From: jewell@MACE.CC.PURDUE.EDU (Larry Jewell)
Newsgroups: soc.veterans
Subject: 'NamVet Newsletter Annual #2 3/7
Date: 26 Jul 92 01:28:26 GMT


     gently on the nights I would wake up soaked in sweat and tears.
     She never complained, and never wanted out; instead she would
     shed tears for my fears, and cry for my sorrows.  And every
     week, she would clean and polish them, until like a beacon they
     shone.
     
     And so they hung there, waiting.  Waiting.
     
     The sleepless nights faded into the past, the weeks melted into
     months, and the months passed into years.  And each week she
     would polish them, not voicing a bit of curiosity.  She
     understood the pain, because it was evident in her eyes each
     morning after a dream of return had come.  Her soft touch and
     wavering voice exposed the silent melancholy her heart felt and
     she tried so hard to hide.  And each week, she returned to them,
     polishing them brightly.
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     
     And so they hung there, waiting.  Waiting.
     
     The tenderness, style and beauty was taken from her in an
     instant she never realized.  I never had a chance to explain to
     her the prize was one of immense sorrow.  She would polish them
     as if they were the most important thing in our existence.  She
     held them as tenderly as she had held me on the occasions that
     it was needed.  She understood that the key to my welfare was
     locked in that frame of brass and oak, and the only way to
     release the demons was to face the face in the reflected glass.
     
     And so they hung there, waiting.  Waiting.
     
     Her funeral was a complete shock.  The realization of death I
     thought had died many years ago.  Death was something benign,
     something that didn't affect me anymore.  Yet here she was, the
     Joy, Beauty and Truth of my life, lying in grassy solitude.  She
     was no longer there to polish the brass and oak frame, so the
     dust and tarnish collected, dimming the Light they reflected in
     the past.
     
     And so they hung there, waiting.  Waiting.
     
     What the war couldn't accomplish, I thought pills could.  G-d
     it's such a hard life! The pills: they can fix everything.  If I
     take enough of them....  And like a memory hidden by time, the
     brass greened and the oak cracked.
     
     And so they hung there, waiting.  Waiting.
     
     Waking up in the hospital, I was told death had been a breath
     away.  My first reaction was anger for failing, then anger for
     trying, and finally settled into weeks of self imposed
     isolation, purging the pent up feelings in emotional
     self-abasement.  The questions came faster than I could possibly
     answer, and I closed myself off even further.  Ignoring all life
     around me.
     
     And so they hung there, waiting.  Waiting.
     
     I got home with the feeling she had deserted me; leaving me in
     not so silent agony.  The first thing I noticed was they were
     polished, bright as any day she had cleaned them.  I asked who
     polished them, and everyone said they didn't know.  I took them
     off the wall, excused myself and went into my private chambers.
     For the first time I was able to look at them since they were
     hung around my neck by the powers that warranted their action.
     For the first time I was able to look at the face that won them,
     and realize that it was a face of an ordinary man, and not a
     maniacal killer.  I held them and finally the tears came.  The
     tears that would begin to wash away the stench of guilt and
     sorrow of the years past.  The tears that would finally release
     me from the unbearable torments of my dreams.  As I moved to
     wipe the fallen tears from the polished glass, I looked and saw
     her face, as clearly as she was sitting there with me.  She was
     smiling a smile of extreme serenity, and lipped the words
     "Welcome home.  I love you." And just as suddenly, she was gone.
     I knew then who returned the lustre to them.
     
     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 31
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     
     And they no longer hung there, waiting.  Waiting.
     
     I took the medals and wrapped them in a bedsheet and boxed them
     up.  The box was taken to a family storage place, where they
     will be safe and cool.  The brass and oak frame that she
     polished so persistently will be safe from corrosion and decay
     until I decide to take them out again.  But for now, they have
     served their purpose.  The Marines gave them to me for my
     conduct.  My wife gave them to me for my sanity.
     
     And they no longer hang there, waiting.  Waiting.
     
     15 years ago I finished my SEA tour.  10 years ago my wife died,
     taking that beautiful smile and that full life with her.  With
     this, the tenth anniversary of her death, I would like to let
     the world know that she was with me when all others had given up
     hope, and loved me when I didn't seem to love her back.  So my
     continuing love for her I express poorly in these words:
     
     You were all of life to me.  Yet when I thought that you had
     abandoned me in death, you still managed to pull me through
     life.  You gave me back that burning desire for life I had lost.
     Even as you could support me in life, you saved me in death.  I
     cannot offer anything other than the troth I pledged before, to
     reaffirm before G-d and man to love you for all eternity.
     
                              # # #
     
                         Semper fidelis
     




























     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 32
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

                         Why Do We Feel So Guilty?
     
                              By: Joan Renne
                                  Friend's BBS  Omaha, Ne.
                                  (402) 896-2669
     
     I'd like to add an observation about some of my callers that do
     read and comment to the International Vietnam Veterans Echo;
     some who avoid it like the plague and others that tell me in
     feedback how much they appreciate the Echo, and still others
     that tell me it is a damn shame to carry the Echo and that they
     won't be calling back.  That last group I didn't need to begin
     with in the first place.
     
