In the mornings, as I wheeled to work along the corridors of the Pentagon, with my last drink only an hour or two behind me, I scanned the ribbons of the uniformed officers and enlisted men I passed. I was looking for evidence of the shared experience of combat in Vietnam, as if finding it in others would reaffirm what I had endured and would give meaning to my experience. When, as was usually the case, I failed to see a single chest that bore a combat decoration or a Purple Heart, I began to despise the rear-echelon soldiers I was encountering. What right had any of them, I thought, to draw pay or wear the uniform when they had been spared the hardship of real soldiering?

Unable to find what I was searching for among the military members with whom I shared office space, I often spent my lunch hour alone in the stacks of the Pentagon library. There, among the dusty monographs and military treatises on operations and campaigns in Vietnam that had once seemed of paramount importance, I relived in words and pictures experiences that for most Americans were, if not downright alien, now only dimly remembered. Yet despite the single-mindedness of my forays into the recent past of Vietnam, I was unable to form any judgments or reach any conclusions that eased the anguish I was carrying.

One Sunday night after a weekend of almost continu-ous drinking, I was sitting alone in the den watching televi-

L

sion and dreading the thought of five consecutive days of work. Toddy and the children had read my black mood and wisely chosen to take refuge downstairs. As I absentmind-edly switched the channels on the television set, I happened upon a documentary about Vietnam veterans, and I settled back, beer in hand, to see if the reporting was in accord with my experience. Ever sensitive to the distorted image that I believed most newscasters had given Vietnam veterans, I needed only a few minutes to become enraged at the narrator of this documentary.

Before I fully comprehended the consequences of my actions, I had picked up a poker from the fireplace and thrust it through the television screen. When Toddy and the children came running upstairs to see what the commotion was all about, I brandished the fireplace tool and, in an unnaturally calm voice that belied my emotional state, explained that the television had made me angry. The children burst into tears immediately, and as Toddy took them back to their bedrooms to comfort them, it dawned on me that I had just destroyed a four-hundred-dollar television set and I could not even remember the offensive words that had set me off. Later in the evening, when Toddy had gotten Lewis and Maggie to sleep, she joined me in the den and thankfully did not press me for an explanation. She did tell me, however, that my little rampage was the first honest emotion she had seen coming from me in months.

In the middle of August we traveled to Europe for a ten-day vacation with my twin sister and her family, who were on an overseas tour of duty in the Netherlands. Toddy had decided that a vacation might be just the right tonic for my melancholy state, and since we had a standing invitation to visit Mike and Martha, the opportunity seemed too good to pass up. I dried out for several days prior to our departure because I feared that I would not have sufficient access to alcohol to maintain my usual blood alcohol level while we were away from home.

Mike met us at the airport in Frankfurt, and while driving us to meet Martha and the rest of the family, where they lived in Holland, he explained that we would use their home as a base of operations for the next week and take day trips

I

Lewis B. Puller, Jr. 405

to Belgium, France, and Germany. When we got to their home, I was relieved to fmd that the refrigerator was stocked with enough beer and wine to hold me comfortably. I started drinking immediately and over the course of the next week had drunk enough of the native wines and beers of each of the countries we visited to qualify as an expert.

At the end of the week we parted company with Mike and Martha and, with our children in tow, boarded a plane for London and the last three days of our vacation. Because I had increased my intake of alcohol during the previous week I now needed alcohol more frequently to be comfortable. Unfortunately it was less available in our London hotel than it had been in Mike and Martha's kitchen. Hard liquor also cost twice as much in London as it did in the United States, and British law forbade our taking the children into pubs. Beaten at every turn, I was therefore miserable for most of our time in London. Toddy did her best to ignore me, but despite her best efforts to maintain a cheerful appearance in front of Lewis and Maggie, the vacation was quickly turning sour.

On the day before we were to return home, we stopped at a department store to buy a bottle of bourbon. Toddy went inside with Lewis to make the purchase, leaving Maggie and me on the street comer outside, and before she had been gone five minutes, a woman walked up to me and handed me money. Several times in the previous three days I had rejected similar offers, but this time I decided to play along. I unfolded the paper note the woman gave me and dropped it in my lap so that the passersby could see it. Within minutes several more women handed me money, and by the time Toddy returned fifteen or twenty minutes later, I had gathered enough currency to cover the cost of the bourbon. Maggie was dumbfounded by the experience, the likes of which had never happened at home, but I took a perverse satisfaction from knowing that if alcohol made my life much worse, I could always move to London and eke out an existence as a street person.

As soon as we returned home and I resumed work, I started drinking more heavily than before. Within a short time I was getting out of bed at least twice a night to go to

the refrigerator for wine, and the only relief from the pain I was feeling came from the bottle that was causing the pain. Often I just sat quietly in my wheelchair in the living room after I had refueled and waited for the blessed numbness of alcohol to spread throughout my body. At four o'clock in the morning, with the house silent and almost totally dark, I was now in a world of my own, and I wondered if I would ever rejoin the world of the living. I was now drinking to eliminate all feeling rather than drinking to feel good, as I had for so many years, and I knew that I lacked the energy to continue the charade for much longer.

On the Monday before Labor Day of 1981 I stopped off at a liquor store on my way to work and bought a pint of vodka. I had never before drunk at work during the day, but I had now gotten to the point that I seriously questioned whether I could last eight hours without a drink. On Monday and Tuesday I took small drinks from my pint throughout the day, and no one at work seemed any the wiser. On Wednesday at lunchtime I went back to the same liquor store and purchased another pint, and by Friday evening, when I got ready to go home, all but a couple of ounces were gone. By now I was leaving for work drunk every morning, staying drunk all day, and returning to my family drunk. I dreaded the weekend. I did not know which way to turn, but I knew I needed help badly. Somehow I managed to make it through Friday evening without giving myself away, and on Saturday morning Toddy had a political meeting that kept her away from the house for most of the morning. While she was gone, I drank the better part of a half gallon of wine, and when she returned home, she found me incoherent and back in bed. My drunken state was no longer a secret, and she immediately called the psychiatric unit at Bethesda Naval Hospital, where I had been a patient almost two years earlier.

On the way to the hospital Toddy, steering the car with one hand and wiping away tears with the other, asked me over and over why I was drunk and out of control on a Saturday

morning. It was a fair question for which I had no answer, and when we got to the emergency room, the admitting doctor very wisely chose to separate us as soon as possible. Toddy was told that there was nothing more she could do to help, and she was sent home to await a prognosis on the miserable wretch she had married. I was given a preliminary interview, about which I remember almost nothing, and a blood alcohol test that measured more than twice the legal limit for intoxication in Virginia. I was then escorted back to the same ward where I had previously been a patient and unceremoniously poured into bed in a private cubicle at the end of the ward. Sometime later that afternoon I was awakened by a navy corpsman for more questions, after which I slept until the next morning.

I remained in isolation for another two days and went through the by now familiar shakes and cold sweats associated with withdrawal, and I was then assigned a bed in the main part of the unit. With the alcohol out of my system I actually began to feel pretty good physically except that for the first two weeks of being alcohol-free I was able to sleep for no more than an hour or two a night. Mentally, however, I was a complete wreck and was convinced I would never again be able to hold my head up. I also knew that I would never be able to drink again. That realization, signifying the end of a relationship that had sustained me for twenty years, triggered in me a sense of loss that I was not at all certain I could handle. I was truly terrified at the prospect of living the rest of my life without alcohol, and I mourned its loss with a grief as palpable as any I could have mustered had a loved one been taken from me.

On my first day out of detox a doctor stopped by to give me his diagnosis of my condition. He was accompanied by an army colonel whose ribbon-bedecked chest bore testimony to heavy combat in Viemam but whose role in my recovery was beyond my understanding. As my eyes darted back and forth from the doctor to the colonel, the doctor informed me that his review of my record indicated that I was a mid- to late-stage alcoholic. No one had ever called me an alcoholic before, and I was appalled to be hearing that at age thirty-six I had already advanced to the latter stages. He

then told me that I was to be transferred to a twenty-eight-day civilian alcohol rehabilitation program downtown and that I had best take it seriously if I expected to survive to age forty. Before I could protest or ask any questions, he told me that he thought I might benefit from what a recovering alcoholic who was dealing successfully with his illness had to say, and he introduced the colonel.

For the next twenty minutes I listened to a tale of degradation and violence-filled anecdotes the likes of which I had seen only in the movies. The colonel described blackouts that lasted for days at a time, shoot-outs with policemen, and automobile wrecks that left the highways strewn with human carnage. When he had taken himself to the very depths of despair, he then described a conversion that had freed him from alcohol and a rebuilding of his life. He concluded by telling me that he had not had a drink in more than three years, and he gave me a book with a blue jacket and told me to read the first seventy pages.

After the doctor and the colonel had left, I put the book on my nightstand and tried to analyze what had just taken place. Other than the fact that the colonel was a decorated Vietnam veteran, I felt that we had very little in common, and I could certainly not see myself doing any of the things that he had done in the late stages of his alcoholism. By the time my tray arrived for dinner I was still smarting from having been called a mid- to late-stage alcoholic, but while I might quibble over what stage I was in, there was no doubt in my mind that I was an alcoholic.

What really stood out from the visit I had just been paid, however, and what I could not get out of my mind were the doctor's description of alcoholism as an illness and the colonel's not having had a drink for more than three years. If what I had was an illness that could be controlled by abstinence from alcohol, perhaps it was possible that I could someday resume a normal life. Certainly, I thought, the colonel was living proof that it could be done.

If my hopes for the future had been rekindled by my visitors that afternoon, they received a setback after dinner when I picked up the book I had been given and read the assigned pages. The beginning of the book made the point that

any attempt to recover from alcoholism had to start with an admission by the alcoholic that he was, in fact, an alcoholic.

"So far, so good," I thought, but as I read on, the next stage in the recovery process seemed to be predicated on a belief in a higher power that could restore the shambles I had made of my life. Although I finished reading the seventy pages suggested by the colonel, what there was of my spiritual stock had been so depleted over the last couple of years that I was not certain the concept of a higher power had much bearing on my situation. I still believed in God, but I had not prayed since Vietnam and my hospitalization, and if this higher power concept required adherence to any formal religion, it was not for me.

Putting the book back on the nightstand, I lay against the pillow on my bed and considered my situation. I had just been detoxed for the third or fourth time of the summer, and every time I resumed drinking I drank myself into oblivion. Things had gotten so out of hand that I was now a virtual prisoner in a psychiatric ward, and the next step was four weeks in a rehab unit. I knew that my life was at a crossroads and that I badly needed directions or alcohol was going to take everything from me. Already my self-respect was gone, and it was a miracle that I still had a job and the love of a wonderful woman and two fine children.

