Dearest Sandy,

“The only thing that keeps my morale high now is that R&R is only thirty-six days away. I miss you terribly, and long to hold you and talk to you for hours and hours.”

—Richard

“The problem, of course, is that there is no one TRUTH about the Indochina Wars. Instead, many different truths co-exist and compete. To be sure, there are facts, a myriad of them—the tonnage of bombs dropped by the U.S. during the war, for example. But facts, while useful and necessary, do not lead to understanding… past events and actions become part of the historical sense of self and society…. The sense of self connected with these wars is still very much a contested issue…”

—John Tegtmeier, Vietnam War Internet Project¹

41

Which Way Home?

March 1971

Fragments of my life were scattered on both sides of the world. Time had come to pull them back together again. Finally our long-awaited reunion was due—past due. After ten long months I would finally be joined with Sandy in Hawaii. I anticipated our reunion with tremendous excitement and some apprehension.

Fears swept over me.

What would I see in her eyes after all this time?

Would we still have something in common, or had either of us changed so much under these circumstances that we could no longer make it work?

Dearest Dick,

I love you.

I am so excited about R&R, that I can hardly contain myself. But what really made my day was the mail.

You make me so happy with your sweet letters and they make me even more anxious to be with you again. I just can’t settle down and write the sort of letter I wanted to. Just know how happy I am thinking about being with you so soon.

Always.

Sandy and I met alone in Hawaii. Scotty was too young to make the trip, and we had important issues between us to deal with. When I arrived in Honolulu my knees were shaking and my heart was in my throat. I was a warrior returning to claim my woman, yet I was as nervous as I had ever been. I half-expected Sandy to still have the look of an expectant mother, but the person I saw standing before me was a beautiful young woman so in control of herself in a Pacific island paradise. Was this the fictional woman I had been writing love letters to and dreaming of? Did I deserve her? I knew I might lose her.

Sandy looked great. I was a mess on the inside, and later would learn that she was, too. Looking at her, I couldn’t imagine that she possibly shared my doubts.

It was a stretch for me—from an Asian jungle to the beaches of Maui. We were strangers. (Everyone was a stranger to me.) I nurtured great expectations about “the real world,” but I was no longer sure there was such a place. I reassured myself that once the war was behind us and I had settled down with my family, everything would be fine. But would it?

I had glorified Honolulu to Sandy when I was stranded there en route to Vietnam. I dramatized the convertible and the beauty of Oahu. I rented another convertible for our special dinner on our first evening. Rain pelted us as we left the hotel garage for the restaurant to hear Don Ho, but we were oblivious to it, anticipating our special evening. When we stopped at a red light, I noticed the canvas top of the convertible sagging under the weight of collecting rainwater. I reached up to push the water off, as I had done so many times in my poncho shelter in Vietnam. This time a gallon of water poured between the cloth top and the front windshield—directly into our laps. We sputtered and shuddered as cold water drenched us. Alas, we were forced to return to the hotel room to change clothes.

We started out again, in our second-best clothes, in a dour mood. Dressing well was a big deal to Sandy; it was no laughing matter. Our wonderful evening—the launch pad for our future—was under water.

The undertow got worse. We arrived at the restaurant late. The window seat with an ocean view that I had reserved was no longer available; we had to settle for another table behind a post, near the door. Nevertheless we ordered and pretended to be in high spirits. Don Ho asked for people celebrating anniversaries, birthdays, or other important events to identify themselves for recognition with a special song. I clammed up, withdrew into my shell, and sat stoically and silently, wishing I was back in the jungle. Sandy was properly devastated. I was irritated with myself and upset at Sandy for being mad at me. Our evening in paradise had turned into a disaster.

Unfortunately this was typical of our entire week in Hawaii. The time we had anticipated so breathlessly became worse than no time at all. How could everything so important to both of us go so wrong at the very moment we needed something to go right? I had believed Vietnam was a living hell, but I was wrong. Hawaii was hell: Vietnam was only purgatory.

Sandy and I spent our time together in Hawaii on different wavelengths. We spoke strange languages; we were from different planets. I realized for the first time that I had changed in ways I didn’t realize or understand. I’d expected the world and everything in it to change with me, but it had not.

Her hopes and dreams for our reunion were shattered. She had struggled alone in her private world and had prepared herself to play all her chips to win this one roll of the dice. She suffered nightmares about her mother’s untimely death and sometimes became violently ill. Money had been a problem for her and Scott, yet she made it all work because she had no choice. But I remained aloof, as if she wasn’t the most important part of my life.

She was hurt, and her doubts about our ability or willingness to save our future were reaffirmed. I was unable to address her needs and unable to understand my own insecurity with a loving relationship. I was lost in the wilderness without a compass.

She, too, had blunted her senses to summon strength for all the things she thought she had to do. Our week of R&R ended with neither Sandy nor I able to comfort one another or confront the real issues. We were discomfited by our reunion, assaulted by doubt, living casualties of war.

The spring season for rallies and demonstrations broke out in mid-April with the war in Vietnam as an old target and pollution of the earth as a new one.²

At the airport, I saw Sandy standing in a sundress on the observation deck after I boarded the plane. I took a window seat, and could see her just standing there. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was so beautiful, slender, and tanned, while I was so disturbed, churning. I was uncertain what was going through her mind, and I could not make a connection with the scattered fragments of my own life.

March 30, 1971

Darling Sandra,

I’m somewhere over the Pacific between Guam and the Philippines. I’ve finished reading my book and the diversion helped displace my anxiety of leaving you in Hawaii. I saw you standing on the observation deck after I boarded and I couldn’t take my eyes off you. I couldn’t see your face but I’m sure you weren’t crying—you have been such a brave and wonderful wife for such a soldier as me. I wonder what a fool I am that I haven’t seen my precious son and I’ve found only one fleeting week with my wife—only three weeks together and about forty separated. I too, like you, was afraid I had forgotten you after all that time, but the one small moment of time we shared in Hawaii sent the realization crashing down on me that I love you more than anything on this earth. I have never in my life felt so totally committed to anything as I do to our family. I know you have the same desire for these things that I have and this whole year you have born the entire burden, all alone. It is more than any one should have to stand in a lifetime….