     Frequently I get feedback saying the user doesn't feel they are
     qualified to enter messages because, although they were in the
     military during the years of the Vietnam war, they are not "Real
     Vietnam Vets." It's a bit strange to me, but I think I am
     beginning to understand that there is still a whole lot of
     "Guilt" running around out there in LaLa land.  It's possible
     "they" have a whole lot of feelings they are afraid to voice for
     fear of being ridiculed.
     
     I also notice a tendency by some of the folks that enter
     messages in the echo to 'put down' those questions asked by this
     generation (18 and up).  One incident in particular, a frequent
     user on Friends BBS in Omaha who is a college student genuinely
     interested in political belief systems made the mistake of
     calling Vietnam Vets "You people."  She was thoroughly
     trounced on in following messages.  I'm not saying it was wrong
     to correct her wording, but the comments aimed at her were
     certainly not the kind that would elicit further questions from
     her or others in her age group .  .  .  the next generation who
     will probably be involved in a war of some kind.
     
     Perhaps we, collectively, have great doubts or fear that we
     somehow have not yet made OUR OWN peace with ourselves and our
     treatment of the Vietnam Veterans.
     
     An example of that took place last Thursday evening on a Hotline
     call.  The man who called was suicidal but reached out one last
     time to someone he thought might be interested enough to
     understand and maybe help him through this crisis.  Reaching out
     for help is not easy for anyone, but he felt that if anyone
     could or would understand it might be AA.  He knew there might
     be someone to help him through a horrible time.  He was feeling
     very much alone and could not get through to the reasons why by
     himself.
     
     I'm not a counselor by any means, but I did pick up on a comment
     he made about January being an extremely rough time for him.  I
     asked him why January, and his reply was that he had lost both
     his parents in January a long time ago, and had lost a lot of
     friends shortly after that.  My thoughts (because of the IVVEC
     Echo) were, "I wonder if he is a NamVet?" So, I asked him.  His
     immediate reply, with no hesitation what-so-ever, was
     NO!, and he wanted to know why I asked.  I told him about
     the Vietnam Veterans Echo that I carry on the BBS, and that I
     knew January was the anniversary of the Tet offensive and that a
     
     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 33
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     lot of guys didn't make it back.
     
     We talked for quite awhile and he finally said, "Yes, I am a
     Vietnam Veteran, and I was in country when the word came about
     my folks.  I made it home, but a few days later my platoon was
     wiped out to the man.  I was the only one left.  Losing my
     parents was bad, but losing all my buddies was too much."  He
     went on to say that he was discharged on a Hardship basis since
     he was the only adult member of his family to take care of 3
     brothers and one sister.  During the next few years he got lots
     of abuse about having been a Vietnam Vet and had finally just
     started saying no when questioned.
     
     The time came when the kids were grown and married he turned to
     alcohol and drugs to sort of "not feel," (Something I am all to
     familiar with) and though sober and clean for about 3 years, he
     had reached the point where the pain was just about too much.  I
     finally got his phone number and called a friend that has come
     through something very similar but who finally landed on his
     feet, and had him call the man.  The report I heard this morning
     from my friend is positive.  The suicidal caller is in the VA
     Hospital and is going to be receiving help (I hope) to overcome
     what I would tend to say is PTSD, but there again, I'm not a
     counselor.
     
     Granted, the man spent some time in Nam, and apparently was in a
     combat zone.  However, I think his feelings are similar to those
     who served during the Vietnam Era but who did not go to NAM.
     Even those who did go to Nam but did not see combat have a lot
     of feelings that I feel are not being expressed.  We also have a
     generation of people who violently opposed the war, and who
     avoided the draft with one excuse or another and now feel guilty
     for their treatment of the ones who did serve.
     
     Guilt is an ugly thing to live with on a daily basis.  But is it
     our right or our place to place guilt on others? I think not.
     The blame has been laid in many of the wrong places and maybe we
     need to take a look at that.  Political animals sent you to
     Vietnam with good intentions.  Political people tried to stop
     the killing in any fashion that would bring the nation to an
     awareness of the wrong being done.  Political creeps spat upon
     those who served in the military and called them "baby killers".
     
     Vietnam Veterans have received the worst kind of media coverage
     possible, beginning before the My Lai atrocity and which still
     continues whenever a vet goes berserk and goes on a killing
     rampage.  It's almost automatic to hear, "the gunman was/is a
     Vietnam Veteran."  And last of all, it's the Vietnam Veteran
     who still suffers, even though the nation has finally
     recognized them and welcomed them home.
     
     There is a great big "BUT..." in there and I know you heard it.
     
     May I say that they/we are trying?  Answer our questions
     without recrimination; that will help all of us.  Go ahead,
     spill your guts and let us learn what it's like now and what it
     was like then.  Teach us, but don't blame us.  Help us heal as
     you are healing yourselves.  Help us shed our own guilty
     feelings for the years we avoided you and misunderstood you.
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     Help us to the realization of what we can do to help you and in
     so doing help ourselves.
     
