he was retired on "200 percent disability," but
with encouragement from his wife, he went to law school.  There,
the loneliness of being one of the few Vietnam veterans was more
difficult to deal with than his disability.  He handled the latter
more easily than he thought -- when his law professor asked him to
stand, he said, "Nothing would give me more pleasure, but I'm in a
wheelchair."  But his loneliness and the lack of respect given to
Vietnam veterans made him very bitter.
     He graduated from law school and got a job at the Veterans
Administration.  He served on President Gerald Ford's board that
decided whether conscientious objectors and draft-dodgers would be
granted clemency.  In spite of being able to do good work on the
board, bringing the perspective of a wounded veteran, he was
becoming increasingly depressed about the way the war ended.  He
was national service director for the Paralyzed Veterans of
America, then ran for Congress.  He lost and was frustrated with
the way his opponent, who had not served in the military, "was more
successful in wrapping himself in the flag than I was."
     Puller got a job in the Office of General Counsel in the
Pentagon, but soon began brooding over the war constantly, staying
up late and drinking.
     On a trip to England, he sat in his wheelchair in front of a
store while his wife went to buy liquor for him.  "A woman dropped
money in my lap.  Soon others started dropping money, too," he
said.  "My daughter, Maggie, who was about 10, was horrified.  All
I could think was that at least I could come to England and be a
street person."
     That event was soon followed by the night he broke the
family's $400 television set with a fire poker after a documentary
on Vietnam upset him.  That was quickly followed by his attempt to
commit suicide by sitting drunk in his car in the garage and
turning on the engine.   "My wife shook me awake and took me to the
psychiatric wing at Bethesda (Md.) Naval Hospital," said Puller.
"While there, a doctor visited me, accompanied by an Army colonel
who was also a veteran.  The colonel told me of the horrible things
he'd done when he was drinking."
     Somehow, seeing the colonel made the light go on in Puller's
head.  For the first time, he was able to acknowledge that he was
an alcoholic.
     "Next, they sent me to a civilian alcohol treatment program,"
said Puller. "I mourned the loss of alcohol in my life like the
loss of a friend."  Then, he said, "Suddenly, not drinking became
the simplest thing in the world."
     Puller said he's been sober since Sept. 5, 1981, but still
attends support group meetings.  He said his boss at the Office of
General Counsel was really supportive about his problem.  At first,
he said his co-workers didn't know about it.
     "Now, of course, everyone knows because they've read the book
or read about the book," he said.
      "Although it's been nice to get the Pulitzer Prize ($3,000)
and the increased book sales, the thousands of letters I've
received have meant more to me.  Many are from Vietnam veterans who
said my book gave them the courage to open up about their thoughts.

     "Writing the book has exorcised my demons for me," he said.
"It's also helped me connect with others and others to connect with
me. I think that's why I stopped having nightmares about Vietnam
after the book was published."
     As someone who has suffered both, Puller said he feels now
that mental disabilities may be more painful than physical ones.
     Puller believes his physical condition kept friends and family
from confronting him about his alcoholism.
      "They probably looked at me and said to themselves, `I'd
drink too if I had his problems -- better him than me,' " he
smiled. "Ultimately, they weren't doing me any favors."
     "My advice to anyone with a disability is to network with
others with similar situations,"  said Puller.  "Also, it's
important to allow yourself to grieve.  Remember that things won't
stay the same.  They'll get better, or they'll get worse.
     "The fact that they could get worse may not be too comforting,
but you have to face that possibility," he said.
     His book and his activities on behalf of fellow veterans have
been a great boost to his spirits.  He was the keynote speaker at
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial last Memorial Day.
     "These things have helped me get outside of myself," he said.
"I'm moved by all the people reaching out to me.  I wish I could
put a face with every letter," he said.
     "I received a letter the other day from a guy who'd grown up
in South Boston -- as a youth his heroes were the Celtics, the
Marine Corps and so forth.  He's a vet, he was a rifleman in the
Marine Corps.  Came back and went to Harvard and has a high-paying
job.  He wrote that he had no one to relate to about Vietnam on the
job.  He wrote, `We vets are like lost boys looking for each other
-- I read your book and I wasn't lost anymore.'
     "Another vet -- now he's got his life together -- wrote that
he realized he needed help when he went down to the river of his
Midwest town and started plotting ambush sights," said Puller.
"The war never goes away completely, but I think in my case the
drinking made it worse."
      He's gotten letters from all kinds of people who've had
trouble in their lives, be it physical disabilities, alcoholism or
other problems.  "People even show up at my house," he said.  "It's
an intrusion, but kind of a pleasant intrusion -- I've only gotten
one nasty letter."
     But one of the most meaningful letters was one from a Marine:

     "I greatly admired your father.  You are every bit the man he
was -- never think otherwise.
     "Although I don't think I'm as good as my father, I do think
he'd be proud of me.  And seeing something like that in writing
meant a lot."

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