cincibuck
You kids stay off my lawn!
I'm taking off for DC with Ken, my Korean War Tin-Can-sailor of a brother-in-law, in just a couple of hours. I wanted to take this time to send out a salute to my fellow Buckeye Vets. Thanks for all you have done and are doing for this country and Welcome Home!
A Healing Wall, November 1981 - 83: I listened as my friends talked about The Wall, talked about reunion, talked about feeling welcomed home. We met as a group trying to find our voices, trying to understand what had happened to us twelve, thirteen years before. They had gone to the dedication of the monument. I had refused to go. I remained a skeptic. Even as the others gushed, I held on to my doubts: black, below-the-ground, trench like, rows of names, oriental-ivy league-non-vet designed. It went on and on in my head. How could a committee of vets bring us to such a point? I'd received letters asking for a contribution and I thought, "What? Pay for our own monument? What's wrong with congress? They sent us there. Let them buy the damn thing!"
Though I heard my buddies talk of redemption that night, I remained like Saint Thomas, I would have to see with my own eyes, touch with my own fingers, before I could believe in the miracle.
The war passed through my mind like a slide show presentation. "Here's Bien Hoi where I landed, here's me next to my tent in Lai Khe, these are my buddies Willy and Wayne, that's where we stayed in Saigon." I refused to acknowledge the other half of those thoughts, the odd moment, caught unaware, when I'd hear a slick guitar riff and my mind would see two guys jogging with a stretcher, a leg would fall off, a Huey would sit on its haunches on a landing pad, a body bag would fall to the ground. Just as quickly, my world would come back to reality. I'd go on about my life and suddenly I'd see these mummified kids sitting in a bus waiting for an air ambulance ride to Japan or that shrapnel sprinkled body being hosed down in the morgue.
I told myself I was normal and then a siren, a firecracker, a whistle, would send an electric shiver down my nerves and I'd start to dive for cover. I'd be working at my desk and unseen, high overhead I'd hear that distinctive Huey "whup, whup, whup, whup,"or a Souza March, or the Temptations harmonizing My Girl, and I'd feel somthing react inside me.
I shrugged the moments off. They were aberrations. Vietnam was over, behind me, no longer something that touched me.
So why then was I in this group?
Bob Keane, the group's psychologist, told us we suffered from guilt. "Humpf!" I snorted. I didn't blame myself, or my fellow vets, for serving. The troops I met and talked with went to Vietnam because they were asked to: "by the people, for the people." Good ol' e pluribus unum in action. We went over with the honest intention of making life better for a people we had never met.
It was not we individual soldiers who failed to meet the nobility of that purpose. We did not deserve to be judged as dupes, fools, or killers or to be left to harbor guilt.
All this anger and confusion; why did it still matter? Why was I still not at peace? I began to realize that I was the source of my problems. I had to accept myself in order to come home. I had to give up my anger, my resentments of those who didn't serve, of politicians who put us there, of fellow students who had seemed to delight in our losses and then waved the battle flag of the of the North Vietnamese Army in front of us, of those fellow citizens who mocked our patriotism and doubted our personal morality, of the constant barrage of loser images poured out in newspapers, magazines, news shows, music, and movies.
Then it struck me; maybe the road to self-acceptance led to The Wall.
November 11, 1984: I began the day at the First Infantry Division's monument, a short walk west from the White House. I was there, decked out in my Class As, standing tall, at the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month. The division?s colors and color guard were present, the flag snapping in the crisp wind, bristling with battle streamers from Cantigny, France, 1917, to Normandy, 1944, to Highway 13, Vietnam, 1971. The sight of the colors caused my heart to pound and an unexpected shiver ran through my body. The ceremony ended with the playing of Taps. By now I was struggling to keep my composure.
With my wife, Kathy, on my left, I headed for The Wall. Within minutes I was glad I had worn the uniform, the ribbons and the patch. We had no more than reached Pennsylvania Avenue than a truck rolled by with a half-dozen vets standing in the bed, two of the group were mounted on Harley hogs; burly men with flowing beards, their riding leathers covered with combat patches and unit insignia, a sign adorned the truck's door, "Rolling Thunder, Vietnam Veterans of America." One man shouted at me, "Hey, Major!" I glanced to my left and saw nothing. "You! Hey, Big Red One!" I looked up into the bed of the truck, my eyes settled on a rider. "Duty first man!"and with that he threw me a salute from astride his hog. I proudly returned it.
