Letters from the Front
June 1, 1968
Captain Andersen, I presume?
After our less-than-sweet parting, you probably thought you’d never hear from me. Guess again, and don’t think I’ve forgiven you—yet—for ignoring all my hard work in attempting to keep you safe. But you’re there—and I’m here. So be it.
Things on campus are about the same. I go to class, volunteer at the legal aid office and spend the rest of my time trying to drum up support for the cause. Remember the heckler who kept showing up every day and making disparaging remarks about my sexual preference? (He should be so lucky—but that’s another letter.) Anyway, his number came up, and get this—he called me, asking for help to skip the country! I made him listen to several lectures about why there is absolutely no connection between being in Vietnam and saving the world for democracy and then sent him to see Peter. If Peter helped him, I really don’t want to know. Yes, you should read between the lines here and understand that Peter and I are not now, never were and never will be an item—at least, not in the romance department.
After you stormed out—okay, calmly left—that night, Peter did drop by to check if I was okay—a gesture I choose to view as old friends being there for each other. After that we had a couple of what you would undoubtedly call dates, but nothing ever developed—at least for me. A couple of beers, walks on the lake path, some aborted kissing attempts in the shadows, but that was all. Not sure why, but it’s really important to me that you know that.
Summer has truly arrived to Madison. I’ve been thinking about driving up to the farm to see your folks, milk a cow in your honor or something. Did they tell you that after you left the three of us had lunch? Your mom’s idea. It’s like she’s decided to adopt me. Yesterday I got a care package complete with homemade brownies, a small framed photograph of you that she felt I’d like and this really sweet chatty letter filled with news of your dad and brothers.
I miss you—more than I realized I would. And if you write one word about my dating other guys, this correspondence will cease abruptly. Do I make myself clear? Stay low, stay back and stay safe. Be a doc—not a warrior!
P.S. Oh, yeah, almost forgot, Now that you’re there, the least you can do is furnish me with unbiased reports of the “real” story. As Ty liked to say, when you’re shoveling manure, there has got to be a pony somewhere nearby. (Note how I cleaned that up for you, farm boy.) What do the locals think of Americans? Are we viewed as liberators or occupiers? What about the GIs on their way home? Tell me everything. Z…
June 16, 1968
Dear Zoe,
As soon as your letter arrived, I grabbed the first chance I could to answer. It turns out that moment is now at three in the morning, after I’ve just finished the latest round of patching up wounded. Hopefully that will give you some idea of the importance of your writing to me. I was so happy to hear from you. How stupid was I to ask that you not wait, when the very idea you might have decided to take me up on that has been driving me nuts?
I’ll start with the easy stuff—I’m the GMO (general medical officer) for a battalion (that’s about 800-1000 soldiers)—can’t tell you exact location or they’d have to shoot me, but trust me, it’s not San Francisco if that’s the postmark on this letter the way it was on yours. It’s a hilltop surrounded by thick jungle. A village of canvas buildings—the hospital has a big red cross on top of it. It’s supposed to keep us from getting shot at—pray that works! Inside, the equipment is a couple of decades shy of being state-of-the-art—my guess these are leftovers from Korea or—in some cases—WWII. But the medics and nurses are first-rate, dedicated and innovative when the situation calls for thinking on their feet (which is where we seem to spend the better part of every day—not to mention most of the nights).
It’s hot—110 degrees today—humid—and they tell me the rainy season should hit any day. You asked about the Vietnamese people—inscrutable is the word that comes first to mind. On the face of it they are friendly and certainly more than a little exotic—especially for somebody like me. I’m a giant here, a big, blond giant—a real novelty. Kids follow me around, expecting I don’t know what but keeping their distance. Just staring at me with those incredible black eyes.
Those who have been here awhile warn us to not get sucked in by the sweet faces and aim-to-please smiles. They can apparently be deceptive, even treacherous, and it’s very hard to tell North (enemy) from South (ally). If that seems racist, so be it. The Vietcong are—in my opinion—masters of guerilla warfare since they are more than holding their own against the best trained and supplied fighting force in the entire world. And families can be split—some for the North and others for the South. Sound familiar?