"God help me," I thought, and as tears began to roll down my cheeks, I said the words aloud for the first time in years in a desperate plea for help.

At the end of the week arrangements were completed for my transfer to the Psychiatric Institute of Washington, and Toddy picked me up for the trip across town. She had been advised to take me directly to the facility without any stops where I might be tempted to drink, and I did not argue the point. During the ride our efforts at conversation were hesitant and strained, almost, it seemed to me, as if we had been apart for years and were just getting reacquainted. I asked about the children, who Toddy assured me were getting along fine, and she made small talk about what other items I would need other than those that she had packed for me. When we got to PI, she stayed just long enough to see that I was checked in, kissed me lightly on the lips, and pre-

pared to leave. At the door on the way out she turned and waved good-bye, and although her familiar tight-lipped smile was firnily in place, I now knew it masked many months of pain and disappointment.

After I had filled out the admissions forms and been given a physical, I was taken to the elevator and delivered to the staff of the alcoholism unit on the second floor. A counselor met me as I exited the elevator, introduced herself, and showed me to a room containing two single beds separated by a desk and two dressers. As I unpacked, I could see ten or fifteen people sitting in a circle of chairs in a dayroom across the hall from my room. The group was about equally divided between men and women and appeared to range in age from mid-twenties to late sixties. The counselor explained to me that the patients across the hall were having a discussion session as part of their therapy and that I would be joining them the next morning.

During the remainder of the afternoon I was interviewed by a staff psychiatrist, who jotted down notes while I gave her a history of my life, and by the head of the unit, himself a recovering alcoholic, who explained what was expected of me and what I could expect from my stay at PI. Basically the program seemed pretty simple and not unlike what I had encountered at Bethesda. Each week the schedule would be posted on the bulletin board in the hall, and I, like everyone else, was to show up on time for activities, and refrain from drinking or using drugs. By the time I got back to my room the meeting in the dayroom had broken up, and the other patients were back in their rooms or milling about in the hall, waiting to be sunmioned for dinner in the cafeteria downstairs.

As I entered my room. Bob, my roommate, got up off the far bed and came over to shake hands. He told me that he, too, was a Vietnam veteran and that he had two more weeks of rehab remaining of his twenty-eight days. He also told me that all the other patients had been informed that a double amputee in a wheelchair would be joining their group today. I understood that someone had probably paired us because we both were Viemam veterans; but I took an

immediate dislike to Bob for the familiarity he assumed with me, and I was glad he would be gone in two weeks.

Before I had a chance to revise my first impression, half a dozen other patients stopped by to welcome me to the group, and when the signal was given for dinner, we all went down together. During dinner I was surprised at how openly my newfound companions talked about their alcoholism as well as how full of hope they seemed for the future. They were only a week to a month ahead of me in their sobriety, yet it seemed to me that they were aeons ahead on the route to recovery. I decided that the prudent course was to say as little as possible and keep my ears open, and no one seemed to take my silence for unfriendliness.

After dinner I was told that we would be allowed half an hour of free time, divided into two groups, and then driven by buses to evening meetings of recovering alcoholics somewhere in the Washington area. When I pressed for more details, I was told that there were eight hundred such meetings a week in the metropolitan area and that evening meetings generally started at eight-thirty and lasted for one hour. There were discussion meetings, at which some topic relevant to alcohol was the subject; speaker meetings, where two recovering alcoholics would each take half an hour to tell their stories; and step meetings, at which one of the twelve steps to recovery would be the subject. I had no idea what the twelve steps were, but since my group was going to a speaker meeting that evening, I decided to save further questions for later. There was an embarrassing moment before we boarded the bus for the meeting at a church in downtown Washington until I showed two of the stronger-looking young men in our group how to assist me with the wheelchair. After that, locomotion was never a problem, as volunteers scrambled to help me whenever I got on or off the bus or needed help with steps at meetings.

When we entered the church for my first meeting, our little group of eight or nine patients was quickly absorbed by a crowd of at least a hundred well-dressed men and women. Self-conscious at first, I quickly realized that my presence had little, if any, effect on the congregation, and I

found an inconspicuous spot at the back of the room and studied the revehy taking place about me. Everywhere I looked people seemed to be hugging each other, laughing, and conversing as if in celebration of some special occasion. I had expected a group of joyless unshaven old men in gray raincoats, and I was astounded to find a fairly typical cross section of men and women, each one an alcoholic, who seemed to be not only getting by but thriving without alcohol. Before I could reconcile my astonishment, a young woman stepped up to the podium at the front of the room and rapped her knuckles against its wooden top.

The crowd immediately fell silent, and she began the meeting by saying, "Hi, Fm Jill, and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hi, Jill," the crowd roared back, and I was struck by the collective enthusiasm of the response.

She then read from a palm-size card a brief message about sharing experience, strength, and hope and helping others recover from alcoholism. As she read, she appeared absolutely radiant and completely at peace with the world, and I knew that I wanted what she and the others in this hallowed place had found. After she had finished, she announced that she was celebrating one year without a drink, and the assemblage again burst into tumultuous applause. When it had quieted, she introduced a speaker who told a story in the same vein as the one I had heard from the army colonel, and he was then followed by a second speaker.

So absorbed was I with the strange phenomenon I was witnessing and the profound effect it had on me that I paid very little attention to the actual content of the two speeches. When it was over, the crowd rose from their chairs, and the strangers on either side of me extended their hands to grasp mine. Within seconds a human chain had formed involving every person in the room, and the young woman leading the meeting began reciting the Lord's Prayer, in which everyone joined.

When it was over, my hands were squeezed by the strangers beside me, and the crowd shouted in unison, "Keep coming back. It works." I thought: "Indeed, it does work," and I desperately hoped I had found safe passage from my wayward course.

Later that night, as I lay wide-awake in my bed at the Psychiatric Institute while Bob snored across the room, I could hardly wait for dawn and the start of a new day. I felt suffused with energy and alive in a way that I had not felt in years. I also knew I was being given a third chance at life, and though apprehensive that I would not avail myself of it, I longed to succeed. It had been just a few hours short of one week since my last drink, and I suddenly realized that the compulsion to drink, which for years had occupied most of my waking hours, had miraculously been lifted from me. Now if I could just get some sleep, I thought, I would truly be a new man.

The next several days kept me occupied learning the routines of life in an alcohol rehabilitation unit, but while I was intellectually curious about the process, I resented the limitations on my freedom. Essentially a loner, I did not adapt easily to the emphasis on group activity, and I despised several of the staff members who seemed to revel in the authority given them. Nevertheless, I was aware that the present constraints on my liberty would be short-lived, and in any event, they paled by comparison with the slavelike existence to which my dependence on alcohol had reduced me. Each evening we were taken to a meeting in a different part of town, and my anticipation of those nightly trips helped sustain me during the day.

At the first discussion meeting I attended, a group leader began by reading the same paragraph I had heard at my first meeting. He then gave a brief description of his alcoholism, introduced a topic, and called for volunteers to speak. As the volunteers were called upon, they prefaced their remarks by saying their first names, followed by the phrase "and I'm an alcoholic" or "I am powerless over alcohol" or something similar. After the leader had run out of volunteers, he began picking people at random, and ten minutes before the meeting ended, he called on me.

Self-conscious at being singled out, I could feel the color rising in my cheeks, but before I knew what I was doing, I had blurted out, "Hi, I'm Lew, and I'm an alcoholic." For years I had known that I was, but until that moment I had never acknowledged my alcoholism to another

person, much less a group of strangers. Despite the awkwardness of the moment, I was overcome by such a feeling of relief following my initial admission that I spoke easily for the next couple of minutes about some topic related to alcoholism for which I was hopelessly unprepared. When the meeting ended with the customary hand holding and recitation of the Lord's Prayer, there was no doubt in my mind that I was in the right place.

Late in my first week a new patient arrived, and she was a painful reminder of how I had been two weeks earlier. Lucille came in kicking and screaming, and like me, she had to endure two days in the relative isolation of detox before she was anything approaching fit company. Sometime during her second day another patient, who had almost completed rehabilitation, came back from an afternoon pass with a single flower, and she had the flower placed in a Dixie cup at Lucille's bedside. It was a simple act, one alcoholic reaching out to share with another, and despite the fact that they did not know each other, I felt as if they had been friends all their lives. I do not know to this day if the placing of that flower on Lucille's nightstand had any effect on her, and I have long since forgotten the name and face of Lucille's benefactor, but her gesture of kindness is with me forever.

As I emerged from the alcoholic fog of years, my physical and mental state began to improve. On the physical side the tremors, which of late had so frequently sent me to the bottle well before breakfast time, abated almost immediately after I arrived at PL I took so much satisfaction in being rid of the shakes that for several weeks during and after my rehabilitation, I would practice writing my signature over and over on a blank piece of paper and marvel at its legibility. I also stopped throwing up after meals and quickly came to see that while I had been blaming my queasy stomach on the ulcer surgery I received after being wounded, I was really practicing a form of denial of my alcoholism. My senses also seemed to sharpen as I put more distance between myself and my last drink, and there were times when my restored sensitivity to colors, shapes, textures, sounds, and tastes was so joyously exquisite as to be

almost uncomfortable. Several of the patients had radios, and I found new pleasure in old songs that for ages had meant no more to me than background noise. Similarly, the simple act of biting into an ordinary hamburger became for me a celebratory act.

Mentally the first and most noticeable improvements were the restoration of my memory and a renewed ability to grasp detail. After a couple of weeks of working with the group and going to meetings every night, I realized that I could recall not only the names of everyone who had spoken but entire sequences of conversations. As I improved and became more sure of myself, I also began to open myself to further stimulation, and I could almost feel the wall I had carefully constructed toward the end of my drinking to keep outsiders at bay begin to crumble. As it collapsed, I began to look outward rather than inward, and my isolation gave way to an intense curiosity about the other patients with whom I was forced to mingle and to a growing admiration for the strangers I saw each night.

During my twenty-eight days in rehabilitation, proximity and the common bond of alcoholism drew many patients together into a tight-knit group, and in reaching out and trying to share their perspectives, I gained new insights into the nature of alcoholism and the alcoholic. Most of us were in treatment because we had reached rock bottom and, in the parlance of alcoholics, because we were sick and tired of being sick and tired. Some came voluntarily, some were conmiitted, and a few, it seemed to me, had become patients not because of problems with alcohol but because of problems with life. An alarming, though small, number of the patients were among us because of relapse, and toward the end of my stay a middle-aged woman arrived who had been through ten twenty-eight-day programs.