I became a rallying point, the uniform and the combat patch serving as a beacon for those who had served with the First. I met guys who shipped out with the division in 65, others who came home with the colors in April of 71 and everyone in between. They would introduce themselves to me and then meet up with others, find old buddies, find the friend of a friend, meet the younger sister of a kid from Bravo Company who didn't make it back. I was the epicenter of a mini division reunion, playing matchmaker, reuniting all these missing persons.
President Reagan showed up and for the first time I heard a Commander in Chief who didn't urge us to, "put Vietnam behind us," like some unspeakable national shame. I have never been a Reagan fan, but I will forever remember and treasure his words, his service to us, that day.
The crowd cleared out following the speech and I could finally go to the monument itself. I had two names to look for: Doug Knott, a high school friend, and Al Lofton, a fraternity brother who had been killed while I was in Vietnam. I walked up and down The Wall, reading endless names, getting nowhere, growing frustrated. "Who you looking for?" I turned to find a DC area vet with a huge book in his hands, seeking to help me break through my shell.
"Doug... Kn... " I heard my voice squeak. I caught my breath and started again. "Doug Knott and Al Lofton." He began to shift through pages and quickly found both. He gave me the panel and line numbers, pausing to add, "Welcome home," before he turned to help others.
I found Doug first. I reached up on the panel and touched his chiseled name. Fairmont High School, Class of 61, a decent, innocent kid. I remembered our ninth grade basketball coach looking on in dismay at Doug. He was six-foot-four and close to two hundred pounds. "Get after it, Doug." coach would scream, "Be aggressive out there!" Doug loved to play, and to play hard, but winning, being aggressive, wasn't necessary to him. He was killed in combat in 1966 and yet I can't imagine him fighting. It simply was not in his nature.
Al was a bit tougher for me to visit. He had been a sharp dresser with the looks of a young Marlon Brando; a slight five o'clock shadow and dark eyes that darted about excitedly when he was talking. He was outgoing, hard working and popular among the leaders of the fraternity house. There were times when I thought he had it in for me and went out of his way to let me know. I wondered if it was because he was short and dark while I was tall and fair, but it was far deeper felt than that. For now I had to let go of past misunderstandings and rivalry and times when he made me mad or cut me with his remarks. "Hell, he gave as good as he got and so did you. Let it go." I told myself.
My private visits done, I could step outside of my self-absorbed cacoon and see what was going on around me.
I heard guys call out, "Don, Don!! It's me, Snoopy, remember?"
"Randy! Semper Fi man!"
"Hey, anyone from Second of the Twenty-eighth here?"
Kathy and I walked the length of the monument in both directions several times, absorbing the feelings, the sounds, the visions. We watched as guys would stretch out respectfully on the grass at the top of the monument, hanging just over the edge, above a panel, a slice of time, a buddy's name. They peered into the cool, clear, autumn air, their faces etched with hope and questions: Did he make it home? Was he OK? Did he remember too?
A face would light up, a voice would call out a name and they would run the length of the wall to reunite. Guys bear-hugged one another. Guys cry and laughed, pointed at baldheads, or beer guts, or both, and then laughed and cried some more. Guys prayed. Guys stood with arms wrapped around each other for hours, not willing to part.
A group of women vets come by, flag snapping in the wind, faces set in determination, demanding their spot near The Wall. We cheered them on.
I kept hearing those healing words, "Welcome home, bro."
I stood at the base of the monument, the deepest spot, and let the experience lap over me, baptize me in it's healing waves. I felt better. I felt closer to home. I felt strong enough to come back to this wall again. I felt my heart loosen its grip on worthless anger.
Two years later I returned. There was another speech and the wreath laying and finally the place cleared out enough for me to go back and reconnect with my Ohio pals, Al and Doug, and others I had added to my list since that first visit. I watched again as guys relocated buddies, touched the names of loved ones, placed a rose, a flag, a note, next to a name. Then for some inexplicable reason I walked over to the statue of the grunts emerging from the jungle that had been added to the monument on this on this day. I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned and saw the distressed face of a new friend, Steve Slattery. "I'm sorry. Can you help me out here?"
I saw the first tears appear in his eyes. I reached out and held him in my arms. I felt his chest heave in and out, heard the sobs come up from his guts, felt his pain and sorrow. Then I felt my own tears come rushing to my eyes and felt my own insides rock with emotions long held back. Kathy, sensing the importance of the moment, began snapping pictures of the two of us. He explained that he wore his Silver Star to honor the memory of one of his troopers, a young black kid whose tour was all but over. Steve, Captain Slats, had ordered the kid to the division's rear area to begin his out-processing.
