People I've Known Who Served in the Vietnam War

First of all, I'm not a Vietnam War Veteran. I'm a Vietnam Era Veteran, which means that, yes, I wore the green (U.S. Army) when the shooting was going on, but I was never sent in-country, never saw combat.

Had to get that out of the way. Can't stand those who lie about their service records. Scum of the Earth.

Secondly, the time line of the War itself: Hit Google or Wikipedia, and you'll find that the Vietnam War lasted from 1955 to 1975. It's even stated that "military advisors" (Green Berets) were present from 1950 forward. We cannon-fodder types, however, mostly knew zip about any of that until Defense Secretary Robert MacNamara announced in 1965 that combat troops were to be shipped thataway. Happy Jungle Warfare and Merry Rice Paddies, guys.

My butt stayed safe and secure in Germany, where I was already stationed, waiting to get shot at the Fulda Gap in case the Communists decided to start World War III. The other bunch of guys with whom I'd trained at Ft. Ord and who'd been cooling their heels for more than a year in Kentucky, though? The ones I'd previously envied? Those guys all got to go play with the Viet Cong.

After my two years were done, fulfilling my military draft obligation, I had occasion to meet up with a number of those Vietnam War Veterans. Those and, over the years, many others from my generation. We came face to face in college classrooms, on jobs in the oilpatch, fostering troubled teenaged boys--you name it.

No names are included for any number of reasons, but here--well, you'll see.

Soldier A: He stands six foot three, a ruggedly built, scarily handsome African American man who was my bunkmate when we trained to become wire rats. Drafted at age 23, he'd been snatched by Uncle Sam from a job as an undercover vice cop in California.

We kept up correspondence during his time overseas, and I remember most of all his irrepressible sense of humor as he wrote about bedding down in the wet...with gear that was way too short for his frame. He appeared to survive his tour with no ill effects whatsoever, quite possibly (though I didn't think of this at the time) because his former job busting prostitutes and drug dealers was every bit as nasty and dangerous as southeast Asia.

Soldier B: Five-six and hardly overweight, B and I had been drafted in the same allotment. A rancher's son (like me), he started out rather pear-shaped (not like me). When he came home from 'Nam, he'd lost that wide caboose...and gained a twist to his features, a darkness to his aura, that was not quite the same man who'd gone to war. I saw him outlive that damage. It took the better part of 32 years.

Soldier C: We met on the job in the oilpatch, driving bulk cement tanker trucks for Halliburton in eastern Montana and western North Dakota. He'd walked point in Viet Nam, multiple tours, and survived the experience. His skill as a "bin mover" was legendary in our work camp...but there was a nasty side to him. A hardness, a willingness to beat down a man he felt had done wrong, no two sides to anything, seeing things in stark black and white. What he was like before experiencing combat, I do not know.

Soldier D: A close friend after we found we shared a passion for fostering teenaged boys in trouble, this remarkable fellow wasn't large...on the outside. He stood maybe five-eight, no more than 140 pounds, and the Army (plus the VA hospital) tried to kill him. He'd gotten shot up in a firefight, gutshot no less. Heard a combat medic say, "Leave this one; he's as good as dead already."

That ticked him off so throroughly that he refused to die, demanded assistance...and got it. Later, in hospital, he awoke from surgery...and smelled ether. Struggling out of bed, holding onto the stand supporting his IV solution for support, he stumbled out into the hall and down to the nurses' station to tell them about it. They yelled at him for being out of bed. He boogied back, kicked the door shut behind him, and the orderlies slammed into that door face-first, ending up in a pile on the floor.

His refusal to die worked that time, too. When the orderlies got up and got through the door, even they could smell the ether.

He was in excellent physical condition. Had lost most of his stomach, which he said included the fat-making part (well, that's what he said). Swore he could sit in a chair and grow muscle.

Soldier E: Gutshot much like my friend, this acquaintance remained ill. It is doubtful he was ever in good health after his gastrointestinal encounter with the metal that rearranged his insides. Rather than defy the authorities who would have let him die, he was eternally grateful to them for keeping him alive. Unfortunately, his innards were never again going to be quite right, and a too-close acquaintance with the trots meant that he was always underweight.

I always wondered about that: Two gutshot soldiers, one distrusting and defying the medics, the other abjectly grateful to them--but only the rebel had fully recovered his health.

This list could go on for a long, long time, but we'll stop here. War is never easy, nor does it affect any two participants in precisely the same way...but it always affects a warrior in some way. At this juncture in time, our generation is not the point. We've got countless younger men and women from the combat theaters in Iraq and Afghanistan--even some from right here at Ft. Hood, when you include the terrorist attack by Major Hasan--who are changed from the youngsters they were prior to enlisting. Your own soldier may or may not have serious issues, but one thing is certain:

Paying attention to the newly discharged GI in your life is a really, really good idea.