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The following are an example of my thoughts.
Until our reunion last year I had never thought much about my time in Vietnam. It was OK by me to just leave it and the memories there. Ask my friends and relatives, they know very little about my experience from Sept 1968 to Sept 1969 on LZ Baldy.
Then, in Sept 2004 I met with some of the people I shared those times with at our reunion and with John Seebeth later here at home(see Dustoff 236 Med link). We talked about some of the things that went on while we were there and as time went on, I found it brought a healing and peace of mind to me to know that many of us survived that terrible time together be it right or wrong. We all know what we saw and did. That will be with us forever.
I thought I would also include an excerpt from a book I read that John Seebeth gave to me. I think it says a lot about how I and others felt during our time in Vietnam. Gary Weaver
The book is MEDIC!, written by Ben Sherman.
(I hope Ben doesn't mind my sharing some of his thoughts and a very brief part of his book with you as it is a small part of my thoughts as well. Ben has said it in a way that is well explained). Here are his comments:
"Most of the war stories you've heard, especially the really exciting ones, have likely come from the vivid imaginations of rear echelon guys who never saw a firefight, never spent a day in the jungle, never slept in a rice paddy, never had their stomach turn over as they gawked at the open wound of a guy who bummed a smoke the minute before. Those who witness the raw hysterics of war up close tend to remain very quiet about it, forever. They think about it, you can be sure, but the words can't get around the clog in the chest.
There's a code. If you've really been in it, you don't talk about it. Maybe that hasn't always been such a good idea. We don't talk to each other. We don't talk to loved ones. It stays in the bottle, corked tight. As years passed, some have broken the silence. They've written books, both truth and fiction. A few have made movies, both accurate and not. Vietnam literature shelves in libraries and bookstores bulge with rage, righteous indignation, continued political discontent and who-owes-who. Vietnam poetry steams off the page. There's still a bunch of folks out there doing their yelling about a war we lost almost thirty some years ago.
A fellow vet I once worked with had a T-shirt that read: "Southeast Asia Games, 1963-1975, Second Place." His wit replaced the flesh he had left on China Beach for a cause he still couldn't articulate. Poorly stitched scars ran from his belly to his neck, then around his shoulder. Field scars. Deep ugly raised skin ridges that were hard to look at twice.
There had been no time in a field hospital to make them pretty".
(I hope Ben doesn't mind my sharing some of his thoughts and a very brief part of his book with you as it is a small part of my thoughts as well. Ben has said it in a way that is well explained). Here are his comments:
"Most of the war stories you've heard, especially the really exciting ones, have likely come from the vivid imaginations of rear echelon guys who never saw a firefight, never spent a day in the jungle, never slept in a rice paddy, never had their stomach turn over as they gawked at the open wound of a guy who bummed a smoke the minute before. Those who witness the raw hysterics of war up close tend to remain very quiet about it, forever. They think about it, you can be sure, but the words can't get around the clog in the chest.
There's a code. If you've really been in it, you don't talk about it. Maybe that hasn't always been such a good idea. We don't talk to each other. We don't talk to loved ones. It stays in the bottle, corked tight. As years passed, some have broken the silence. They've written books, both truth and fiction. A few have made movies, both accurate and not. Vietnam literature shelves in libraries and bookstores bulge with rage, righteous indignation, continued political discontent and who-owes-who. Vietnam poetry steams off the page. There's still a bunch of folks out there doing their yelling about a war we lost almost thirty some years ago.
A fellow vet I once worked with had a T-shirt that read: "Southeast Asia Games, 1963-1975, Second Place." His wit replaced the flesh he had left on China Beach for a cause he still couldn't articulate. Poorly stitched scars ran from his belly to his neck, then around his shoulder. Field scars. Deep ugly raised skin ridges that were hard to look at twice.
There had been no time in a field hospital to make them pretty".