It has been an odd day today. I had to go to an office at the VA Medical Center to which I had not been before. As I entered the office, I noticed a painting of the Viet Nam Memorial. It was the painting above. I later found out that the painting is by Lee Teter. (You can buy copies here.) It brought back memories of my visit to the Wall. No, I never served in Viet Nam, even though I served during that war. Somehow the Pentagon never sent me. But, I had fellow soldier-friends who were sent. Since the friendships were only training friendships, and not solid long-term ones, we never really communicated afterward. But, I did not forget them.
Years later I had to pass near Washington, DC on my way farther north. I knew that I wanted to visit the Memorial. When I saw it, it took my breath away. As I got closer, I saw the names divided by year of death. I saw several people there, touching the wall, leaning against the wall, taking rubbings through the wall. My throat tightened, and I walked slowly and located the two-year period during which my friends could have died. I searched the list, then searched it again. I was grateful to find none of them.
But, something in the way I looked at the Wall must have given away that I had served in the military during that time, even though I had never gone over, even though I was older now, even though I was no longer trim. There were often vets near the Wall who had taken it upon themselves to welcome home veterans. Those were the words that were never heard when I served. Today they are often said to vets, and that is a good thing. That vet took one look at me walking away and came up to me, shook my hand, and said, “Welcome home!” He left me speechless. I did not know what to say, how to respond.
As I walked away I looked back and the Scripture from the Book of the Revelation about the souls under the altar asking, “how long, O Lord,” came to mind. I could almost hear those vets, Christian and non-Christian, crying out and saying that there must be true justice someday. As I walked away I also felt slightly guilty for not correcting the vet and telling him that I had never served in Viet Nam. But now I realize that he was right.
You see, in those days if you reported to the service after you were drafted, you knew that your chances of going to Viet Nam were very high. It meant that in your mind you had to deal with the fact that you might very well be facing death someday. It made it even worse if you objected strenuously and morally to the War, as many of us did. But, we were drafted and we obeyed, despite our misgivings, objections, and even moral repulsion. When I left for basic training, I talked with a friend who had already served. I was teary-eyed as I left a message with him in case …
I did not realize it even more than a decade later when I visited the Wall. But that vet could see it in my eyes. As I get older, I realize that more and more. Yes, the Viet Nam War changed me. Having to decide whether I could obey the summons and serve in the Army, despite my opposition to the war changed me. Knowing that I might not come back, knowing that the training I was receiving was to help me survive changed me. Facing friends and saying goodbye as they went overseas changed me. Not receiving any support from the culture meant that for many years I did not talk or mention my military service except in passing. I took a while for me to be openly a vet.
But, here is the odd thing. When 9/11 happened, I was a priest on staff at the Episcopal Diocese of Alabama. I was horrified and in pain. I watched riveted to the screen as President Bush said, “We will not tire; we will not falter; and we will not fail.” A few days later, I went to a nearby Army Reserves recruiting center. I, who had opposed the Viet Nam War as immoral (and still am opposed to it); I, who had for so many years not talked about my military service; I tried to enlist. I found out that I was too old, even to serve as a chaplain. I even wrote my Congressman to ask for an exception, only to receive a very well crafted letter thanking me for my prior service. But that was when I knew. Viet Nam had changed me. The old soldier remembered what duty and honor meant. The old soldier remembered all those who had faithfully served. The old soldier remembered the Wall and what it meant.
No, I am not a hawk. It is not about being a hawk. I was as against our entry into Iraq as were the Roman Catholic bishops of that time who wrote a letter to President Bush warning him not to do it. I hurt when I see our country yet again repeating the mistake of the past in places such as Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib. After all our fights for freedom, I dislike watching some of the despicable things into which our country has sunk under the pull of “know nothings” (look up the historical term) masquerading as “true” conservatives. It is about what it meant and means to be a soldier. It is about what true duty and honor are all about. Yes, Viet Nam changed me; military service changed me.
The Wall is with me, even if I never went overseas. I know that I am a better Christian today because I served. No, not because the Army was so moral or upright. Neither was it because somehow the fact of service makes you a better person. As one who works as a VA Medical Center, I am all too aware of those who came out worse than they went in, those who are still tortured by the nightmares and horror of war. But, I was one of the fortunate ones, one of the ones who saw that duty and honor can surpass stupid political mistakes, and even bad military judgment. No, I did not meet perfect people. Just the opposite. I met people who got drunk. I met people who got high. I met people who did other various stupid things. But, when crunch time came, I met people who would die for one another, people who would even suffer long-term emotional trauma for one another. Duty and honor is not about perfection, it is about right commitment, and following through on those commitments, even to the death.