My roommate. Bob, I discovered early, was a repeater who had checked himself in after drinking one beer at the end of a year's sobriety. When he narrated the circumstances surrounding his second admission, I was incredulous that he had taken such a drastic measure over something so seemingly trivial. My impression was soon confirmed that

he was one of those whose problems with life had driven them to a safe but temporary haven.

Two days before Bob was supposed to be released and after a week of being alternately subdued or disagreeable, he raised his hand during a men-only group discussion meeting and began talking about his childhood. As the story unfolded, he revealed that he and an older sister were frequently abused sexually at the same time by the single father who raised them. He then described how his own resulting sexual dysfunction had led him into having intercourse with farm animals, brutalizing his wife on their honeymoon, and most recently being seriously tempted to abuse their young daughter.

When Bob finished his confession, I glanced around the room to see if the other patients were as horrified as I. Most of the other men appeared impassive, and after a few moments another speaker shifted the conversation onto safer grounds. None of us ever mentioned the matter in my remaining days at PI, but over the years I have often wondered if I did the wrong thing by restraining my impulse to run screaming from the room. Bob was crying out for help, if not for himself, at least for his daughter, and we were unable or unwilling to provide it. Two days later he was gone, and I saw clearly that even three hundred dollars a day in a rehab program was not going to be enough to keep all our personal demons at bay.

Although during the first half of my rehabilitation I was apprehensive about the adjustments I was forced to make inside, I worried during the last two weeks about going back out into the world. I wondered how I was going to face life without the crutch of alcohol, and I wondered how I would deal with temptation when alcohol was again readily available. Fortunately all the other patients had the same concerns, and we spent hour after hour in discussion groups addressing our fears. Our rehabilitation was geared toward returning us to an alcohol-ft"ee productive life, and in gaining an insight into my own alcoholism and the devastation wrought by my addiction, I was learning valuable coping skills. Most of the counselors were themselves recovering

alcoholics, and they tried to impart to us the lessons they had learned to ease our minds and help us prepare to leave.

From the start of my rehabilitation I was eager to learn all I could about alcoholism and the recovery process, but by my last few days as a patient I had been bombarded with so much information that I was having trouble keeping it all in perspective. We were lectured by medical specialists and alcoholics, shown slides and educational movies, given endless books and pamphlets, drawn out in group therapy and discussion groups, and taken to every possible kind of evening meeting of alcoholics. The pithy phrase as a memory device seemed to be the common denominator of much of my education on alcoholism, and in my twenty-eight days I heard many of them over and over:

"One day at a time."

"Easy does it."

"Keep the plug in the jug."

"Don't drink and go to meetings."

"It works if you work it."

"Walk the walk instead of talking the talk."

'Turn it over."

"First things first."

"Live and let live."

Also, "Avoid getting hungry, angry, lonely, and tired (HALT)," and on and on until I felt I was being programmed.

Midway through my last week at PI I experienced the final and most dreaded ordeal that each patient had to endure before being released. A sort of trial by fire, it was called the hot seat and involved sitting in the middle of a circle surrounded by the group and a few key staff members. Each member of the group was free to criticize the person in the hot seat, to ask personal questions relating to recovery, or, in some cases, to offer encouragement. I had seen this process get nasty on a couple of occasions and knew just how unpleasant it could be if the subject deserved it and the inquisitors were skilled.

Not wishing to be given a difficult time, I had tried not to arouse any animosity preceding my turn, but I was still

apprehensive. After I had moved to the center of the room and locked the brakes of my wheelchair, I made a point of trying to acknowledge as many of my comrades as I could by either gesture or eye contact before the start. One of the counselors led off by asking me if I thought I was ready for the outside, and when I responded that I was not certain but I hoped so, she nodded approvingly. The opening exchange helped set a favorable tone because each succeeding question or comment was either neutral or complimentary, and within five minutes it was over.

As I sat congratulating myself and wondering why I had spent days fretting over such an absurdly simple exercise, a small voice inside my head reminded me that on this occasion, like many others, my physical condition had probably blunted any potential slings and arrows. For more than ten years that same condition had discouraged friends and family from criticizing my drinking, I realized, and ultimately they had done me no favors by holding their tongues.

When Toddy picked me up on Friday afternoon, I was eager to put my time in rehabilitation behind me but mindful that I needed to keep using the tools I had been given. I was also worried that everyone I knew would be talking about me behind my back, but the counselor who had helped me through my hot seat told me that I was far less important than I thought and that most of my acquaintances would probably not even have missed me. She then told me, as I had been told countless times in the last four weeks, to try to go to ninety meetings in ninety days after I got home. I had been given a directory of times and places of meetings in the northern Virginia area, a phone contact in the Pentagon, and a prescription for Antabuse, a pill that, taken daily, would make me ill if I tried to mix it with alcohol. Finally I had a small book on living sober tucked away in my overnight bag.

"Read it for inspiration," the woman had said in presenting it to me at my meeting the night before. I had seen her on several occasions at meetings in the previous month, but I knew nothing about her except that she was a recov-

ering alcoholic. Inside on the flyleaf she had penned a note of hope: "You are about to enter a new and wonderful life."

With only a portion of the weekend remaining, I tried to reintegrate myself with Toddy and the children before resuming work on Monday. I had talked to Toddy by telephone several times a week throughout my absence, and on one Sunday afternoon near the end of treatment she had brought the children out for a picnic at a grassy area near PI. At that time Lewpy had volunteered the opinion that he and Maggie did not think my drinking had been so bad, and I knew then that my children were trying hard to put the best twist on the discovery of their father's alcoholism.

I had been taught in treatment not to rush the topic of alcoholism with my family, and I knew that I could make better amends to them by remaining sober than by explaining my situation. Yet in those first weeks at home with all the newfound energy of a man freed of a terrible debilitating illness, it was difficult not to force my enthusiasm on the rest of my family. In addition, I had to remember that for the last month I had been living in an environment that encouraged frank and open discussion of alcoholism, while my family inhabited a world where the subject was still taboo. Nevertheless, by Sunday night I thought that we all were getting along reasonably well, and I knew Toddy could see that sober, I was going to be a better person to live with despite some adjustments each of us would have to make.

At work on Monday my boss and I had a frank discussion about the things I would be doing to maintain my sobriety, and the rest of the office did not seem to know or care that I had been gone for five weeks. I had gotten a similar reaction from our next-door neighbors when we arrived home on Friday, and at least in these instances I was relieved to conclude that as my counselor had suggested, I was not as important as I thought. No one seemed to have missed me, and I was just as glad.

When I dialed the number I had been told to call for a contact within the Pentagon, a woman with a pleasant voice answered and identified herself as being part of a civilian counseling group. After I explained my situation, she told me that there were noon meetings on Tuesdays and Thurs-

L.

days in the Pentagon. She then gave me a room number where the meetings took place, told me that her name was Karen, and said she hoped to see me the next day.

Several times over the course of the next few hours I opened my bottom desk drawer and looked at the vodka bottle I had not been able to finish before my last drunk at work. I thought it odd that the same bottle I would have moved mountains for only weeks earlier had now lost its allure. On the way home from work that evening I carried my bottle into the men's room and wheeled into the nearest stall. After a few moments' reflection, I backed out of the stall, deposited my cargo in the trash container, and with my errand completed headed out of the building toward my car. I had no desire to drink, but I was still too sick to pour perfectly good vodka down the toilet.

While a patient in treatment, I had been warned that many alcoholics, after breaking their addiction, experience a period of exhilaration commonly referred to as a pink cloud. I realized toward the end of my stay that I was experiencing the phenomenon. I also knew that it would probably not last long and that it could dissipate quite easily as a consequence of any sort of emotional upheaval. Oddly, even in the midst of my euphoria I began to turn again to my Vietnam experience and to the unresolved issues concerning it that my drinking had kept in abeyance. With a clear head for the first time in years, I felt robust and alive but also painfully compelled to come to terms with my past. I rejoiced in my sobriety, but I knew that I must use it wisely if I was ever going to achieve the serenity I had witnessed in other recovering alcoholics.

During my first week back at work I opened the newspaper one morning to discover that a troublesome controversy had surfaced over the design of the Vietnam Memorial. A disgruntled combat veteran had testified in a 'public forum that he viewed the memorial as a black gash of shame, which, instead of honoring those who had died in Vietnam, called their sacrifice into question. Although I did not know the speaker, I knew that with two Purple Hearts, he had paid the dues to express his beliefs. When I put the article down, I was confused and upset because until now I

had viewed the memorial with hope as a symbol that would pull the country together and offer some reconciliation of the conflicting emotions about the war that haunted me. In the ensuing weeks and months I was relieved to find that the negativism about the memorial expressed in the news account was not shared by the majority of Vietnam veterans who expressed their views.

As my recovery progressed, I focused my attention more sharply on events leading to the construction of the memorial, and in a sense I came to believe that its progress and my own progress were twin facets of a divine plan and not mere circumstance. The healing process that was at work within me, I felt, also inhabited the granite and concrete that were going to take form in the memorial, and I was inmiensely hopeful about what was taking place.

Throughout that fall and winter my recovery, like the anticipated construction of the memorial, seemed to proceed by fits and starts. On my second day back at work I attended the noon meeting of alcoholics in the Pentagon to which Karen had invited me. The meeting was small, consisting of about eight or ten men and women, several of whom were in uniform, and I was ill at ease as a newcomer in a strange group. Karen came over as soon as I arrived and introduced herself. She was attractive with long brown ringlets and a ready smile, and although she was younger than 1 by half a dozen years, her bearing suggested an older woman. She, too, was an alcoholic and, as I was to learn, given to calling a spade a spade in language that would shame a combat marine when she sensed dishonesty. After the meeting she suggested that I spend several sessions with her as a follow-up to my time in treatment, and I accepted her offer readily. I had already decided not to participate in aftercare at PI, and time with Karen would be a convenient substitute since I would not need to leave the Pentagon.

Over the next months I ran myself ragged trying to keep up with my job and complete ninety meetings in ninety days. Fortunately I was able to locate half a dozen meetings within a two-mile radius of home, and with the two noon meetings a week at the Pentagon I was spared having to go out on Tuesday and Thursday evenings. Nev-

ertheless, I was exhausted from putting so much effort into my recovery, and I breathed more easily when I had met my quota by January. After that I gradually settled into a routine of two to three meetings a week, and with the less hectic schedule I was able to achieve a satisfactory comfort level.