The kid refused. "You're heading into some deep shit today, Captain," he said, "you're going to need all the old hands you've got."
Before the day was over Steve's troop had rescued their sister unit from an ambush and the kid who didn't have to go, Sp/4 Donald Russell Long, had thrown himself on a grenade saving others in the process. It was Steve's first taste of combat.
My losses seemed shallow in comparison, but I talked to him about Al and Doug and the other names I visited on my vigil. Steve listened, letting me know that all loss is just that, loss. I wasn't all the way home yet, but on that day, Steve and The Wall were pointing me in the direction I needed to go on my spiritual journey.
TODAY: I'm still not all the way home in my thoughts about Vietnam. I may never be. But I know I'm on the way, headed in the right direction, proud that I served. I still have not made peace with the presidents and their peers who turned their collective backs on the Vietnam war and on Vietnam vets. I'm still not at peace with a government that does not seem to want to solve the mysteries of Agent Orange, MIAs, or those poisoned in the desert of Kuwait. I still fear that a total volunteer force will cause our nation to forget the obligations and responsibilities of a free people to equally share the cost of defending their inheritance. It's a part of being in a democracy, accepting the good with the bad inherent in the system.
But my concerns about The Wall have been dispelled. No matter what its artistic merits, or demerits, it works. The genius of Maya Ying Lin; the oriental-Ivy League-non-veteran designer whom I dismissed with anger, and the vision of the committee of veterans I thought had lost touch with the rest of us have created a space that allows this nation's sons and daughters of Vietnam to find peace in their own hearts, pride in their service and thus begin the long journey to reconciliation with the rest of the nation.
I'm not sure why it works. How can black granite, angled slabs, lists of names, all deliberately below ground level, elevate doubting, confused minds? Pull a generation back together? Heal those who have suffered unimaginable pain? Bring us all to some important understanding of the costs of democracy's decisions?
Perhaps it is because The Wall has compelled us to help each other come home, veteran and non-veteran, soldier and protester, arm-in-arm as Americans on this sacred piece of ground. Perhaps it is because, like me, other veterans have allowed The Wall to open up the doors they have held closed for so long. The reason doesn't matter. The reality of a healing wall does.
Forrest Brandt, aka, Cincibuck
A Healing Wall, November 1981 - 83: I listened as my friends talked about The Wall, talked about reunion, talked about feeling welcomed home. We met as a group trying to find our voices, trying to understand what had happened to us twelve, thirteen years before. They had gone to the dedication of the monument. I had refused to go. I remained a skeptic. Even as the others gushed, I held on to my doubts: black, below-the-ground, trench like, rows of names, oriental-ivy league-non-vet designed. It went on and on in my head. How could a committee of vets bring us to such a point? I'd received letters asking for a contribution and I thought, "What? Pay for our own monument? What's wrong with congress? They sent us there. Let them buy the damn thing!"
Though I heard my buddies talk of redemption that night, I remained like Saint Thomas, I would have to see with my own eyes, touch with my own fingers, before I could believe in the miracle.
The war passed through my mind like a slide show presentation. "Here's Bien Hoi where I landed, here's me next to my tent in Lai Khe, these are my buddies Willy and Wayne, that's where we stayed in Saigon." I refused to acknowledge the other half of those thoughts, the odd moment, caught unaware, when I'd hear a slick guitar riff and my mind would see two guys jogging with a stretcher, a leg would fall off, a Huey would sit on its haunches on a landing pad, a body bag would fall to the ground. Just as quickly, my world would come back to reality. I'd go on about my life and suddenly I'd see these mummified kids sitting in a bus waiting for an air ambulance ride to Japan or that shrapnel sprinkled body being hosed down in the morgue.
I told myself I was normal and then a siren, a firecracker, a whistle, would send an electric shiver down my nerves and I'd start to dive for cover. I'd be working at my desk and unseen, high overhead I'd hear that distinctive Huey "whup, whup, whup, whup,"or a Souza March, or the Temptations harmonizing My Girl, and I'd feel somthing react inside me.
I shrugged the moments off. They were aberrations. Vietnam was over, behind me, no longer something that touched me.
So why then was I in this group?
Bob Keane, the group's psychologist, told us we suffered from guilt. "Humpf!" I snorted. I didn't blame myself, or my fellow vets, for serving. The troops I met and talked with went to Vietnam because they were asked to: "by the people, for the people." Good ol' e pluribus unum in action. We went over with the honest intention of making life better for a people we had never met.