     I'm not sure I have made my point, but I've tried.
                                   - - -
     Joan Renne is a Korean war veteran and the Sysop of Friends
     BBS System in Omaha, Nebraska.
     



















































     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 35
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

                       The Other Forgotten Warriors
     
                          by: Aphrodite Matsakia
                                  - in -
                              April 1989 edition of
                              VFW Magazine
     ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
        Dr. Matsakis is the author of "Vietnam Wives" and is a VA
        psychologist who has counseled Vietnam veterans since 1975.
     
                         Input by:  G. Joseph Peck
                                    NAM VETs Managing Editor
                                    VETLink #1 Pittsfield, MA
                                    (413) 443-6313
     
       "I  hate Vietnam!"  Jessica sobs.   "Ed went over there a warm,
     outgoing person.  He came back angry,  withdrawn,  taking out all
     his  anger on me and the kids.   Why he has to turn on us  -  the
     ones  he loves the most -  I just don't understand.   The  verbal
     abuse - the yelling, the being called every name in the book - it
     hurts deep, very deep, even more than the physical abuse.
     
       "He's  angry at me,  his own wife,  almost all the time.   It's
     like I'm another person to him, a stranger,  not the wife who has
     stood  by him for fifteen years.   Maybe I remind him of 'Nam  or
     something."
     
       Jessica  is the petite attractive wife of Ed,  a Vietnam combat
     veteran  she met just before he went overseas,  and she has  been
     his  faithful partner ever since.   For over a year now,  Jessica
     has  been attending a women's group at a local Vietnam  Veteran's
     Outreach Center.  In this group, Jessica,  like the other Vietnam
     wives, shares her pain, her fears and her profound loneliness.
     
       Although  still  living  with  Ed,   Jessica  feels  alone  and
     abandoned.  Her husband, it seems is involved with another woman.
     The  other  wives have the same complaint -  their  husbands  are
     involved with another woman too - the SAME other woman.
     
       Her name is Vietnam.   She is ugly and battle-scarred,  but her
     power over the husbands is great.  Somehow this "other woman" can
     hold and entice the men more than their own wives.
     
       More  than 58,000 Americans died in Vietnam,  but many more are
     dying  emotional  and  spiritual  deaths here  at  home  as  they
     struggle  daily  with PTSD,  or Post-Traumatic  Stress  Disorder.
     That  is  the  current psychiatric label given to a  malady  more
     commonly known as shell shock,  combat fatigue,  or war neurosis,
     which  caused the evacuation of some 10%  of enlisted men  during
     WWI and, at various points, of many more during WWII.
     
       PTSD is not a sign of insanity or a personality deficiency, but
     a normal reaction to an abnormal amount of stress.  Imagine being
     in a car accident, 20 times a month, 12 months in a row, or being
     raped,  twice  a week,  for an entire year.   How might you feel?
     Even if these terrible things were not happening to you directly,
     what if they were occurring to people all around you and you were
     powerless to stop it?   What if you know that at any moment,  you
     might be the next victim?
     
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       That's  what  it was like in Vietnam,  during a war  where  bar
     girls had hand grenades and even babies were booby trapped, where
     almost anyone, man, woman,  or child,  could be a possible enemy.
     Under such conditions, the soldier tended to stifle his emotions.
     He had to, for if he had connected with his grief,  anger,  fear,
     and sense of powerlessness during combat, he would have been less
     able  to  figure out what to do next in order to save himself  or
     others.
     
       In  the face of a traumatic event,  this emotional  repression,
     called  psychic or emotional numbing,  is an entirely appropriate
     response.  Problems arise,  however,  when the numbing is carried
     over into present-day situations where there is no danger,  as is
     the case with PTSD-afflicted veterans.
     
       Psychic  numbing is a central feature of PTSD.   Other symptoms
     include  nightmares,   insomnia  and  other  sleep  disturbances;
     survivor  guilt,  social withdrawal and  alienation;  flashbacks,
     hyperalertness  (the  startle response),  depression  and  anger.
     Some,  but  definitely not all,  veterans may use alcohol  and/or
     drugs to fight the memories and the seemingly unbearable feelings
     associated with those memories, powerful feelings such as sorrow,
     rage, fear and moral confusion.  Healing for the veteran involves
     learning how to confront his war experiences directly, by talking
     about  them  and sharing them with other  veterans,  rather  than
     indirectly,  via symptoms,  substance abuse,  workaholism,  self-
     isolation and other self-destructive behavior.
     
