Anyway, our trip to class was more than we anticipated, as was Vietnam.
Our evening began with Mr. Bradley asking all of the Vietnam Vets in the audience to rise and be acknowledged for their service. A spattering of about 5-8 people rose up and rec'd. applause and a "Welcome Home" from the speaker. Nice touch.
The event was progressing like most classes would, with a smattering of comments and off-the-wall questions by well meaning students, until a man in the back raised his hand. His appearance was best described as an aged radical, with shoulder length frizzy gray hair set on a balding pate, accented with a sort of beard, and the requisite slept in clothes of a child of those years long ago. His comments began with a "thanks" for the nostalgia, and then he brought the room to attention when he asserted that "Vietnam Veterans should not be called heroes or thanked for anything. In fact, some of them should be tried as war criminals."
He then went on to give the group a rendition of the "war here in Madison", the bombing of Sterling Hall, and how happy he was that Leo Burt (one of the bombers) had escaped and never caught.
In a perverse sort of way, it was a good addition to the class for those youngsters who didn't live it all before. Mr. Bradley handled the situation remarkably well, cutting the man off and asking him to sit down. Everyone could also see that Mr. Bradley's thoughts were not the words coming out of his mouth.
The Vietnam Vets in the room did not over react to this sad old man, which was a great compliment to all of them. They showed a lot of dignity, and they should all be proud.
The Dog couldn't help but feel that many of them felt ambushed once again; and that the cycle of the Vietnam experience went full cycle in one evening. From the memories and music, to the homecoming welcome that too many of them received when they came back.
The Dog knows that more than one of them probably didn't sleep well last night as the memories and demons came for yet another visit.
To close this piece, I want to share a journal entry, written by one of them many years ago. This vet was wounded in combat, spent some time in various hospitals along the way back, and then was deposited at the San Francisco airport, alone, to catch a plane home.
His journal:
Hit Man
When I came home from Vietnam an event occurred which affects me to this day. As I was walking through the San Francisco airport, the resplendent disabled veteran, in my Marine Corps uniform, medals worn proudly, a woman approached me.
I saw her coming well in advance. Call it jungle awareness, call it noticing the obvious, the point is that I knew she was directed at me and was on a mission.
She was in her late 20's, shoulder length dark hair and large brown eyes which showed the passion and fire of someone who was following her heart. She was carrying a brown leather shoulder bag and wearing a long navy blue wool coat. She moved toward me with the grace of the cat.
When she was within fifteen feet of me, I stopped. My instinct and reflexes told me to watch her hands, her bag, her coat. My sense told me to watch her eyes.
She came right up to me, stopping within a foot of me and I could feel her energy, I could smell her scent.
She grabbed me with her eyes, pulling my focus there and initiating the shaking and nervous stomach of apprehension.
We stood there, locked in an optic connection, for what seemed like a long time --- then she blinked and I noticed the tears. Tears had filled eyes and were beginning to move onto her high cheekbones. The passion she was sending to me was filled with pain, with sorrow, with hatred.
Her right hand came up quickly, index finger extended and her mouth opened, but she was struggling to find words. When they finally came, the voice was throaty, raspy, hoarse.
Her finger touched me at the point of my chest. Firmly, but not striking.
"You're nothing but a hit man for the U.S. government."
With that she moved to my left and away.
Physically out of my life. Mentally, forever a part of my spirit.
This Vet suffered that, and other memories, for years until he was introduced to a story about two Buddhist monks named Tanzan and Ekido.
They were travelling down a muddy road during a monsoon rain. When they reached an intersection, they found a beautiful young girl there, in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross the mud.
"Come on girl," said Tanzan, and he lifted her into his arms and carried her over the mud.
Ekido did not speak again until later that evening when he couldn't restrain himself. "We monks do not go near females," he told Tanzan. "Especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that ?!"
"I left the girl there," replied Tanzan. "You are still carrying her."
The Dog called the old radical Ekido, and left the class feeling sorry for him. He carries more baggage than he should.
And, at the end, all-in-all, it was a night to remember.
Kinda like Vee-ett-namb.
Keep the faith.
This Vet suffered that, and other memories, for years until he was introduced to a story about two Buddhist monks named Tanzan and Ekido.
They were travelling down a muddy road during a monsoon rain. When they reached an intersection, they found a beautiful young girl there, in a silk kimono and sash, unable to cross the mud.
"Come on girl," said Tanzan, and he lifted her into his arms and carried her over the mud.
Ekido did not speak again until later that evening when he couldn't restrain himself. "We monks do not go near females," he told Tanzan. "Especially not young and lovely ones. It is dangerous. Why did you do that ?!"
"I left the girl there," replied Tanzan. "You are still carrying her."
The Dog called the old radical Ekido, and left the class feeling sorry for him. He carries more baggage than he should.
And, at the end, all-in-all, it was a night to remember.
Kinda like Vee-ett-namb.
Keep the faith.