It is said of recovering alcoholics that their progress is noticed first by those with whom they come in contact rather than by themselves, and to an extent the observation held true in my case. Early in my recovery I was so grateful to have my evenings back that I would continue conversations with Toddy long past the time when we both should have been sleeping. Because our conmiunication had been so poor while I was drinking, she humored me until I became less compulsive in my talking, but I knew that she was pleased to have me cheerful instead of brooding for a change.

One Saturday in January we went out to run an errand, and in the car we made small talk and joked with each other. It was an ordinary moment by most standards, a husband and wife exchanging pleasantries on a winter day, but my wife saw the occasion as being in such stark contrast with earlier trips we had made that she reached over and squeezed my hand.

"It is so good to have you back," she said, and I was warmed by her words and by the return to intimacy between us.

The children, too, saw the change, and though Lewpy was initially reticent about discussing my alcoholism, he became more vocal as I improved. Maggie asked almost immediately why I had stopped taking naps on the sofa after dinner, and Toddy and I exchanged smiles over our daughter's charitable use of the word nap.

While my sharing with other alcohohcs in and out of meetings was crucial to the early stages of my recovery, it was by no means a panacea for the egotistical thinking and rationalization my abuse of alcohol had helped me sustain. I was sick, physically, mentally, and spiritually when I hit bottom and was finally made to confront my alcoholism. As I began mending, most of the other recovering alcoholics who reached out to me, like most people I encountered

while a practicing alcoholic, tended to withhold the criticism I needed to get better. I knew that my physical condition led well-meaning people to be lenient in dealing with me, and just because I had stopped drinking did not mean that I had, all at once, become willing to forgo the manipulation of sympathy to obtain my ends. Karen was the exception. As a professional counselor, a recovering alcoholic, and a damned tough woman to boot she recognized self-serving behavior, no matter how well disguised, and she refused to tolerate it.

At our first counseling session together she told me that like me, she liked most recovering alcoholics but that my charm and articulation could less euphemistically be labeled bullshit. I tried to dodge her criticism by saying that I was glad we had gotten to be such friends so quickly, but she refused to be sidetracked.

"Lewis," she continued, "it has been my experience that you must change yourself to escape drinking again. You have got to learn to get outside yourself, or all the work you have done will be for naught."

At that moment and for some time afterward, I wanted to best Karen in the competition I thought she had begun, but I gradually came to see both the wisdom of her words and die fact that she did not regard me as an opponent

In the closing months of 1981 and the early part of the new year, I followed with keen interest the vicissitudes of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. On the positive side, funding for the memorial topped eight million dollars, the majority of which came in individual contributions of ten dollars or less. It appeared to me that the wherewithal was in place to build the memorial, and I was most proud that the government that had shattered the lives of so many of us had not been called upon to contribute one red cent. We had gone to war to do our country's bidding, to offer up our lives and limbs without thought of personal reward. But we had come home to indifference and rejection on the part of the government that demanded of us so much, and I thought it partic-

ularly fitting that it now be excluded from taking any credit for such a powerful symbol of the healing process. I was also pleased to learn that in conjunction with the expected completion date of the memorial, November 1982, a national salute to Vietnam veterans would be held. Even if such an event was coming ten or fifteen years too late, it would at least help validate the service we had given.

On the negative side, a few art critics, writers, and prominent Vietnam veterans, including some for whom I had profound admiration, continued to voice criticism of the memorial's design. There was even an organized, though short-lived, movement within Congress to have the Reagan administration block its construction. A construction permit was needed from James Watt, the secretary of the interior, before the project could move forward, and he withheld his approval until mid-March after a series of gut-wrenching compromises were made. I was angry that so many professional critics, politicians, and government officials, most of whom had not been even remotely touched by the Vietnam War, now felt compelled to dictate the conditions under which the memorial should be built. Nevertheless, I had no real argument with the final decision to add an appropriately placed flag and statue. Against the political infighting and empire building that appeared to be taking place in Washington, however, the country seemed almost solidly behind the concept of a memorial and its basic design.

When the building permit was issued, Jan Scruggs, John Wheeler, Bob Doubek, and the dozens of others who had worked so tirelessly for the memorial knew for the first time that their dream was only months away from becoming a reality. The healing process that I and the country so badly needed would continue, and my sense of excitement and anticipation was becoming visceral in a way that would not ' have been possible had I still been drinking.

In January, some four months after I had taken my last drink, I was asked to lead the Tuesday noon meeting at the Pentagon. I had never led one before, and I was apprehen-

sive about sharing what I had learned with alcohoHcs who were Hght-years ahead of me in recovery, but Karen assured me that it was a sign of my progress that I had been asked to lead. Over the weekend before the meeting I picked and rejected half a dozen topics for discussion before deciding on the subject of serenity, how to find it and how to keep it.

At the appointed hour I wheeled to the head of the table from which the leader usually spoke, introduced myself as a recovering alcoholic, and began by reading the now-familiar preamble that starts most meetings. I then spent ten minutes describing to the group the journey that had brought me there, and I asked for further directions on the path to serenity. Several in the group suggested that serenity was most readily attainable by praying and by working through the prescribed twelve steps, and when the next speaker mentioned focusing on others rather than oneself, Karen nodded her head approvingly at the back of the room. When Karen's turn to comment came, she told me that the recovering alcoholic gets well first physically, then mentally, and finally spiritually. She went on to say that the spiritual aspect of recovery is the most difficult but also the most precious and that without a spiritual component, at least for her, serenity would be impossible.

Later that evening, before going to sleep, I thought about how the meeting had turned out, and I tried to sort through the advice I had been given. Several members of the group had complimented me on leading a good meeting after it was over; but that was fairly common, and I knew that they were trying to put me at ease. Karen's words, however, continued to echo in my mind as I thought about the three aspects of recovery she had cited. I knew that I was improving physically. After all, I no longer shook or threw up in the toilet, and I had even begun working out and lifting weights. Mentally I was alert and able to concentrate once more, although that was sometimes a mixed blessing since Vietnam was of late so much in my thoughts.

I was stumped, however, by the idea of spiritual recovery. It then occurred to me that perhaps the path to it began, as Karen had suggested, in getting outside myself. And if I

could do that, I suddenly realized, my preoccupation with Vietnam might diminish and allow me some peace of mind. My radio operator had told me to pray years earlier when he had seen how badly I was wounded, and now years later, when I was wounded in spirit, I was getting the same advice.

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference," I said, repeating the words of the serenity prayer that is frequently recited in meetings.

Someone else at a meeting had told me that if I could not pray, I could at least act as if I were praying and that eventusdly I would find myself actually praying.

After four or five sessions with Karen we came to an understanding that I had stabilized to the point that I no longer needed to see her professionally. I knew it was a healthy development to be able to let her go, but she had been such a help to me in sharing her wisdom that a part of me wanted to continue the relationship. Initially I had viewed my time with Karen as a contest of wills, but she had declined to accept the challenge. In so doing, she had shown me that serenity for recovering alcoholics required an acceptance of one's powerlessness over people, places, and things in much the same way that it required an acceptance of powerlessness over alcohol.

"Victory is only possible through surrender," she had told me.

When I first heard her words, I was incredulous. I had been raised never to back away from a fight, to view surrender as the ultimate dishonor, and the Marine Corps had reinforced those childhood lessons. When I protested, she pointed out that I was not able to begin recovering from alcoholism until I recognized that alcohol had beaten me.

"Taking it a step further," she had continued, "you will come to believe that a higher power is at work in your life and that it is her will rather than yours that must be done if you are to remain sober and find serenity."

It did not bother me that Karen had attributed the feminine gender to my God, but I feared the path she was showing me was one I might be incapable of following. It

was, however, a message of hope, and I knew that if it could help me in recovering, it could also help me with life and with the ghosts of my Vietnam experience.

On March 26, 1982, three weeks after I had celebrated six months without a drink at my Pentagon meeting, ground was broken for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. I drove over to the Mall from my job at the Pentagon and joined the crowd that had gathered just as the ceremony was getting under way. As I worked my way to the front of the assemblage, spectators moved aside to allow me access and an uninterrupted view of the proceedings. On the proposed site a five-hundred-foot-long red ribbon had been aligned along the V-shaped path of the monument with one end pointing toward the Washington Monument and the other toward the Lincoln Memorial. Along the length of ribbon 120 shovels had been evenly spaced, and beside each shovel a veteran stood waiting to participate in the historic groundbreaking. The day was sunny but cold and windy, and I sat shivering from the cold and from anticipation until a veteran standing near me noticed my discomfort and handed me his overcoat.

The ceremony itself was brief. Chuck Hagel, the deputy administrator of the Veterans Administration and a twice-wounded Vietnam veteran himself, spoke extemporaneously but movingly about a patrol he had participated in during which several members had been killed and how they would now be remembered. His comments were followed by a benediction, the singing of "God Bless America" by the crowd, and finally the actual groundbreaking. As the shovels completed their symbolic work, I returned the borrowed overcoat and headed back to the Pentagon.

It seemed altogether fitting to me that the principal remarks had been delivered by a Vietnam veteran who had shed blood in my war and that in speaking, he had stressed the suffering rather than the glory of war. The shovels had, that day, begun a tangible effort of binding the nation's wounds, and we all were to be enriched by what was coming later. Later I learned that Robert Nimmo, the VA admin-

istrator, was playing golf on a Washington golf course while the groundbreaking was taking place; but he was not one of us, and I would not allow one insensitive act to dampen my enthusiasm.

Over the next several months I came down from the pink cloud that had eased my transition into sobriety. The descent was gradual, however, and even while it was occurring, I realized that I was becoming more comfortable as a recovering alcoholic, growing as a person, and learning to deal with my long-unresolved feelings about Vietnam. At one meeting a speaker commented that when recovering alcoholics are troubled by a situation, the source of the trouble is usually internal rather than external.

Applying his comment to my Vietnam experience, I realized the Vietnam War had been over for ten years. If I were going to come to grips with it, I would have to change because events happening a decade earlier could not change. When I looked at it in that way, it became easier for me to accept the fact that I had lived while so many of my comrades had died and even eventually to take pride rather than feel guilty about having survived. I also came to see that while the Vietnam War was a tragic mistake and never should have been fought, my role in it had been as honorable as circumstances would permit. I had not performed perhaps as well as my father might have; but I had done the best I could, and it was time to move on to new challenges.