Got to close and try to get some sleep—even though I have to be back on duty at dawn. Like I said, on my feet all night, and we never know when the next load of wounded will arrive, but it’s been pretty steady ever since I got here. By the way, the food is lousy and even your cooking would be a feast. Oh, and the water is like drinking from a cesspool. When you talk to Mom—and I have no doubt that you will—ask her to send Kool-Aid packets so we can disguise the taste, and tell Dad I want pictures of you with that cow!
Miss you…only 335 days to go till I’m back in the world again.
Howdy, Farm Boy—Say hello to Pseudo Farm Girl!!
Went to see your folks over the weekend. LOVED everything about life down on the farm. The quiet, the colors—red barn, fields that range from emerald green to golden brown (do not ask me to name which crops produce which color). I even got used to the smells, although that took some doing.
Marie has planted this amazing herb garden, and she gave me a few recipes plus some fresh herbs to try. Who knew food could taste so incredible? Hal insisted I help with milking. (You failed to tell me that this takes place before dawn every single morning, including Sunday.) Polaroid proof that I actually performed this charming daily ritual enclosed!
Your “little” brothers are delightful—quiet and gentle giants but with that same subtle humor you have. We all went to church on Sunday morning, and I still can’t believe how welcomed everyone made me feel. It was as if they just assumed that because I was with your family, I must be “good people.”
When I left, your folks loaded me down with enough homemade soups, breads, cookies and such to feed me through the summer. And get this—Marie asked if I was free to come back next weekend and help the church ladies make pies for the annual bake sale. So you might want to warn your mom about my cooking skills—or lack thereof. More later…
June 30, 1968
Dear Zoe,
Thanks for going to visit the folks. Mom wrote that you are “just delightful”—must have been some act you pulled! Dad thought you were potential farm-girl material—not sure whether that’s in reference to your helping him and the boys with the chores or his way of saying you have the body of the farmer’s daughter of all the jokes. Knowing Dad, it’s a combo. The man has an eye for the ladies, but more than that, he respects women who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Would have loved to see you slopping those hogs! Mom writes that little brother Willie has a major crush on you—better watch yourself around all those raging teenage hormones!
We’ve had a change in command here. There’s a big push to get this thing finished, which usually is a sign that things are not going well and Washington wants us to mop up and get out. Now, don’t get all excited and figure I’ve surrendered to your side. It’s just that I’d like to watch those Washington bureaucrats hack their way through a triple canopy of jungle in foot-gripping mud, four-foot, razor-sharp grass and such thick humid air and fog that the only thing you can see is the soldier to your immediate front or side.
In a war like this, there is no “front”—no real battle strategy other than search-and-destroy. Day after day we see guys go out in search of the enemy with no other plan than to make contact. Night after night we see them brought back by chopper for us to patch up and send on to Saigon for surgery or rehab—or worse—in body bags.
Then this morning we got the villagers from down the road—more kids, babies some of them—full of shrapnel, covered in burns from the napalm and…Got to stop—not sure I can make you understand that this isn’t meant to indicate a change of heart with regard to my view on duty and patriotism. You and the Peters of this world are really only making things worse, Zoe. You give the enemy hope.
Midnight…
Zoe, what I didn’t—couldn’t—finish above is that after that parade of wounded I got the news that Corporal Greg Rockwell, a medic—and a good friend—was killed in yesterday’s battle. Greg’s number came up early in the draft and he enlisted as a medic because they allow conscientious objectors to be medics. Greg was a Quaker. The unit was on patrol and got ambushed. Greg observed an officer down, and five other guys provided cover while he crawled to get the guy. All five were shot and wounded. Greg popped a smoke can to call in the chopper but died before it could arrive. The officer and others will make it, but Greg is gone. He hated this war, but he loved his country. Can you understand that? I know you said that you consider yourself a patriot, a lover of everything America is and stands for, but can’t you understand that all your flag-burning and marching and protesting isn’t doing us any good over here? People—good people—are dying here, Zoe—dying to defend your right to speak out. Greg could have probably gotten out of this, but as he told me, “Then somebody else would have had to take my place. Why’s my life worth more than that other guy’s?” That’s a real patriot. That’s how Ty looked at this thing. Think about that the next time you and your cronies decide to help somebody over the border.
P.S. Later. Sorry for the outburst. It’s just so fricking hard. Don’t stop writing. Please. I need you to be there.
