Here patriots live, who for their country’s good,
In fighting fields were prodigal of blood.

—Virgil

44

Postmortem

Two sons were given their inheritance; one stayed home and invested wisely, the other went away and wasted what he was given in foreign lands. But upon returning to his father’s home he was welcomed back, forgiven all transgressions, and appointed to a place of glory. What if the father had not welcomed his son’s return? Such are the prodigal sons of Vietnam, who as patriots, wasted their blood and returned home. I welcome those who return in my dreams. I wish our nation had done so well.

I attended my first Vietnam Veterans of America meeting more than thirty years after getting off the airplane in Columbus. When an overweight and aging vet with a ponytail shook my hand and said, “Welcome home, brother,” I knew for the first time I was really, finally, home.

I have tried to write this story before, each time quitting after the first few pages. When I started this time, I discovered the most important element was not the chronology I had documented so well, but the feelings and thoughts that rested under the surface. When those feelings were exposed, the memories of a time some would say “are best forgotten” spread before me in a mosaic.

I set about reconstructing the journals, using the letters and pictures as crutches. Once the journals were rewritten, they were stowed away—too tender to touch.

When I went to Vietnam the first time, I was eager to test my manhood. I genuinely wanted to experience the feelings and emotions encountered in war, and I wanted the opportunity to test my mettle against the highest challenge man or nature presented. By my second tour, I was anxious to prove myself as a professional soldier because that was the path I had chosen.

This is a story of a journey through life, a war story, but it is also a love story. It involves thoughts and emotions of a simple soldier and those close to him. The minute experiences and personal struggles are contrasted against world events.

My purpose in writing this was as an exploration of thoughts, feelings, and actions of a young man traveling in unknown territory, chronicling actions and emotions. It is a story of a divided life, half professional and half personal. And it exposes lives divided by the war—just as the nation was divided.

So many are due credit for the contents of this book that it is difficult to know where to begin, and it is impossible to mention all. Nevertheless, some of the indispensable ones who made this book possible are mentioned below.

This is first a war story. The participants in this story include Vietnam veterans—those who survived the experience, those who died in it, suffered through it, shared in it, and were changed by it.

I’m especially thankful to the men of Advisory Team 75 in the Mekong Delta, notably Bobby Hurst and Master Sergeant Mendenhall, who taught me to walk and talk as a soldier, and survive. And I’m just as thankful to the troopers of the 7th Cavalry, the Garry Owens of 1970 and 1971. Every last one of them struggled with the same hopes, fears, disappointments, and dreams that I did, but we never left a trooper behind. Even Private First Class Green is with us in our hearts and minds. Bravo Company has formed its own LZ on the World Wide Web with a battle cry: “As long as it takes!”

All Vietnam veterans were affected by the war in some way, but the combatants who laid it on the line were a breed apart. Prodigals who wasted their cherished blood, time, lives, hopes, and dreams, and then returned home unrecognized, are the heroes here.

But it is also a love story, certainly a story of love for comrades in arms, but also love for families, friends, waiting spouses, and the children whose lives were affected by the war and the way it changed their fathers and mothers. They join the long line of walking wounded.

The Vietnamese, both southerners and northerners, were torn by battles raging on their farms and in their neighborhoods. Too often they saw their children die before their eyes. They had suffered through hundreds of years of struggles and oppression. Their numbers include warriors on both sides and civilians.

This book would have neither a beginning nor an ending without my wife Sandy, always waiting for me. She appeared in the middle of my Vietnam experience and gave me reason to pull through it, inspired me to be better because of it. I was one of those lucky enough to have someone to stick it out with me despite my shortcomings. By saving my letters she returned the bits and pieces, enabling me to reconstruct my second journal and providing the inspiration to create the first. The letters brought me in touch with painful feeling, fears, and hopes from a time buried deep inside and long forgotten. As we studied the draft together, her insights helped me get those parts right, but also brought closure to old wounds. To Sandy I owe the most.

And there were others who helped me through the trials of Vietnam and writing about it. Peggy, Bonnie, Bobby Hurst, Tony Labrozzi, and Earl Spry each came along when I needed someone to guide me through trying times. They touched me in ways that kept me focused on survival and yet remain a member of the human race.

Cindy Bowlin, a woman born of the Vietnam War era, questioned me about the war. Her genuine interest in my answers finally started my reexamination of the story to its completion. She read my handwritten journals, encouraged me to write the book, and helped with it. Without her encouragement, I would have avoided some of the most important aspects of the story. I approached those parts reluctantly and unwillingly, but her objective questions and encouragement kept me going when I would have quit.