       The  root  of PTSD is fear of death or dismemberment or  losing
     others.   It  can  be suffered by anyone who has  experienced  an
     event  or  series of events of such magnitude of pain and  horror
     that   they  would  overwhelm  almost  anyone's  natural   coping
     mechanisms.   Hence  PTSD  has been found among survivors of  the
     Nazi  concentration  camps and the bombing  of  Hiroshima,  among
     prisoners  of  war and refugee children and survivors of  natural
     catastrophes, such as earthquakes, floods and fires.   Victims of
     rape,  incest,  wife  abuse and other assaults also have suffered
     from PTSD,  as have persons who,  although they do not experience
     trauma  directly,  witness trauma on a daily basis or are subject
     to  unremitting  stress as a part of their job.   Among them  are
     police  officers,  firefighters,  rescue workers and  health-care
     workers.
     
       While  experts  disagree on the extent of PTSD,  most  put  the
     figure at from 500,000 to 1 million.  Since PTSD is by definition
     a delayed response to the war,  the number of veterans eventually
     in need of help may reach as many as 1.5 million or more.   Based
     on  this figure,  an estimated 900,000 Vietnam wives and partners
     and approximately 1.098 million children also may be affected.
     
       Until  recently,  the  Vietnam  veteran  was  aptly  named  the
     "forgotten  warrior."   His experiences in Vietnam and subsequent
     readjustment  problems  upon return were too often readily  swept
     aside  by a society that for the most part wanted to forget about
     Vietnam.   Only  during the past two or three years have  Vietnam
     veterans  finally  been given some public recognition  for  their
     many contributions.   Nevertheless,  the psychological effects of
     Vietnam  experience are still poorly understood,  not only by the
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     general  public,  but by many veterans and their families.   Even
     less understood are the effects of PTSD on family life.  To date,
     fewer  than  two dozen articles have been published on the  wives
     and  children  of Vietnam vets,  the other "forgotten  warriors."
     "Vietnam  Wives"  is the first book which focuses directly on the
     impact of PTSD on the wives and children of Vietnam veterans.
     
       In  many ways,  the Vietnam veteran has borne the burden of our
     national  shame,  guilt and confusion regarding the Vietnam  War.
     His  wife,  however,  has borne society's burden for the veteran.
     More  often than not,  it is the Vietnam wife and nobody else who
     has  nursed  her husband through his flashbacks  and  nightmares,
     through  his  depressions and suicidal episodes and  through  his
     mourning,  as well as his rage reactions.   Usually it is she and
     she  alone who has maintained her husband's will to live and  has
     served  as a buffer between him and the world.   Even when abused
     by her husband,  the Vietnam wife has often remained by his side,
     not  only  from fear,  but from compassion,  realizing  that  her
     husband's  rejection of her or his explosions were not due solely
     to  his  individual temperament but were due to the  frustrations
     and stigmas imposed upon him by others and by a variety of social
     institutions.   Intuitively,  the  Vietnam wife often sensed that
     underneath  her  husband's abrasiveness or coolness lay  enormous
     amounts of self-hate and confusion.
     
       The  Vietnam wife has sacrificed much.   Yet,  despite her many
     sacrifices, she has been treated like a footnote.  Outside of Vet
     Center  women's support groups,  she has received practically  no
     acknowledgement  of her pain,  anger or anguish.   In many cases,
     she  has  been as misunderstood and as unsupported by her  family
     and community as her PTSD afflicted husband.   To the extent that
     the  vet has been perceived as crazy,  the Vietnam wife also  has
     been  perceived as crazy -  for staying with him,  for loving him
     and for helping him through his "PTSD attacks."
     
       Like their husbands,  Vietnam wives have their war stories too.
     Most  of  the women feel emotionally neglected,  if not  outright
     abused.   Their  chief complaint is that their husbands often use
     them as scapegoats for problems having to do with Vietnam or with
     life in general.   Many of the women have been hit at least once.
     However,  in  my  experience  only about a fourth fall  into  the
     battered  woman category,  where the abuse is repeated and severe
     and  where the man exercises an emotional and financial,  as well
     as physical, stranglehold over his wife.  (This rate, however, is
     based on a limited sample and is not significantly different from
     rates of wife abuse found among other groups in our society.)
     
       Where  there  is no overt emotional or  physical  abuse,  often
     another form of emotional abuse, a stony silence, prevails.  Many
     wives feel as if they are living with strangers, not husbands.
     
       Some  of  the women are in touch with their anger;  others  are
     not.   Most  have ambivalent feelings about their anger.   On the
     one  hand,  they  feel  it  is a  legitimate  response  to  being
     mistreated, unloved and overburdened.   The majority of the wives
     are  the  economic,  as well as the emotional,  mainstays of  the
     family, holding down two jobs -  one at home,  one at work.)   On
     the  other  hand,  the  women feel  that,  since  their  husbands
     suffered  through  various hardships in Vietnam,  they should  be
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     more understanding and patient.
     
       Jane,  for  example,  works  two  jobs while caring  for  three
     children.  She drives her sons to ball practice,  her daughter to
     ballet.  Her husband,  Dan,  is often so depressed he can do very
     little around the home.   Since the war,  Dan has been in and out
     of  treatment  for PTSD and is able to contribute little  to  the
     family  income other than his disability check.   In deference to
     Dan's  ego,  Jane keeps her complaints to herself or shares  them
     only  with  the  group.    Like  many  Vietnam  wives,   Jane  is
     exceptionally dedicated and loyal to her husband,  very sensitive
     to  the  fact  that her husband lost his hearing in  one  ear  in
     Vietnam.
     