At another meeting the topic was "geographic cures," the relocation that practicing alcoholics often undertake as a futile solution to problems caused by their alcoholism. As the meeting progressed, several speakers mentioned the denial and dishonesty that they had practiced as a way to rationalize their drinking. Finally, one speaker described how like a nomad he had moved from place to place as his drinking progressed and how sad and foolish it had been to think he could outrun a problem that was part of him. As he talked, I was reminded of our move ten years earlier from Philadelphia to Williamsburg, and the words of Creedence

Clearwater Revival replayed themselves in my head as they had back then: "I went down Virginia seekin' shelter from the storm."

Like alcoholics who tried geographic cures, I had been unable to find shelter from my strong feelings about Vietnam. I carried them with me all the time, I could not hide from them, and I could accommodate them now only by dealing with them honestly and forthrightly. I had finally discovered that a war that had ended for most Americans ten years earlier could continue to be waged in my head only as long as I would allow it. My meetings were giving me the tools to declare a truce, and I was optimistic that someday soon they would serve me well.

The next time I saw Karen at a meeting I told her that I was thinking about writing an autobiography in which I would surrender the Vietnam War. She looked quizzical, and I did not pursue the conversation; but I saw myself like some of the Japanese soldiers who remained in hiding on deserted islands for years after World War II had ended. If I could now summon the courage to forgive my government, to forgive those whose views and actions concerning the war differed from mine, and to forgive myself, I could perhaps move into the present, attain a degree of serenity, and find the reason for which I had been spared, first in Vietnam and then a second time, from an alcoholic death.

Over the last half of 1982 work progressed on the memorial and on the planning for the National Salute to Veterans that was to accompany its dedication. During this period I was strictly an observer, but as I picked up information through newspapers, magazines, and television, my excitement grew. One day in early summer Toddy and I drove across the Memorial Bridge on our way into Washington to run an errand. As we passed the Lincoln Memorial, our view of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial site was cut off by a construction fence that had not been there the last time we traveled into town.

I realized there was a lot going on there, as with me, that was not discernible to the naked eye. In midsummer the first panel containing the names of veterans arrived in Washington, and by September a memorial, which I could only picture in my mind, was in place but for some finishing touches. All that remained was a ceremony to honor the fifty-eight thousand Americans who had died in Vietnam and further bind the nation's wounds.

On the first Tuesday in September I led a meeting at the Pentagon to celebrate my having been sober for one year. But for the fact that we were celebrating a remarkable event, my having gone 365 days without having taken a drink, the meeting was very much like any other. A dozen or so recovering alcoholics sat around a table and shared their experience, strength, and hope with each other that they might solve their common problem and help others to recover from alcoholism. For my topic I asked the other participants to comment on where they were in their recovery. The responses varied from the fearfulness of the newcomer to the serenity of the old-timer, but the common denominator seemed to be that all were better off as recovering rather than practicing alcoholics.

The one-year celebration is a landmark in the recovery process, and I had been looking forward to this meeting for weeks. As it was ending, I told the group that I was not yet willing to introduce myself at meetings as a grateful recovering alcoholic, but I certainly understood the meaning of gratitude. It was hard for me to believe that a year earlier I had sat in a church at my first meeting, watched a young woman receive a chip for having completed a year of sobriety, and wondered if I could ever duplicate her journey.

Now, a year later, I not only had abstained from alcohol but had discovered a new and wonderful life outside myself. With the help of my higher power I was growing in new directions, and as I continued to progress, the painful thoughts and feelings about my Vietnam experience were becoming less intrusive. That night at dinner I told Toddy

and the children about my anniversary celebration earlier in the day, and although they offered me their congratulations, I could tell that they attached no particular significance to it. It was better, I realized, that they viewed my abstinence as ordinary than that they saw it as miraculous, just as they and I had learned to make no particular concessions for the loss of my legs.

While the work that I put into my recovery was paying handsome dividends in my first year of sobriety, work on the memorial and the Salute to National Veterans was once again beset by controversy in the months preceding the dedication. In early October "60 Minutes" aired a segment on the memorial that played up the differences of opinion over its design while suggesting that opposition was prompted by opposition to its designer, Maya Lin, who was Asian-American and a woman. While the suggestion of racism and sexism was, in my mind, unwarranted, it did have a grain of truth, as there were many veterans, including me, who would have preferred the memorial to have been designed by a Vietnam veteran.

Three days after the "60 Minutes" segment, the Washington Post ran a piece by Tom Wolfe that called the memorial a "tribute to Jane Fonda" and suggested that its design had no relationship to the casualties of the war it was supposed to honor. Against this background, the Fine Arts Commission, which had veto power over proposed Washington monuments, met to decide if the statue agreed upon as an addition to the memorial was acceptable. When the commissioners found it unanimously so. Secretary of the Interior Watt gave permission to dedicate the memorial, and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Foundation had but three weeks remaining to see that the memorial was prepared properly for dedication and to finish organizing the national salute.

On the Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday before the dedication, there was to be a Candlelight Vigil of Names at the National Cathedral. During the vigil, as part of the ded-

ication, volunteers working in shifts were to take turns reading in alphabetical order the names that would be memorialized in granite on Saturday as part of the dedication. I had not made plans to participate in many of the weekend activities, but when I learned of the vigil, I asked for and was sent a roster of names to read on Thursday afternoon.

Realizing that the vigil was the only time that the names would be read collectively and aloud and that a schedule had been publicized, I tried to go over the list to practice pronunciations for the names allotted to me. The task proved difficult, but it gave me a sense of the cultural diversity that made up our heritage and once again brought home how tragically the melting pot of America had become a caldron of fire in Vietnam.

On Thursday afternoon I drove over to the National Cathedral and with roster in hand was directed to a small chapel off the main part of the cathedral where the names were being read. Like the war that had been fought apart from the mainstream of America, the setting seemed appropriate, but I was not prepared for the sacred nature of my task as I paused at the back of the chapel and observed the setting. A dozen rows of seats, most of them unoccupied, separated me from the reader, whose intonations of the names, though made softly, were magnified by the stone walls and high ceiling of the chapel as they reached my ears. Candles and red roses added to the reverential aura, and for several minutes I sat transfixed and listened to the names.

"Are you Lew Puller?" a woman beside me asked, and when I nodded, she indicated that I was the next reader.

As I wheeled to the front of the chapel, a portly black woman with graying hair seated in the front row caught my eye, and I knew from that moment's contact that I would be reading the name of her flesh and blood. As I began reading from my list, an unexpected calmness settled over me, and I was able to complete my reading without breaking down. When I finished, I looked up and spied one of the regular attendees at my Pentagon noon meeting, but the woman in the front pew was gone. I had gotten outside myself in reading the names, I realized, but I now prayed devoutly that I

had not mispronounced the name of that unknown woman's loved one.

Before I relinquished my space to the next reader, I called out in one final act of requiem the names of all the men I had personally known who had died in Vietnam: Lee Tilson Clarke, George Barton, Ronald Walsh McLean, Michael Maurice O'Connor, Terry Pensoneau, Kenneth Hyde Shelleman, Byron Morrow Speer, Frederick N. Suttle, Jr., Comelius Herbert Ram.

By Friday evening Washington had become a staging area for Vietnam veterans from all walks of life and all parts of America who had come together to honor their dead, validate their own service, and help the rest of the country atone for nearly two decades of neglect. They came singly, in pairs, and in groups, alone and with families, on foot, by motorcycle, car, truck, and bus. Some wore the uniforms they had worn in Vietnam or stateside, some Vietnam memorabilia they had purchased more recently, and some three-piece suits to demonstrate the successes they had made of their lives despite the odds against them.

The majority of them had been in their late teens and early twenties when they were called upon to give service in Vietnam, healthy young men with smooth faces and full, though closely cropped, heads of hair. In their thirties and forties now, they were again gathering to give service, but many of their healthy young bodies had been disfigured by war or were showing the effects of approaching middle age, and the once-smooth faces in many cases now sported beards or mustaches to compensate for the encroachments of baldness. They were older and wiser than they had been when they were called to serve, and the hard lessons of war and years of public disavowal may have dulled their expectations; but in most cases their love of country was stronger than ever.

Finally, on Saturday morning, after a night of hard-drinking camaraderie during which they held sway in most of the watering spots and hotels in Washington, the veterans held a parade for themselves. Fifteen thousand strong, they marched, wheeled, crutched, and hobbled their way down Constitution Avenue, reveling in the applause of the specta-

tors and augmenting their ranks along the route yet achingly aware of the hallowed destination for which they were bound.

I had watched most of the morning's activities on television and by noon was badgering Toddy to get ready so that we would be on time for the two o'clock commencement of the dedication ceremonies. The day was cold and windy, just as it had been eight months earlier for the groundbreaking; but it was now also cloudy, and the November chill cut through my suit and overcoat. We had arranged to meet Linde Zier across from the Lincoln Memorial, and while she and Toddy caught up on each other's activities, I turned toward a crowd of 150,000. Back to back in reverential awe, they stood forming a huge half circle, facing the memorial and pressed against the temporary fences separating them from the rostrum and the monument. I had never been part of a crowd so large and yet so orderly, and as I made my way to an area reserved for wheelchairs, hands reached out over and over to touch my arms and shoulders, and the refrain "Welcome home, brother" echoed and reechoed.

Moved by the reaction I had gotten, it took me a few moments to gather myself after I reached my vantage point flanking the memorial and facing the crowd. My view of the memorial was unobstructed, but I was seated too far away to make out any of the names cut into its black panels, and for the next hour I felt myself being drawn into its center. I wanted to kneel at its apex, caress the names I had read during the candlelight vigil, and, like a mute given speech for the first time, run back and forth from one end to the other, screaming out the names for all the world to hear. Instead I sat silently in my wheelchair, shaking from the cold and my own ragged emotions until I felt Toddy's presence beside me and her calming hand on my shoulder. Like the service at the groundbreaking, this one was Spartan and brief, almost as if we could go only so far with our collective grief and ultimately had to make our peace individually, alone, or at best with the help of our own personal gods. When it was over, after the invocation, speeches, and the singing of "God Bless America," Jan Scruggs pronounced

the memorial dedicated, and the crowd came to hfe, roaring its approval and surging toward the black granite panels.

I knew that given the crush of the crowd and the memorial's inaccessibility to wheelchairs, I would not that day get close enough to feel its healing power. I also knew that I now had the serenity to accept the things I could not change and that after a wait of almost fifteen years, a few more weeks or months would be tolerable. For the next hour I mingled on the outskirts of the crowd, exchanging handshakes, hugs, and greetings with my brothers and their families, and sharing the exquisite anguish we all felt on this blessed occasion. Just before we left, an intoxicated but well-meaning veteran staggered up and offered me a drink from a paper bag. Tears were streaming down his face, and though I rejected the drink, I drew him to my chest.