It was not we individual soldiers who failed to meet the nobility of that purpose. We did not deserve to be judged as dupes, fools, or killers or to be left to harbor guilt.
All this anger and confusion; why did it still matter? Why was I still not at peace? I began to realize that I was the source of my problems. I had to accept myself in order to come home. I had to give up my anger, my resentments of those who didn't serve, of politicians who put us there, of fellow students who had seemed to delight in our losses and then waved the battle flag of the of the North Vietnamese Army in front of us, of those fellow citizens who mocked our patriotism and doubted our personal morality, of the constant barrage of loser images poured out in newspapers, magazines, news shows, music, and movies.
Then it struck me; maybe the road to self-acceptance led to The Wall.
November 11, 1984: I began the day at the First Infantry Division's monument, a short walk west from the White House. I was there, decked out in my Class As, standing tall, at the eleventh hour, of the eleventh day, of the eleventh month. The division?s colors and color guard were present, the flag snapping in the crisp wind, bristling with battle streamers from Cantigny, France, 1917, to Normandy, 1944, to Highway 13, Vietnam, 1971. The sight of the colors caused my heart to pound and an unexpected shiver ran through my body. The ceremony ended with the playing of Taps. By now I was struggling to keep my composure.
With my wife, Kathy, on my left, I headed for The Wall. Within minutes I was glad I had worn the uniform, the ribbons and the patch. We had no more than reached Pennsylvania Avenue than a truck rolled by with a half-dozen vets standing in the bed, two of the group were mounted on Harley hogs; burly men with flowing beards, their riding leathers covered with combat patches and unit insignia, a sign adorned the truck's door, "Rolling Thunder, Vietnam Veterans of America." One man shouted at me, "Hey, Major!" I glanced to my left and saw nothing. "You! Hey, Big Red One!" I looked up into the bed of the truck, my eyes settled on a rider. "Duty first man!"and with that he threw me a salute from astride his hog. I proudly returned it.
I became a rallying point, the uniform and the combat patch serving as a beacon for those who had served with the First. I met guys who shipped out with the division in 65, others who came home with the colors in April of 71 and everyone in between. They would introduce themselves to me and then meet up with others, find old buddies, find the friend of a friend, meet the younger sister of a kid from Bravo Company who didn't make it back. I was the epicenter of a mini division reunion, playing matchmaker, reuniting all these missing persons.
President Reagan showed up and for the first time I heard a Commander in Chief who didn't urge us to, "put Vietnam behind us," like some unspeakable national shame. I have never been a Reagan fan, but I will forever remember and treasure his words, his service to us, that day.
The crowd cleared out following the speech and I could finally go to the monument itself. I had two names to look for: Doug Knott, a high school friend, and Al Lofton, a fraternity brother who had been killed while I was in Vietnam. I walked up and down The Wall, reading endless names, getting nowhere, growing frustrated. "Who you looking for?" I turned to find a DC area vet with a huge book in his hands, seeking to help me break through my shell.
"Doug... Kn... " I heard my voice squeak. I caught my breath and started again. "Doug Knott and Al Lofton." He began to shift through pages and quickly found both. He gave me the panel and line numbers, pausing to add, "Welcome home," before he turned to help others.
I found Doug first. I reached up on the panel and touched his chiseled name. Fairmont High School, Class of 61, a decent, innocent kid. I remembered our ninth grade basketball coach looking on in dismay at Doug. He was six-foot-four and close to two hundred pounds. "Get after it, Doug." coach would scream, "Be aggressive out there!" Doug loved to play, and to play hard, but winning, being aggressive, wasn't necessary to him. He was killed in combat in 1966 and yet I can't imagine him fighting. It simply was not in his nature.
Al was a bit tougher for me to visit. He had been a sharp dresser with the looks of a young Marlon Brando; a slight five o'clock shadow and dark eyes that darted about excitedly when he was talking. He was outgoing, hard working and popular among the leaders of the fraternity house. There were times when I thought he had it in for me and went out of his way to let me know. I wondered if it was because he was short and dark while I was tall and fair, but it was far deeper felt than that. For now I had to let go of past misunderstandings and rivalry and times when he made me mad or cut me with his remarks. "Hell, he gave as good as he got and so did you. Let it go." I told myself.
My private visits done, I could step outside of my self-absorbed cacoon and see what was going on around me.