       "Half  his unit was wiped out too.   After all he went through,
     maybe  I  have no right to moan.   But it's been 13 years  of  me
     being  Supermom.   I'm  worn out and I keep wondering when is  he
     going  to get over this thing?   I try to be patient,  but when I
     come  home and the dishes aren't even done,  I blow up.   Then he
     says I'm aggravating his PTSD."
     
       In  group,  Vietnam  wives learn it is perfectly  possible  and
     normal  to  be both understanding and angry at their husbands  at
     the same time.  Nevertheless, most of the women hide their anger.
     Some fear their husband's rage.   Others do not want to interfere
     with  their husband's healing process.   Still others keep  quiet
     because  their husbands are suffering from,  or slowly dying  of,
     exposure  to  Agent Orange or because their husbands have  talked
     about  suicide.   This  is  a real possibility for  some  Vietnam
     veterans.   Although  there  are no definitive  statistics,  some
     sources  allege that as many veterans have died by their own hand
     as  were  killed in Vietnam.   Equally distressing are  the  high
     number of deaths and injuries due to one-car collisions and other
     "accidents"  among  Vietnam  veterans  that are often  viewed  as
     suicidal in nature.
     
       When  the  veteran  suffers  from PTSD,  his  children  may  be
     affected also.  Low self-esteem and self-blame for their father's
     unhappiness  are the two most common problems seen so far.   Some
     children show symptoms similar to the fathers', e.g. nightmares.
     
       Vietnam wives often feel as if they are single parents with the
     burden  of  the children's emotional and physical  well-being  on
     their  shoulders.   Often,  they  try  to  compensate  for  their
     husband's difficulties by being Supermothers.
     
       According  to some Vet Center counselors,  the future may  well
     see  self-help  groups  for adult children  of  Vietnam  veterans
     similar to contemporary groups for adult children of alcoholics.
     
       Help is available at VA medical centers.   Twenty-eight of them
     have  inpatient PTSD units and at 189 Vietnam Veterans'  Outreach
     Centers.
     





     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 39
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

                          AND I WAITED .  .  .
                          Submitted Anonymously
     
     I married you because  I  loved  you,  and  because  you  were
     handsome,  and  even though there was a difference of 15 years
     in our ages, I trusted you.  We waited  for  your  orders  not
     knowing  where we were going or if I could go.  You told me it
     wasn't easy being married to a 'lifer', and  I  believed  you,
     for you always told me the truth.
     
     And I waited .  .  .
     
     Hurray!   WE  are going to Japan!  And I worried what it would
     be like living in a foreign country.  You told me not to worry
     and I believed you for you always told me the truth.
     
     And I waited .  .  .
     
     You were right, I loved Japan, and I learned to speak Japanese
     as would a child.  Your hours were  long,  and  it  seemed  we
     seldom saw each other, but you told me it would soon be better
     and I believed you, for you always told me the truth.
     
     And I waited .  .  .
     
     I  worried  about  the  missiles  Cuba, and you told me not to
     worry, and I believed you, for you always told me  the  truth.
     But,  one  November  day came the news of the assassination of
     our president, and I didn't see or hear from  you  for  eleven
     days.
     And I waited .  .  .
     
     Johnson was the president now, and things were looking grim in
     Southeast  Asia,  but you told me not to worry, and I believed
     you.  I began to wait, and wait, because you were TDY so often
     and couldn't tell me where you had been, but you told  me  you
     were  safe  and  I  believed  you,  for you always told me the
     truth.
     
     And I waited .  .  .
     
     For our orders back to the States, and to  a  nice  house  and
     maybe  a  family,  but you told me we had orders for Thailand.
     You said I would like it and I believed you,  for  you  always
     told me the truth.
     
     I  saw you even less in Thailand for you were always going TDY
     to places you said you couldn't talk about, but that you  were
     safe and I shouldn't worry, and I believed you, for you always
     told  me  the truth.  New orders for you came suddenly, and we
     talked a lot those last few days, and we decided it  would  be
     okay  for me to stay in Japan with friends as you didn't think
     your assignment would take very long.  You  said  I  would  be
     okay  and  not to worry about you, and I believed you, for you
     always told me the truth.
     
     And I waited .  .  .
     
     .  .  .  for 364 days and you were back in Japan.   You  spoke
     
     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 40
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     few  words  about  South Vietnam but told me you were shipping
     over for six more years, but I musn't be upset, we had  plenty
     of time for a family.  I believed you .  .  .
     
     And I waited .  .  .
     
     And  another  tour  in the Far East.  The next three years you
     were TDY more than with me in Japan.  It  seemed  what  I  did
     best those years was waving goodbye at an aircraft leaving the
     end  of  the  runway.   You told me being married to a 'lifer'
     wasn't easy, but I already believed that.
     