"But for the grace of God, there go I," I thought, repeating in my mind the words I had heard at countless meetings over the last fourteen months.

Not too long before I would have handled the situation exactly as he did, and tomorrow I would have had nothing to show for my effort. To feel the joy, I realized, one must remain open to the pain.

When Toddy and I got home, I was tired and, though exhilarated by the afternoon's activities, a little upset that the president and most of his administration had not seen fit to attend the dedication. The cold weather, the exertion required to negotiate the crowd, and the emotional toll had combined to wear me out, and I decided to take a nap. When I awoke, several hours had passed, and I was refreshed. On the spur of the moment I decided to drive back downtown to see if I could recapture some of the emotion I had gotten from my earlier contact with other veterans.

When I told Toddy of my plans, she said that she was going with me, and an hour later in darkness we found a parking place on the street in front of the Hotel Washington and headed inside. The hotel had been a weekend hangout for young officers when I had attended Basic School in the late sixties, although I had never been there. My first thought on wheeling into the lobby was that I had made a mistake in bringing Toddy. Raucous music blared from

some distant jukebox, and half a dozen veterans lay sprawled on the floor, drinking beer, sleeping, or in various states of relaxation.

There seemed to be no one in charge, and when I finally found the manager to ask where the Marine Corps reunion was taking place, he shrugged his shoulders and pointed to a side room that seemed more ominous than the room we now occupied. When we entered, the location of the jukebox was immediately apparent. It was also apparent that we were interrupting a party that had been in progress for several hours. The room was so crowded with former marines, most of whom were wearing uniforms, that my first reaction was to turn around and go home. Then suddenly a pathway opened in the sea of bodies to allow me access, and again, as in the afternoon, hands reached out to touch my arms and shoulders. Although the words "Welcome home, brother" were repeated as Toddy and I made our way to a sitting area near the bar, no response seemed required of me. I was at last back among the men who had fought with me and protected me in the now-distant rice paddies and jungles of Vietnam, and I felt safe and at ease in their company.

For the next two hours we sat and received the attention and love of men who, though strangers, shared a kinship with me that surpassed time and place. Forged as it was in the bloody crucible of Vietnam, it was unnecessary for me to give my name or to offer justification for my physical condition. This blessed band of brothers and I had shared the worst and the best that life had to offer, and in our reaffirming our connectedness, words were, for the moment, superfluous.

Toward the end of the evening, when the crowd had begun to thin and the jukebox fell silent, one of the remaining marines began to play an ancient upright piano adjacent to the bar. Before the rest of us recognized his skill or thought to make requests, he had begun to play "God Bless America," and every man in the room picked up the words until we sang as one. He then played "The Marine's Hymn," again joined by his newfound chorus, and as the evening drew to a close, I wondered how, after a lifetime of

contact with the Marine Corps, I could love and despise it with such equal ardor.

As we were leaving. Toddy, who was by now feeling comfortable with the group, turned to one of the marines and told him that I was Chesty Puller's son.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied without batting an eye, "and I'm John Wayne."

When we got back to the car, I took the wheel, and Toddy nestled down next to me, both of us tired but attuned to each other after a long but wonderful day. Heading south on Fifteenth Street, we crossed Constitution Avenue, where earlier in the day fifteen thousand of my brothers had affirmed their pride in service, and we then passed the Washington Monument, heading south toward home, Virginia, and shelter from the storm. Far off to our right the illuminated columns at the top of the Lincoln Memorial shone brightly in the darkness. Between these two landmarks now stood a third, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, and though I could not see it, I knew it stood as a witness to history and a permanent part of the landscape of the Mall.

Later, in what became an often-repeated rite of homage, I returned to the memorial with a single red rose and, seeing my reflection in its polished stone, came to understand how inextricably linked the memorial and I were by the bloodshed of my brothers—I, an insignificant speck on the continuum of history; the memorial, panoramic in its sweep, eternal, dark, silent, embracing all who would pause before its outstretched arms, in the end, comforting, spiritual, rooted in the present, but, like me, looking both backward in sorrow and anger and forward in hope and exultation.

Epil

me

On Wednesday morning, May 24, 1989, a dozen Soviet veterans of the war in Afghanistan gathered at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial to pay their respects to our war dead. Their visit to Washington was sponsored by the Vietnam Veterans of America, and I had been asked to meet them at the memorial for this stop on their agenda. I arrived early, driving over from the Pentagon, just across the Potomac River, where for the last ten years I had practiced as an attorney/adviser to the office of the secretary of defense. As I took one of the handicapped parking spaces adjacent to the Lincoln Memorial and wheeled over to the statue of the three soldiers facing the memorial, I felt apprehensive, yet excited at the prospect of meeting Soviet soldiers for the first time and on such hallowed ground.

Over the years I had fallen into a pattern of visiting the .memorial at least twice a year, the first time on Memorial Day and again six months later on Veterans Day. On each occasion, despite some good-natured kidding from Toddy and our children, I would don my dusty bush hat with its fading ribbons and Marine Corps emblem, square my shoulders, and go off with a red rose to place at the apex of the memorial. Later, toward the end of my ritual, I would spend a few moments in remembrance of the dead whom I had

known. Then, turning my back to those forever youthful ghosts memorialized in stone, I would go in search of the living among the holiday crowds with whom I might share some connection to the past.

Now, as I contemplated the arrival of the Soviet veterans in a different context, I wondered how I would react to them. All of my life I had regarded Soviets as my enemies, and I was pleased when their incursion into Afghanistan began to sour. Because of the many similarities between the Afghanistan War and the Vietnam War, however, I had for some time wanted to meet a Soviet veteran of Afghanistan. Consequentiy, I now felt a certain guarded empathy for the men I was about to meet. When they arrived, late and looking very much like everyday Washington tourists with open sport shirts and cameras, my first reaction was surprise that they did not fit my stereotype of Soviets. Most of them appeared to be in their mid to late twenties and several carried flowers, obviously brought along to perform the same type of ritual I had carried out for the last half dozen years. As I sat quietly and watched, they were ushered to a nearby grassy knoll that was inaccessible to me and given a short lecture on the background and meaning of the memorial.

They then proceeded down a path to the memorial, where they split up into twos and threes, placed their flowers at the base of the monument, and like many American visitors, seemed to become transfixed by its sanctity. When the first group of men completed its obeisance and approached me sitting near the statue, one young man asked a companion to ascertain if I were a Vietoam veteran who had been wounded in the war. Sasha, who himself had been horribly burned on his face and hands in combat in Afghanistan, spoke excellent English. When I answered affirmatively, he introduced Nicolai, and both men embraced me. Nicolai then took a Soviet medal from his pocket and, after asking permission, pinned it on my lapel. I do not know what I had expected on meeting Soviet soldiers for the first time, but it certainly did not include embraces and the gift of a treasured medal.

The three of us then began a conversation that gained intensity as it progressed, and by the time it was over, it had

attracted a television crew, several reporters, and a crowd of fifty or sixty bystanders. As Nicolai and Sasha spilled out their feelings about their war experience, I became aware of how similar to me they really were. They wanted to build a memorial in the Soviet Union to their fallen comrades, whose sacrifice they regarded as having been for nothing. They felt alienated from their own countrymen, and they did not understand why the poorest and the least educated in their country had been called to fight a war for which they were given no credit. Further along in the healing process than they, I tried to tell them that time and a homecoming more often rude than not had disabused me of the chauvinism with which I marched to war. I also told them that time would be their ally, and that I was able to find serenity only when I became capable of mciking a separate peace. My words were probably lost on Nicolai Knerick and Sasha Karpenko, two former soldiers fighting the battle for reconciliation that, partly because of them, I now see to be universal with men who have been to war.

Later that evening I attended a reception for the Soviet soldiers on Capitol Hill, to which I wore the medal I had been given earlier in the day. As I entered the room, a young Soviet officer whom I had not met at the Memorial hurried over to introduce himself. In near perfect English he explained that he had studied General Puller in military school and he considered it an honor to shake the hand of the son of one of America's great military leaders. Accustomed to receiving compliments about my father, I was nevertheless amazed to learn that he was admired in the Soviet Union. As I accepted the young man's praise, I realized with a mixture of pride and resignation that my father's shadow was longer even than I had thought.

When I saw Nicolai and Sasha, I gave them each miniature copies of two of the medals I had been awarded during the Vietnam War. As I proffered my Silver Star and Purple Heart to my newfound friends, a lesson I had learned in my fellowship meetings came to mind: "Often the only way to keep that which we hold most dear is to give it away."

ex

Adams, Dr. Ralph, 330-331, 332,

334 Afghanistan, Soviet veterans of,

439-441 Agnew, Spiro, 331 Agony and the Ecstasy, The

(Stone), 330 Alaska pipeline, 371 America. See United States American Legion, 241, 260-261,

271, 369 American Revolution, 34 Americans

black-market products of, 125 hostages, 400

killed in Vietnam, 49, 54-55, 260, 292, 401, 430, 431-433 military records of, 338 and presidency, 330 and Vietnam, 75, 262-263, 273-274, 277-278, 305, 308, 310-311, 316-317 and Watergate, 330, 331 See also United States Andrews Air Force Base

(Maryland), 190 Antiwar movement, 35-36,

267-269, 270-271, 291-292

Apollo U, 258

Arlington National Cemetery, 310,

397 Armed Services Committee (House

of Representatives), 348, 365,

370, 371, 379-380 Armstrong, Neil, 258 Army, Department of the, 274 Army-Navy game, 208 ARVN (Army of the Republic of

Vietoam), 54, 137, 150, 151,

152-153, 155-157, 158 assigimients with, 162-167,

172 Asia. See Southeast Asia

Baez, Joan, 264

Banana wars, 22

Barents, Kathy, 201, 202, 205, 211,

263, 398 Barents, Lieutenant Paul, 206-208, 223, 225, 263

example of, 274

friendship of, 210-211, 398

job hunting of, 287

loyalty of, 384

recovery of, 199-202

surgery on, 203-205

441

Fortunate Son

Barton, Lance Corporal George, 119, 120, 121-122, 137. 176-177, 433 death of, 177-178, 180, 184