July 10, 1968
Dear Spence,
I am so sorry to hear about Greg’s death and I understand your anger—I do. It’s just that some people choose to fight in the streets, while other choose to fight in the Congress, and some—like you—have no choice but to continue the fight there in Vietnam. We’re all on the same side, Spence. We are. Please know that the work I’m doing here has only one purpose—to bring you and the others home safe and alive. Whatever happened to “Blessed are the peacemakers”?
Okay, enough. I’m going home tomorrow for the rest of the summer. Dad isn’t doing well—he’s just never gotten over Ty’s death. Mom is at her wit’s end trying to hold everything together. Maybe I can help. And maybe there are things I need to say to them—things I never had the chance to say to Ty. Things we think we have time to say, questions we think we have time to ask, history we think we will learn—someday.
I miss you, Spencer Andersen, more than I thought possible. I’m lonely and horny and cranky, and here’s a really scary idea—I might be truly—as in till death do us part—falling in love with you. I would have preferred to admit that in one of those predawn lover moments, but there you have it. Don’t get all nervous on me now—it’s probably not a sure thing. Could be the times and the separation and all…still, what do you think?
August 17, 1968
Dear Zoe,
Just back from Saigon, where I was sent to deliver a report at a conference of high-ranking officers and government types (members of Congress and Department of Defense, etc.) at the U.S. Embassy. As much as it pains me to admit this, you and your followers might just be starting to have some effect—still can’t say if that’s a good thing. The central message of the meeting was the need for a real PR effort in selling this war back home. Bigger battles and bigger victories. Less pessimistic in reporting losses—I am not making that up. When questioned by the panel, I tried to make them understand that it’s hard to fudge the numbers when there have been more casualties in the past six weeks than there were in the previous six months combined. I also pointed out that most of the soldiers I know just want to get out of here alive and couldn’t care less about politics. I was not a popular guy.
On the brighter side, it was an escape from life in camp. Saigon was—on the surface—almost luxurious. But there’s this undercurrent of desperation—I swear you can smell it, touch it, feel it from the moment you arrive. At first it’s hard to define. Then you notice people working to make every dollar they can from the Americans. And you realize that in spite of the constant arrival of fresh troops, the locals seem to assume we will just one day give up and leave. We see the same thing in camp—the black market is its own industry over here and trust is the item in shortest supply.
Speaking of supplies, thanks for the school supplies for the kids. I’m still teaching English to the locals who work at the hospital and their kids. And I’ll admit that I use that time to try to show them the importance of questioning and gathering information before making blind choices—your influence, no doubt. In return they’ve educated me, as well. I’m learning so much more about their history and culture and everything begins to make more sense.
Choppers! That means incoming wounded—oh, yeah, about that “falling in love” idea? Definitely interested in pursuing that. Hold that thought and I’ll write more soon.
Continuing above on August 20…
Dear Zoe,
Didn’t mean to belittle your question about falling in love. I know what it cost you to be the first to bring that up. So, here’s a letter with no war, no politics, no philosophical debates—here is a love letter from a farm-boy soldier-doctor to his rabble-rousing city-girl almost-lawyer.
I’ve always thought of real love as finding that single person you instantly knew you could trust with every thought or dream you might ever have. For me, you are that person. For me, love is also about respect—embracing differences, finding them interesting and unique rather than threatening. It’s about caring—even when the other person is pushing you away. It’s about making allowances, forgiving, sharing, laughing, grieving. It’s about life and living it together in all its imperfect glory.
I love you, Zoe, in all those ways. I want to share whatever life we have left with you starting the day I come back to the world. Please give this more thought and be very, very sure that this is what you want, as well.
September 12, 1968
Wow! You really know how to write a love letter, farm boy!
Okay, all silliness and nervous chatter aside, here’s my answer—yes.
Yes, I love you.
Yes, we’re finally on common ground—at least when it comes to defining love.
Yes, I felt the same connection from day one.
Yes, I want to be together for the rest of our lives.
Yes, yes, yes!
Hurry home to me, Spence. We are going to be in credible together!