     And I waited .  .  .
     
     You told me you had orders for a tour in Vietnam, but  not  to
     worry,  you  knew the language and the people and you knew you
     would be okay.  And I believed you .  .  .
     
     And I waited .  .  .
     
     When you came back to Japan you were different, but I couldn't
     say just what it was.  You talked less and you were jumpy  and
     the  small  sounds  of  traffic  or a knock on the door nearly
     drove you crazy.  You were icy cold at times, and there seemed
     no way I could reach you.  I heard you cry out in a dream  one
     night,  and when I touched you, it was like an explosion.  You
     hit me and you kicked me  and  you  were  so  sorry  when  you
     realized it was only me.
     
     The  orders  came for Thailand again, but this time I couldn't
     go.  You said it would be good duty, and not to  worry  and  I
     believed you..
     
     And I waited .  .  .
     
     Then you said you had another tour 'down south' and I worried.
     You  came  back  again  seven months later, with scars on your
     back and shrapnel in your legs and a two new ribbons  on  your
     chest, a Purple Heart and a Silver Star.
     
     You  had  the 'jitterin screamin meanies,' and jumped at every
     sound.  The dreams had been bad before, but now they were even
     worse.  I knew by now not to touch you in your sleep, and only
     to call your name.  You had an  ugly  rash  that  wouldn't  go
     away,  and  your  nightmares  were  scaring  me to death.  You
     stared at every person you saw and you watched every  move  of
     the  trees  in  the wind.  You drank too much, but you said it
     would be okay soon and you were ready  to  retire.   That  was
     fine with me, I still wanted that family.
     
     We came back to 'the world' and you retired with 26.  You were
     so spooky at times and the dreams were so bad I didn't think I
     could stand it anymore.  I couldn't imagine how you dealt with
     the  trauma  of the dreams you had night after night.  But you
     kept telling me you'd be okay, and I  had  no  reason  not  to
     believe you.
     
     We  had  a  child  so  sweet  and dear, but she died of cancer
     within the year.  We cried and mourned together  for  a  short
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     while,  and  then  you  told me it was your fault and that you
     should never have fathered a child.  I didn't believe you then
     and I won't believe that now.
     
     And I waited .  .  .
     
     The VA couldn't help the rash, and they kept cutting  out  the
     lumps  that  grew on your face and neck and arms.  Your nerves
     were shot and you wouldn't talk to anyone about what was going
     on inside you, not even to me.  You  began  to  have  terrible
     headaches  and  you said your vision changed at night.  The VA
     didn't believe you but I saw you, and I believed.  You got  so
     angry  at  VA  doctors  when  they told you the headaches were
     psychosomatic, and you  flew  into  rages  at  everything  and
     everybody,  and  even  at  God.   I  tired to get you to see a
     civilian doctor, but you said the country owed  you,  and  you
     would get what you needed from them.  You wouldn't talk to me,
     and you said I wouldn't understand, and I believed you.
     
     And I waited .  .  .
     
     I  tried so hard to help and there wasn't anything I could do.
     The people we met didn't want to hear about Vietnam,  and  you
     told  me not to tell anyone them you had been there.  You said
     they were naive and cruel and they had killed your men one  by
     one,  not  with bullets or bombs but with traitorous words and
     deeds.  You told me you had been fighting for a country  whose
     people  did  not  care,  and  that  U.S.  policy was geared to
     public opinion by a President who would not let you win.
     
     The riots were going strong and Watergate was  all  the  talk.
     Nixon  pulled  the  troops out of Vietnam with 'honor' and you
     cried.  The P.O.W.s came home and you  cried,  you  said  that
     wasn't  all  of them, and I believed you.  You told me so many
     of their names and I wondered how you knew.
     
     You said we needed something to care  for  and  we  bought  an
     Irish  Setter  pup  and you taught it to quarter a field.  You
     have him a funny Vietnamese call name and he  grew  and  grew.
     You  worked  with  him so hard and you loved us both.  He grew
     and grew and became a Champion Working Dog.
     
     You told me you were going hunting and not to worry that you'd
     be back the next night.  And I believed you.
     
     Now I sit and wait, and wait, and wait for the  sound  of  the
     gate and your footsteps, and stories of the great hunt.
     
     I've  been  to  the  Wall  and  I've seen all the names, and I
     wonder why yours isn't there.  But it's all right, you  didn't
     die  in  Vietnam,  you  died  as a result of the combat within
     yourself.  I often wonder how many other women  sit  and  wait
     for  the  sound  of  a footstep, or who awake in the night and
     find our beds so empty.  I wonder how many children wonder why
     their fathers could no longer bear to be with them.  I  wonder
     why you never told us you hurt so much.
     
     Three wars couldn't kill you, but you did.
     