Eventually, I did go overseas, but not as a soldier. I went as a missionary, yet the lessons of the Wall went with me. They were with me as I rode mules into remote areas. They were with me as I served in a country which had just finished 10 years of an internal revolution, where the holes of the bombs were still present in various buildings. They were with me as our bishop changed us from one country to another. They were with me here in the USA as a bishop asked us to leave our house and move somewhere else.
Yes, I am a veteran. And, yes, the Wall is part of my life. Ultimately, I serve the Lord. But, I serve him with duty and honor. I am a veteran.
I am a veteran. Often I feel I need to qualify that statement. I’m a peacetime veteran. Yet it still changes you. My grandfather was a pilot in the Army Air Corps in WWII. (My other grandfather was a firefighter who served either in WWII or Korea — I’m sad to say I forget which.) My father served in Vietnam (forward recon) and I remember his flashbacks. He was not at all happy when I enlisted.
The first time my job sent me to DC, I visited the wall. I’ve visited it other times since. And I always think of my father.
I’m not sure my comment has a point other than the fact that being a veteran, a child of a veteran, and the grandchild of veterans defines part of your identity.
I am a Vet, but didn’t go to Vietnam (Army’s choice of assignments-not mine). When I visited the wall a number of years ago on a business trip to DC, I found the names of friends and classmates on there and remembered them then as I do every Veteran’s and Memorial Day. May their Memory be Eternal!
Thank you, Ernesto. Though I served between wars (1957-1960, I am proud of my service also. It changed me, and has shaped my view since. I too, never left the ZI, but treasure my connection with every vet.
Give you a call one of these days.
I did not realize…did not know that you served in the Army during Vietnam, Father. I apologize if I ever said or did anything that made you feel ashamed or sad over your service…when we were such young adults it was so raw and we (I) had no clue. Now I am the mother of one Vet and one active duty and boy has my tune changed. I would like to think that I never held any service member in contempt for what they did because I knew several who served, but I never thought to thank them or to welcome them home. Thank you, Father Ernesto, for your service to our country and now for your service to the Lord.
Thank you for the reminding us. I did not get drafted but could have. The lucky lottery number was 299. I remember that night well and I remember nights of nightmares of being drafted and I remember several, thankfully not many who died. I actually sometimes feel guilt that I did not get drafted. It was not fair that some went and people like me just lucked out. I guess the Lord knew I was too weak for war. When my best childhood friend got drafted I came close to volunteering. Thankfully he made it back from Nam in decent condition.
I am reminded of a John Prine song, “Sam Stone….” I know it you how horrible it is. Too many people despised those who served but thankfully the same people have grown up and for the most part now support the Vets. I live in a military community and I am surrounded by vets. I have one member of my congregation who served in not one, not two but three wars and several who served in two. I cannot go there.
Art
Thank you, Fr Ernesto.
Dana
I also drew a high number while others drew a low number, They had to go. I didn’t. Some I knew who went came back in body bags. One in particular hit close to home and I can still see the look in the, then, young widow’s eyes overwhelmed with hurt and pain and the unspoken question, “Why?” and “Where was God?”… and I was far from being able to say anything that would connect to where she was in that pain and grief. .
It was at the start of the 1st Iraq war when it finally caught up with me and I cried for the one I had known who had been cut off some 30 plus years ago to “hostile small arms fire”. This past month I received the news that she who had been that young widow those 40 years ago has passed away. A final chapter to the story unfolded and was recorded. I’ve chronicled this story elsewhere to be found and read. (The link is on my blog.) I’m not a veteran. I did not serve. I did not go. What can I say to those who did, and who have carried the memories and scars for a lifetime?
I come from a family where someone has fought in every major war that has been fought since the American revolution. I am an Army Brat and was an Army wife. My father and my then husband were in Viet Nam the same year. Living my life as an Army Brat and an Army wife especially during the years between WWII and the post Viet Nam era defined me in ways that are hard to explain to someone who wasn’t there. When my father (who is buried at Arlington) died, my five siblings and I each eulogized him at a memorial held where my parents had retired in Alabama. We did not discuss between ourselves what we were going to say, but as each of us got up and spoke, we shared about how my father had not just taught us but had lived out the concepts of duty, honor, country.