Basic School (Marine Corps),

49-58, 60-61, 63-64, 65, 75, 80, 94, 103, 130, 183, 189, 233-234, 239, 273, 435

Baskir, Lawrence M., 333

Bau Me Thuot (Vietnam), 336

Beatles, 104

Beatty, Warren, 45

Belgium, 405

Beltzer, Lieutenant Joe, 202, 203

Bethesda Naval Hospital

(Maryland), 16-17, 406-407

Bob (recovering alcoholic), 410-411, 413, 415-416

Boston Red Sox, 256

Bottom, Mrs. (newspaper owner), 353

British, 34, 405

Brown, Sam, 267

Brown, Staff Sergeant, 40, 42, 45, 46-47, 48, 49

Brown, Rev. W. W., 360, 361

Cabot, Dr. Nicholas, 203-204, 208,

209, 211, 212, 216 Calley, Lieutenant William L., 274,

304-305, 317 Cambodia, 291-292 Camp David (Maryland), 341 Camp 413 (Vietnam), 111,

113-116, 122, 123, 124, 127,

129-132, 136, 137-138, 142,

147, 153, 155, 158, 171-172,

178, 180 Camp Hanson (Okinawa), 74,

75-76 Camp Lejeune (North Carolina),

12, 17, 18 Camp Pendleton (California), 3, 5,

6, 26 Canada, 36, 340 Candlelight Vigil of Names,

431^33 Carter, Jimmy (roommate), 395

Carter, Jimmy (President), 347,

352, 377-378, 379, 397 Carter administration, 366 Caulfield, Major, 231 "CBS Evening News," 188 Chamber of Commerce (Newport

News), 376 Chapman, General Leonard, 322,

323 Chappaquiddick Island incident,

257 Chesapeake Bay, 370 China Beach (resortlike military

area), 162-163, 164-165, 166 Chinese hand grenades, 104 Chosin Reservoir (Korea), 4, 5, 80 Christchurch School for Boys,

29-31 Civil War, 4, 10, 369 Clarke, Lee Tilson, 433 Clemency Board. See Presidential

Clemency Board Coast Guard, 66 Cocker, Joe, 264 College of Wilham and Mary, 35,

38, 58, 288, 289, 305-308,

354 Committee to Re-elect the

President, 346 Conmiunists, 25, 36, 116, 336 Congress, 291, 347, 367, 378, 391,

400, 424 See also House of

Representatives; Senate Congressional Black Caucus, 373 Constitution, First Amendment to,

237 Coswell (corpsman), 139 Cowboy (squad leader), 95-96,

137, 167-168, 170-171 Cox, Archibald, 331 Creedence Clearwater Revival, 2%,

428 Cronkite, Walter, 188, 258 Crotty, Lieutenant Jim, 228-229,

231, 235, 236, 240, 246, 255,

260, 263, 264, 292, 397, 398 as roommate in hospital,

225-226

443

Cnimpton (butler), 15 Cua Viet River (Vietnam), 80, 82, 96, 109, 110-111

Dabney, Captain William, 37, 81 Dabney, Virginia Puller (sister), 5,

10, 12, 18, 20, 32, 37, 48,

68-69, 195, 276, 277, 289,

300. 317-318 and father's confusion, 284-285 and father's death, 317-318 and father's stroke, 302-303 Daily Press, 353, 359, 366, 377.

379 Da Nang (Vietnam), 76, 77, 102,

111, 112, 130, 149, 186-187,

189, 293, 336 TAOR (tactical area of

responsibility). 111, 113-116,

176 Davis, Jefferson, 369 Deer Hunter, The (film), 396 Demilitarized zone. See DMZ Democratic Congressional

Campaign Committee, 377 Democratic National Headquarters,

329 Democratic party, in U.S., 325,

326-328, 332, 345-346, 347,

349-350, 353, 354, 365,

366-367, 379, 383 Denton, Captain Jeremiah, 328 Department of the Army, 274 Department of Defense, Office of

the General Counsel at,

393-394 Department of Justice, 341 Detroit Tigers, 193 DMZ (demilitarized zone)

(Vietnam), 102, 107, 108. 109,

110. Ill, 134 Doan, Lieutenant, 160-161,

165-166, 167, 168, 170, 171,

172 Dong Ha (Vietnam), 82, 93,

102-103, 108, 111, 114, 115 Doubek, Bob, 424 Douglas, Kirk, 399 Downing, Tom, 326, 327, 332, 345

Downs, Martha Puller (twin sister), 32. 48. 50. 53, 54, 58, 62, 67, 68, 220, 255, 257, 267, 269,

276, 277. 289. 404-405 athletic ability of. 9. 25-26 childhood of. 5-13, 18, 19-20 and father's death, 317-318

at father's funeral, 320, 321

height of. 30

meets twin after wounding.

193-194 roommate of. 38-39 wedding of. 231-233 Downs. Michael P, 189, 193, 220, 255, 256-257, 267, 269, 270.

277. 320. 404-405 awarded Silver Star, 54 marriage of, 231-233

Draft dodgers, 36, 307-308 Dunaway, Faye, 45

Eddie (limb and brace technician), 230, 234-235, 238, 265-266, 294

Ellis, Doc (corpsman), 86, 87, 99, 105, 106, 117, 121, 129, 134, 135, 139, 146, 148-149, 158, 172, 174-175, 176. 177. 179-180. 186

Ernie (corpsman). 195-196

Esquire magazine. 21

Essex County (Virginia). 345. 346

Europe, 404

Evans, Hannah, 259-260

Evans, Thomas, 259, 260

Federal Election Commission, 355 Federal Rules of Civil Procedure,

326 Fine Arts Commission, 431 First Amendment to the

Constitution, 237 First Marine Division, 74, 80, 249 First Marine Regiment of, 4 Second Battalion of First Marine

Regiment of, 77, 81-82 Fleet Marine Force, 8 Folger, Abigail, 262 Fonda, Jane, 431

Fortunate Son

Ford, Gerald, 333, 337, 338,

341-342, 344, 360 Ford administration, 335-336 Foreign Relations Committee

(Senate), 311 Fort Belvoir (Virginia), 62, 70, 188,

267 Fort Benning (Georgia), 304 Fort Monroe (Virginia), 369-370 France, 405 Frankford Arsenal, 365 Franklin, Aretha, 241

G Company. See Golf Company Geneva conventions for conduct of

war, 78 Germany, 405

Gillen, Mrs. (nurse), 304, 309, 310 Golf Company, 82, 83, 85, 115,

116, 155, 187 Goodell, Charles E., 333, 334, 335,

342 Goodman, Lieutenant Cal, 202, 247 Green Beret forces, 262 Gretter, Captain, 39, 40, 42-43, 44,

45, 46, 48, 49, 52

Hagel, Chuck, 427 Haight-Ashbury section, of San

Francisco, 73 Haiti, 22, 126 Hanoi (Vietnam), 60, 110 Harris, Richard, 67 Hawaii, 162

Hemingway, Ernest, 37, 75 Hesburgh, Father Theodore M., 334 Higgins (marine), 134, 221 Hitch, Corporal, 96, 100-101,

104-105 Ho Chi Minh, 265 Hoffman, Dustin, 58 Holland, 404

Hollywood war wound, 75 House of Representatives, 326, 345,

370, 382 Armed Services Committee, 348,

365, 370, 371, 379-380 Judiciary Committee, 331

Merchant Marine and Fisheries

Committee, 393 See also Congress Hubbard, Ed, 352 Hue (Vietnam), 54, 112, 157, 270,

336 Hungarian Revolution, 25 Hutton, Scott, 326, 327-328 Hutton, Tiny, 326, 328, 332, 345

I Corps, 93 Indians, 12 Indochina, 336

See also Viemam Iranian hostage crisis, 400

Jack (corpsman), 196

Jackson, Stonewall, 4

James, Dr. and Mrs., 19

Japan. See Yokosuka

Japanese soldiers, 429

Jill (recovering alcoholic), 412

Johnson, Lyndon, 349, 360

Jones, Catesby, 355-356

Jones, James, 75

Jones, Sergeant Orville, 6, 7, 11,

18, 320, 323 Jordan, Vernon E., 334 Judiciary Committee (House of

Representatives), 331 Justice, Department of, 341

Karen (recovering alcoholic/

counselor), 419, 421, 423,

424-426, 429 Karpenko, Sasha, 439-440 Kearney, Dr. Walter, 396-397, 398 Kelly, Jim, 288, 289 Ken (hospital roommate), 290, 291 Kennedy, John F, 17, 262 Kennedy, Ted, 257 Kent State University killings, 292 Kerrey, Lieutenant (jg) Bob,

240-241, 242, 244, 246,

247-248, 397-398 awarded Medal of Honor, 255,

262-263, 264 Kerry, John, 311 Kesey, Ken, 161

445

Khe Sanh (Vietnam), 81, 82 Khrushchev, Nikita, 369 King, Coretta Scott, 271 Kissinger, Henry, 325 Kiwanis, 363, 372 Knerick, Nicolai, 440-441 Kopechne, Mary Jo, 257 Koreans, in Vietnam, 125-126, 182 Korean War, 3, 4, 5-6, 11, 18, 22,

37, 69, 113, 339, 344, 393,

397 ending of, 11 Koto-ri (Korea), 4

Lafferty, Mr., 26

Laird, Melvin, 263

Langley Air Force Base (Virginia),

349 "Laugh-In" (TV show), 315 Lee, Robert E., 4, 67 Lennon, John, 104 Leroy, Captain, 52-53 Leslie, Staff Sergeant Phil, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90-91, 100-102, 108, 110, 111, 112, 113, 114-115, 116, 118, 119, 121, 123, 124, 125, 126-127, 128, 130, 132, 133-134, 135-136, 137, 138, 139, 143, 144, 145, 147, 148, 149, 150, 157, 158, 161, 163, 167-168, 170, 171, 173, 216, 269 and ARVNs, 155-157 at Chesty Puller's funeral, 322 disciplining by, 110, 146,

151-152, 169-170 goodwill mission of, 97-100 guidance of, 94-95 helpfulness of, 92-93 professionalism of, 84-85, 91 seasoning of, 93-94, 131-132,

145, 165 storytelling of, 164-165 on Vietcong captive, 142 on Vietnamese, 125 Vietnam tour completed,

249-251 wounded in Vietnam, 174-175 Leslie, Sally, 249, 250

Lieberson, Dennis, 354, 362, 370, 371, 372 letter-writing campaign of, 366 and NAACP, 373, 374 personality of, 354 as political campaign chief, 354, 357-358, 359, 363, 365-366, 367-368, 373, 374, 367-377, 379, 380, 381-383, 385, 386, 387 after Trible victory, 386, 387 and White House meeting, 377, 379 Life magazine, 25 Lin, Maya, 401, 431 Lincoln Memorial (Washington,

D.C.), 429 Lions, 372 Lolich, Mickey, 183 London (England), 405 Lucille (alcoholic), 414

McClary, Lieutenant Clebe, 202 McCloskey, Pete, 393 McGovem, George, 327, 328 McKenney, Colonel Tom, 189, 190 McKenzie, Scott, 73 McKeon, Staff Sergeant Matthew C, 23-24 McLain, Denny, 183 McLean, Ronald Walsh, 49, 433 McMonagle (corpsman), 199, 204, 207 dedication of, 197, 206-207 departure of, 210 personality of, 196, 198, 208,

209, 219, 220 as prankster, 225-226 Mai Xa Thi (Vietnam), 109, 110,

111 Marble Mountain area (Vietnam),

137. 152, 155, 158 Marine: The Life of Lewis B.