     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 42
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

                              Two Walls
     
                           by G. Joseph Peck
                              NAM VETs Managing Editor
                              VETLink #1  Pittsfield, MA
                              (413) 443-6313
     
        I  heard them talk about putting their duffle bags in a  little
     building  by the 'Nam airbase.   "Yeah,"  said one  Marine,  "Ours
     stayed  in there for 13 months!   For you Army and other guys,  it
     was only 12 months before you were picking them up and riding your
     Freedom Bird home!"  Esprit de Corps...  loyalty to YOUR branch of
     service...  still  strong  15 -  20 years after  civilian  clothes
     became,  again,  the  uniform of the day.   Outside,  puffy  white
     clouds  drifted  across  a full moon as the bus  carrying  me  and
     members of Pittsfield, MA's Vietnam Veterans of America Chapter 65
     rolled towards Washington, D.C. and, for me,  another face-to-Wall
     confrontation with "the guilty's".
     
        "You didn't serve in 'Nam; you don't know what it feels like to
     know  there's incoming,  or someone shooting at you from the bush,
     or  hoping you'll get caught in one of their  booby-traps!  You've
     got NO business in the 'Nam church with these guys; Nothing you've
     experienced  will  EVER  compare with what they've  gone  through.
     What are you tagging along for?"
     
     Coins clink; an overhead light is turned off; the bathroom door on
     the  bus is opened and closed again.   I thought about the time  I
     went in `82 when we dedicated the Memorial.   Same feelings.   And
     same  ones  again when my wife and I went for the  Three  Soldiers
     addition in '84.  Now its 1989.   If "the guilty's"  have changed,
     they've  changed  for  the worse.   I remember my  kids  at  home,
     staying  up until the very last moment so they could say good-bye,
     savoring every second before I left on this trip.  So much like so
     many years ago...
     
        There   it   is.    Black  granite  rising  out  of  the   dew-
     covered,early-morning earth.  Names...  names...  and I didn't get
     to go. I wanted to - but a jeep accident ended MY military career.
     Names...  Names...   Did I know any of 'em?   Do I know who any of
     them were?  What honor can I do their loss?
     
        Suddenly,  time  stops  -  reverses itself.   It's 1963  again.
     There's my buddy Paul!
     
        "Joe,  you'll want to make the service your career.   Look what
     its done for me!  C'mon... remember JFK's words `Ask Not What Your
     Country  Can Do For You -  Ask What YOU Can Do For Your  Country!'
     Follow me, buddy - I'm leading the way!"
     
        Tears; can't catch my breath; can't talk - only sob.  There's
     Paul's name.  William P. Townsend, Jr.  Like brothers, we'd camped
     and  hiked  and grew up together ...   and I tried to follow  him.
     Now  I  can't  go past that part of The Wall without  a  flood  of
     emotions - and even MORE of "the guilty's".
     
        The power of The Wall is in its somber silence...
     
        On  to  Arlington  and rows upon rows  of  crisp-white  crosses
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     rising  uniform  to  greet the afternoon  sun.   The  same  silent
     power  I   felt at The Wall is present at the gravesite of John F.
     Kennedy.   Silence...   memories...   To the Iwo Jima statue where
     one  of  the dyed-in-the-wool Army-types,  at  least  temporarily,
     joined  the Marines.   Quick ride through the city and we were  on
     our way back.   Pittsfield,  MA at 1215 on Sunday morning found me
     still silent, still muffled, still tormented by "the guilty's."
     
        Monday morning.  Early.   The rain clouds blew away just before
     dawn.   When  the  sun rose,  its light made everything seem  new.
     Opened car windows let in the fragrance of freshly cut grass and a
     forest-like  odor curiously reminiscent of a time long ago and far
     away quickly filled my nostrils.  Something stirred, began to gnaw
     at me.  A restless, searching, familiar sensation awoke.  I turned
     the car towards my old home town.
     
        The  still-wet  roads looked newly paved and residents  of  the
     sleepy  little  village  were  just brewing their  coffee  when  I
     arrived  and  parked next to the unopened Post  Office.   Restless
     still, I began to walk - to retrace footsteps of many years ago.
     
        Familiar sights... the old hardware store next door to where we
     first  lived when we moved into town;  the new general store  that
     replaced  the one that burned a couple of years ago;  memories  of
     happy  peals of laughter from my now-20-year-old Active Duty  Army
     son  as  he frolicked and played with the little blonde girl  from
     next  door.   A  mile  down the road and I was  at  the  now-empty
     converted  farmhouse  where  we'd  last  lived.   The  three-story
     treehouse  the little blonde girl with sparkling blue eyes and  my
     son built had stood the test of time.
     
        "Just  a visit,  I suppose,"  I mumbled to myself,  "Guess  I'd
     better get back home."
     
        Still  restless and feeling like my search hadn't yet ended,  I
     took the backroad way home. Past the horse farm.  Past the widow's
     house.  Past the Retired Colonel's ranch.   Up to the egg farm and
     turned  again  towards  the  main road.   The old  church  at  the
     junction had been new-painted white.
     