October 12, 1968
Zoe,
Tired beyond tired today, so what follows may not make much sense. But the more time I spend patching up the bodies of these soldiers, the more I find myself wondering about the wounds we can’t touch—the mental and emotional scarring, the aftermath of fear and loss these men will carry with them even after they are safely back home. What happens then? I’ve been giving some thought to pursuing a residency in psychiatry. What do you think? I mean, maybe having been here and seen what they’ve seen and experienced some of it, maybe I can help them. I’m not sure. Maybe what I’m really thinking about is who is going to help me forget all that I’ve witnessed over here—all that lies ahead? Talk to me, Zoe. Bring me back to the world, because this unending chaos and pandemonium can’t possibly be the real world, can it?
October 31, 1968
Spence,
Before I tell you what’s happening here, just need to say that if you’re serious about this psychiatry thing, I think you’d be wonderful. Of course, I think you’d be wonderful at whatever you decided to do, but this fits you so well.
As for bringing you back to the world, not sure you’d be any better off over here—at least right now. I’m okay—that’s just so you know before you read on.
A few weeks ago Peter and I decided it was time to organize a peaceful protest—peaceful at my insistence. Peter wanted to blow something up. He said it would be ironic symbolism. Always the grand gesture. But I persuaded him that following the example of Martin Luther King was a better way to go. Anyhow, the plan was to stage a sit-in at the Commerce Building, on campus. The turnout was the best we’d had—dozens of students (even a couple of faculty) packed the building and hundreds more gathered outside. No one was surprised when, after attempting to wait us out, the chancellor announced that he was calling in security to clear the building unless we left peacefully.
We held our ground, never once dreaming that instead of campus security, he’d called for the Madison city police. You know how the townies feel about us—especially people like me—interlopers from the East Coast. The police showed up in riot gear—helmets, billy clubs, the works—and used a bullhorn to order us out immediately or they were coming in. Only, they didn’t wait. They moved through, stepping on and over people, clubbing students who were trying to get to an exit, stacking wounded bodies, chasing down those who rushed to leave and beating them. Outside they used tear gas!
I have six stitches in my forehead and three in my chin, but the doctor says I was one of the luckier ones. There is good news in all of this—news of this unprovoked attack (although the police swear that the students attacked first and were led by a few East Coast rabble-rousers—Peter’s bloody face was all over the news) has spread. There’s been a noticeable escalation in the number of demonstrations, sit-ins and riots on campuses across the country. There are even plans for a second massive march on Washington! I think the tide is finally turning, and maybe we can get you back here safe and sound at last.
Thanksgiving Day, 1968
Dear Zoe,
Got your letter. Thank God, you’re all right. That also makes it easier to write what I must tell you if we are to have any chance for a future. It’s possible that through my letters and reports about things over here you have gotten the idea that I have come full circle and agree with your assessment of this war. But that’s not really true.
I’m not so naive as to believe that we are over here to make the world safe for democracy. But as our purpose here becomes less clear and the light at the end of the tunnel dims, what am I—and the thousands of others like me who are here—supposed to think? Those of us over here have no political agenda—we just want to get out alive, as do those on the other side. And what of those who have already been sent home in flag-draped coffins or missing an arm or leg or half a face? What would you say to them and their loved ones? Sorry? It was all a misunderstanding?
Maybe getting involved here was a mistake, but there are ways—built into our system of government—to rectify that. Elections and the order of law to name two. If, as you believe, our only recourse is to take to the streets, then God help us all. And Zoe, if you and I can’t reach some understanding and respect for our differing points of view on this thing, then I can’t help but wonder if we’ll be able to pick up the pieces of our lives once I am back in the world. In spite of our differences, knowing that you are there has gotten me through the endless days and nights of this thing. I do love you, and whatever happens, I will always love you.
December 26, 1968
Spencer Andersen—
I hate these letters! I want to talk to you, look into your eyes, hold your face between my palms and tell you that if I lose you, whatever windmills I may have tilted at in pursuit of justifying my existence in these chaotic times will have no meaning at all. Please don’t give up on us, Spence. Please just stay safe and get back home and we’ll work it all out. Just get back here, okay?
January 2, 1969
Zoe—
Dictating this to a nurse, so pretend this is one of those telegrams delivered by the guy in the funny costume in the old black-and-white movies: On my way home STOP Wounded in operating room STOP Not serious STOP If you love me DON’T STOP
Details will follow. Spence