And my editor, Nancy Koesy Parker, not only edited my manuscript but also helped me remember how to write. Without her help, my notes would have languished as a manuscript instead of taking life. She gave me the courage I needed to submit it.

Eric Hammel at Presidio Press recognized it as worthy, pushed it along, and encouraged me to make it better. I hope I have. And to Jamie Lozano, a special soldier, thank you for your help with the maps.

Unfortunately I must acknowledge the policymakers who gave our country this bungled disaster. Unseen except in news clips, they created the environment we lived in; hiding in carpeted offices, they sent us away and turned their backs when we returned. They made us the bastard prodigals. America’s children, the young and idealistic, will always fight our country’s wars, but when they return as grizzled veterans, they should be received—if not as heroes—then at least as returning sons and daughters. “Welcome home, brother!”

My memory alone would not have permitted me to complete this book without the vital props of my letters and pictures. However, as I relived the experiences on paper, I was surprised by the clarity with which they returned. Any errors of perception, clouded by many years, are mine and mine alone. The views in this story are mine, and reflect the way I recorded them then and as I recall them still.

A few names were protected to avoid hurting people, but most names remain unchanged. Those were decisions I made and take responsibility for.

“Garry Owen” verses are from song sheets I saved from my days in the cavalry. I understand that a great American of the 7th Cavalry in the Ia Drang Valley and, later, the World Trade Center, Rick Rescorla, wrote and sang most of them. Letters are excerpts from originals, and any poor poetry is by the author from the period. Please excuse its quality.

Autopsies of the war reveal many mistakes, accidents, and misconduct—and heroism. After so much time has passed fixing blame and responsibility is an intellectual exercise, while what is needed is an exorcism of our spirits. Most of us, but not all, prevailed despite their experiences. The United States survived despite Vietnam, not because of it. Conflict tore the fabric of democracy, as it tore the lives of those touched by the war. I hope our nation is stronger because of it.

As for me, I’ve done well. Vietnam stamped me with indelible ink that never washes away. I was driven by the war into the life of a professional soldier. I loved soldiering, and I loved soldiers. It came naturally to me—for reasons I never questioned. I wanted to be among the elite and I was, as a cavalryman, a ranger, and a paratrooper. At Fort Benning I trained young men in the fundamentals of fighting and survival, and instilled discipline and a desire to win in battle—and succeed in life. At Fort Leavenworth I taught career officers the principles of joint and combined operations and lessons from the world of insurgency and counterterrorism. In Brussels and Vienna I soldiered for peace in Europe, seeking disarmament in the Cold War through the negotiations for reductions of forces.

The Soviet Union was disassembled, the Berlin Wall fell, and Eastern Europe opened its fortified gates. For my final duty, I returned to the Philippines to chase the ghosts of Nick Rowe and Peggy, and to taste the sweet, warm rains of Asia once more. I saw the U.S. flag fly for the last time over Subic Bay and a Clark Field covered in ash from Mount Pinatubo. Finally I placed my helmet on the closet shelf to stay, and hung my uniform below. I can look back with pride and with no regrets for my service as a soldier. I would eagerly serve my country again, anywhere, anytime.

A Tale of an Army Tent

An army tent is a perfect place
To think about your wife.
If you’ve never tried that, my friend,
You’re wasting away your life.

The warmth of the pot-bellied stove
Is like her warm arms around me.
The cold, hard cot is my bed
When she is gone.

The sound of the lantern burning
Is water she left to boil.
The ringing of the field telephone
Is my child crying.

The cold wind blowing in the door
Is my love when she is angry,
And the rustling it makes
Causes my canvas house to shake.

The warm coffee on my lips
Are her lips, and the touch makes me warm inside.
You know, my friend, an army tent
Is nothing at all like home.

—Richard H. Taylor, 1971

A final postscript occurred after this manuscript was boxed for delivery to the publisher. A letter arrived from our daughter, a medic in the 3d Armored Cavalry. She was on her way to the battle zone of Iraqi Freedom.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I made it on the plane and am surprised how great the flight was. One of the flight attendants was a nurse in Vietnam…. The support is what makes this worth it. It’s been great to just hear a ‘Thank You!’

Love

Amy

Someone wrote the following on Amy’s envelope: “We were deeply honored to have served your very brave soldier today! Thank you.

—United Crew/Flight 9956.

History does repeat itself.