        Stopping  in  the  driveway,  I  remembered the  owner  of  the
     hardware  store.   He was my friend -  one of those special people
     with  a unique ability to make ANYTHING work with just baling wire
     and masking tape.  He'd died fighting an out-of-control grass fire
     near his home.  He was buried in the cemetery behind the church.
     
        "Gotta pay my respects to my local friends, too" I told myself,
     and drove up the dirt road that led to the cemetery.
     
        The  sweet  smell of flowers and damp forest growth filled  the
     air.   The morning sun was bright and the air was yet crisp.   The
     view from the hill was breathtaking.  I walked towards my friend's
     grave...  and  stopped in shock and disbelief when I read the name
     on  the headstone next to his.   My friend's granddaughter  -  the
     sparkling  blue-eyed, blonde-haired girl that used to play with my
     children and frolic and build treehouses and squeal with laughter!
     Didn't even reach her 17th birthday!
     
        I could feel "the guilty's" starting to come again.  Visions of
     
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     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989

     The  Wall,  of  Paul,  of the little blonde  girl's  flower-carved
     tombstone all begin to blur...  and suddenly they all blended into
     one harmonious, peaceful realization.
     
        Through  the  sadness  and tears,  I thought about  the  little
     blonde girl and her life.
     
        Not  ONCE did she know the fear of having her village attacked;
     not ONCE did she have to fear that her freedom would be taken from
     her,  or  that  she couldn't chose to do what she wished with  her
     life.  NOT ONCE!!!
     
        And 'WHY NOT?'
     
        It was BECAUSE of the prices paid by the 2.3-million like those
     on the bus and here in the IVVEC who'd served in 'Nam;  BECAUSE of
     prices  paid  by  the 8.7-million like myself who had  service  in
     other places;  and BECAUSE of prices being paid even now by people
     like my son, that the freedom we all hold so dear has continued to
     exist!
     
        I remember the speech (Don't think I'll EVER forget it).   Many
     of you do, too.   "...ask what YOU can do for your country."   For
     the little blonde girl, and many like her - we DID for our country
     -and its future!  We ALL have a right to be proud!
     
        Two  Walls...  one with names and memories and pain;  the other
     with a flower and memories and pain.
     
        "The  Guilty's?"   All I have to do is remind them of the other
     Wall  and the little blonde girl,  spend some time with my own and
     other children, think of THEIR future - and "the guilty's"  vanish
     in  the knowledge that I,  too,  am a part of what has helped keep
     America great!
     
        And  though I really don't know what it's like to hear incoming
     or  know  that someone is wishing to see ME dead,  I DO know  what
     it's  like  to  stand at the ready and be prepared to serve  at  a
     moments  notice;  I DO know what its like to vigorously train  and
     train and train some more to be one of America's finest!  And I DO
     know what it's like to be part of the greatest team on earth!
     
        Two Walls... one shows the PRICE; the other, the PRIZE!
     
     Anniversary Issue Note:    I  visited  the  parents  of the little
     blonde girl shortly after I wrote this.    Unfortunately for them,
     my visit  was during  the week of the  girl's birthday.    I later
     forwarded a  copy of this editorial to them and let them know that
     the  little girl was sorely missed.    I just received a very nice
     letter  from the parents  thanking all of US for  remembering her!
     Included with the letter was a  picture of the  little blonde girl
     on her 16th birthday!   I know  I'll treasure that for a long time
     to come!
     





     NAM VET Second Anniversary Edition                        Page 45
     Volume  2, Number  1                            November 11, 1989



     =================================================================
                           O u r   F l a g ! ! !
     =================================================================

                            STARS AND STRIPES
     The material <following> has been authenticated by The Flag
     Heritage Foundation, Lexington, Massachusetts, Dr. Whitney Smith,
     Executive Director.
     
                Published by Shaw-Barton, Coshocton, Ohio
                          (c) 1973 Command Inc.
     
                INPUT BY:  G. Joseph Peck
                           NAM VET's Managing Editor
                           VETLink #1  Pittsfield, MA
                           (413) 443-6313
     
                                 FOREWORD
       From  its  origin  as the British Jack to our  modern  day  Old
     Glory,   our   flag  represents  a  dedication  to  freedom  that
     symbolizes America.
       Our  flag  is not made of colored cloth and  stitches,  but  of
     people;  of  pioneers  like Daniel Boone and Neil  Armstrong;  of
     soldiers  who fought and died to keep it waving free;  of old and
     young, black and white, rich and poor,  great and ordinary people
     alike who share in common a positive act of pride in hoisting the
     red, white and blue symbol of our nation.
       It  is a genuine pleasure to present this compact little volume
     (minus the graphics in this ASCII textfile reproduction completed
     for NAM VET by Assistant Editor G. Joseph Peck), which brings you
     the  story of the Stars and Stripes,  and the history and legends
     which surround it.
       It  is  a  fascinating  and ageless account  of  our  country's
     determination  for freedom and the banner which gradually evolved
     to appropriately represent it.
     
                         OLD FLAGS IN A NEW WORLD
       The  first  flag in the new world is believed to have been  the
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