I heard guys call out, "Don, Don!! It's me, Snoopy, remember?"
"Randy! Semper Fi man!"
"Hey, anyone from Second of the Twenty-eighth here?"
Kathy and I walked the length of the monument in both directions several times, absorbing the feelings, the sounds, the visions. We watched as guys would stretch out respectfully on the grass at the top of the monument, hanging just over the edge, above a panel, a slice of time, a buddy's name. They peered into the cool, clear, autumn air, their faces etched with hope and questions: Did he make it home? Was he OK? Did he remember too?
A face would light up, a voice would call out a name and they would run the length of the wall to reunite. Guys bear-hugged one another. Guys cry and laughed, pointed at baldheads, or beer guts, or both, and then laughed and cried some more. Guys prayed. Guys stood with arms wrapped around each other for hours, not willing to part.
A group of women vets come by, flag snapping in the wind, faces set in determination, demanding their spot near The Wall. We cheered them on.
I kept hearing those healing words, "Welcome home, bro."
I stood at the base of the monument, the deepest spot, and let the experience lap over me, baptize me in it's healing waves. I felt better. I felt closer to home. I felt strong enough to come back to this wall again. I felt my heart loosen its grip on worthless anger.
Two years later I returned. There was another speech and the wreath laying and finally the place cleared out enough for me to go back and reconnect with my Ohio pals, Al and Doug, and others I had added to my list since that first visit. I watched again as guys relocated buddies, touched the names of loved ones, placed a rose, a flag, a note, next to a name. Then for some inexplicable reason I walked over to the statue of the grunts emerging from the jungle that had been added to the monument on this on this day. I felt a tug on my sleeve. I turned and saw the distressed face of a new friend, Steve Slattery. "I'm sorry. Can you help me out here?"
I saw the first tears appear in his eyes. I reached out and held him in my arms. I felt his chest heave in and out, heard the sobs come up from his guts, felt his pain and sorrow. Then I felt my own tears come rushing to my eyes and felt my own insides rock with emotions long held back. Kathy, sensing the importance of the moment, began snapping pictures of the two of us. He explained that he wore his Silver Star to honor the memory of one of his troopers, a young black kid whose tour was all but over. Steve, Captain Slats, had ordered the kid to the division's rear area to begin his out-processing.
The kid refused. "You're heading into some deep shit today, Captain," he said, "you're going to need all the old hands you've got."
Before the day was over Steve's troop had rescued their sister unit from an ambush and the kid who didn't have to go, Sp/4 Donald Russell Long, had thrown himself on a grenade saving others in the process. It was Steve's first taste of combat.
My losses seemed shallow in comparison, but I talked to him about Al and Doug and the other names I visited on my vigil. Steve listened, letting me know that all loss is just that, loss. I wasn't all the way home yet, but on that day, Steve and The Wall were pointing me in the direction I needed to go on my spiritual journey.
TODAY: I'm still not all the way home in my thoughts about Vietnam. I may never be. But I know I'm on the way, headed in the right direction, proud that I served. I still have not made peace with the presidents and their peers who turned their collective backs on the Vietnam war and on Vietnam vets. I'm still not at peace with a government that does not seem to want to solve the mysteries of Agent Orange, MIAs, or those poisoned in the desert of Kuwait. I still fear that a total volunteer force will cause our nation to forget the obligations and responsibilities of a free people to equally share the cost of defending their inheritance. It's a part of being in a democracy, accepting the good with the bad inherent in the system.
But my concerns about The Wall have been dispelled. No matter what its artistic merits, or demerits, it works. The genius of Maya Ying Lin; the oriental-Ivy League-non-veteran designer whom I dismissed with anger, and the vision of the committee of veterans I thought had lost touch with the rest of us have created a space that allows this nation's sons and daughters of Vietnam to find peace in their own hearts, pride in their service and thus begin the long journey to reconciliation with the rest of the nation.
I'm not sure why it works. How can black granite, angled slabs, lists of names, all deliberately below ground level, elevate doubting, confused minds? Pull a generation back together? Heal those who have suffered unimaginable pain? Bring us all to some important understanding of the costs of democracy's decisions?
Perhaps it is because The Wall has compelled us to help each other come home, veteran and non-veteran, soldier and protester, arm-in-arm as Americans on this sacred piece of ground. Perhaps it is because, like me, other veterans have allowed The Wall to open up the doors they have held closed for so long. The reason doesn't matter. The reality of a healing wall does.
Forrest Brandt, aka, Cincibuck
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