"Chesty" Puller, 65 Marine Corps

anniversary of founding of, 272 Basic School, 49-58, 60-61, 63-64, 65, 75, 80, 94, 103,

Fortunate Son

Marine Corps (cont.)

130, 183, 189, 233-234, 239, 273, 436 birthday ball, 272-273 emblem of, 3 enlisted men in, 17-18 fiscal resources of, 253 generals, 321 and Hue, 54 influence of, 426 lapel pin, 295

and legend of Chesty Puller, 18, 21-22, 31-32, 80-81, 87, 164 mandatory briefings of, 76 Officer Candidate School (OCS), 36, 37, 39-50, 51-52, 54, 64, 89 Puller's ambivalent feelings toward, 161-162, 180, 197, 308, 437 Puller's enlistment with, 35-37, 39 retirement policy of, 21 reunions, 9, 435-437 training methods of, 23-24 See also First Marine Division; I Corps; Second Marine Division; Third Marine Brigade; Twenty-seventh Marines Marine Corps Barracks, 321 Marine Corps Headquarters, 17,

36-37, 253 Marine Corps Recruit Depot, 7, 8 Martha's Vineyard (Massachusetts),

255, 256, 257 Mary Washington College, 38 Matthews, Nick, 356 Maye, Jim, 346-347, 350, 352 Medal of Honor, 255, 262-263, 264 Medina, Captain Ernest, 317 Merchant Marine and Fisheries Committee (House of Representatives), 393 Michelangelo, 330 Midway, 255 Miller, Andrew, 370 Mondale, Walter, 365, 377,

378-379 Monroe, Fort, 369-370

Morey, Captain Dick, 228 Morgan, Corporal, 216-217, 250 Murphy, Audie, 262 Murphy, Tayloe, 357 My Lai massacre (Vietnam), 274, 305, 317

NAACP, 360, 373-374 National Cathedral (Washington,

D.C.), 431, 432 National Salute to Veterans,

429-430, 431 Navy Cross, 5, 41 Netherlands, 404 Newport News Shipbuilding and

Dry Dock Company, 326, 347,

364 New York Times, 24, 49 Nicaragua, 22, 126 Nimmo, Robert, 427 Nixon, Richard, 255, 263, 264, 271,

272, 291, 325, 327, 328, 331,

381, 393 Nixon administration, 346 North Vietnamese, 37, 41, 76, 106,

135, 153, 155, 171, 184-185,

242, 265 antiaircraft emplacements, 103 vs. ARVNs, 166-167 offensive, 53-55 and POWs, 329 See also NVA Nui Kim Son (Vietnam), 155, 158,

172 NVA (North Vietnamese Army),

89, 93-94, 97, 104, 105, 108,

115, 166, 185, 241, 291, 336

O'Connor, Michael Maurice, 433 OCS. See Officer Candidate School October 15 Moratorium, 267, 270 Office of the General Counsel,

Department of Defense,

393-394 Officer Candidate School (OCS)

(Marine Corps), 36, 37, 39-50,

51-52, 54, 64, 89 Okinawa, 74, 75, 76 O'Neill, Thomas (Tip), 379

447

Operation Dewey Canyon III, 310 Order for the Burial of the Dead, 321

Pappy (Marine), 90-91, 96 Paralyzed Veterans of America. See

PVA Paris peace talks, 316-317, 325,

328 Parris Island (South Carolina), 8,

24 Peninsula Shipbuilder's

Association. See PSA Pensoneau, Terry, 233-234, 433 Pentagon, 293, 310, 394, 403, 418,

419, 421, 424, 427, 430, 432,

438 Philadelphia Naval Hospital, 194ff Phu Bai (Vietnam), 79 Physical Evaluation Board, 295 PI. See Psychiatric Institute Pleiku (Vietnam), 336 Popular Forces, 97 Portsmouth Naval Hospital, 33, 312 Postal Service, 397 Potok, Chaim, 161 POWs, from Vietnam, 328-329 Presidential Clemency Board,

333-344, 346-347 Project 100,000, 91 PSA (Peninsula Shipbuilder's

Association), 364 Psychiatric Institute (PI)

(Washington, D.C.), 409-418,

421 Puller, General Lewis B. (Chesty)

(father), 37, 39, 48, 49, 50, 55,

65, 67-68, 150, 151, 232,

276-277, 356, 393, 428 as commander of Second Marine

Division, 12-14 committed to VA hospital,

313-314 communication with son, 33-34 criticisms of military by, 9, II,

16-17, 21 death of, 317-319 family background of, 3-4 fragility in old age, 69

funeral for, 319-322 general officer status of, 7-8 gentleness of, 31 as grandfather, 207, 239-240,

277, 309 grave of, 324 health of, 12, 14 heroism of, 4, 5, 22, 41, 80, 323 honored at White House, 262 hospitalization of, 33, 313-314,

316 letters from son to. 111, 126, 161 as Marine Corps legend, 18,

21-22, 31-32, 34, 80-81, 87,

164, 441 meets son after wounding, 192,

193 as newlywed, 239 promoted to major general, 11 prostate operation on, 33 relationship with son, 3, 4-5,

20-21, 25-27, 33-34 retirement of, 16-18, 19-22, 32 son of, 36-37, 40, 42, 47, 78, 79,

80-81, 87, 113, 164, 187,204,

269-270, 271, 315, 339,

437 suffers strokes, 14-15, 16, 20,

284-286, 302-304, 312-313 testimony at McKeon trial,

23-24 and Toddy, 59-60, 62 toughness of, 28-29 tributes to, 164 weakened condition before death,

316 weakened by strokes, 288-290,

293-294 after wounding of son, 190, 194 Puller, Lewis B., Jr. adolescence of, 27-34 alcoholism of, 268, 301, 324,

327, 330-331, 388, 390-391,

392, 394, 398-423, 424-427,

428-429, 430-431 arrival in Vietnam, 77-82 article on, 314-316 artificial legs of, 230, 234-239,

242-243, 264-267, 273,

Fortunate Son

Puller, Lewis B., Jr. (cont.)

11A-215, 280-281, 294,

300-301, 306 bonding with father, 3, 4-5,

20-21, 25-27, 33-34 as Chesty Puller's son, 33-34,

36-37, 40, 42, 47, 78, 79,

80-81,87, 113, 164, 187,204,

269-270, 271, 315, 339, 437 childhood accident, 15-16 combat in Vietnam, 103-108,

119-123, 128-130, 132-137,

145-149, 153-155, 167-170,

179-180, 184-186 commits father to VA hospital,

313 communication with father,

33-34 courtship of Toddy, 44-45, 48,

50, 53, 56-60, 61-62, 234 near death after wounding,

186-187 defeated for political office,

385-387 before departure for Vietnam,

64-73 depression of, 197, 200,

201-202, 212, 253, 294, 300,

301-302, 330-331, 389,

391-392, 394-396, 398, 403 dreams of after wounding,

222-223, 283 early memories of, 3-14 enlists in Marine Corps, 35-37, 39 and father's death, 317-319 and father's funeral, 319-322 first combat in Vietnam, 103-108 first command in Vietnam,

82-103 flights to Vietnam, 72-76 guilt over death of Barton, 178 hate mail received by, 315 hospitalization of after serious

wounds, 192-239 joins Marine Corps, 35-37, 39 journey home from Vietnam,

190-191

at law school, 288, 289, 301, 305-307, 308, 325-326

letters to father. 111, 126, 161

letters to Toddy, 91, 111, 126, 137, 161, 181, 189

and Marine Corps, ambivalent feelings toward, 161-162, 180, 197, 308, 437

at Marine Corps Basic School, 49-58, 60-61, 63-64. 65, 75, 80, 94, 103, 130, 183, 189, 233-234, 239, 273, 435

at Marine Corps Officer

Candidate School (OCS), 36, 37, 39-50, 51-52, 54, 64, 89

marries Toddy, 62-63

media coverage of, 314-316

meets Toddy, 38-39

morphine used by, 193, 195, 197, 204, 244, 254, 283, 286

moves out of hospital, 239

as new father, 207-209, 217, 309

at Office of General Counsel of VA, 329, 331, 333, 334, 344, 346, 347

operations on hands, 243-245, 252-255, 258-259, 280-283, 284, 286-287, 290-291

operation on ulcer, 190

in OT (occupational therapy), 212, 214-215, 217, 224

passes Virginia bar exam, 331

in politics, 332-333, 349-387

on Presidential Clemency Board, 333-344, 346-347

at Psychiatric Institute, 409-418, 421

in PT (physical therapy), 212-216, 217-218, 221, 223-224, 228-230, 234-239, 242-249, 264-267, 273, 274-275, 278-281, 291, 292

public reaction to disability of, 256-257

Purple Hearts awarded to, 149, 189, 311, 440

at PVA, 346-352

recovery from alcoholism, 407-423, 424-427, 428-431

449

religious beliefs and practices of,

27-28, 425-426 reliving Vietnam, 244, 254,

269-270, 301, 390, 392, 395,

402-403, 420, 425-426, 430 and Robb campaign, 349-351,

353 self-image, difficulty of

maintaining after wounding,

197, 222 seriously wounded in Vietnam,

185-188 Silver Star awarded to, 189, 270,

311, 440 and Soviet veterans of

Afghanistan, 438-440 speeches of. 358, 360-361 suicide attempt of, 394-395 surgery on stump of, 203-205,

209 survival after hospitalization,

192, 194-198 therapy for, 330-331, 395-396 and Viemam, coming to grips

with, 428-431 and Vietnam, doubts about,

261-263, 277-278, 292, 293,

325, 330-331 and Vietnam Veterans Memorial,

401, 423-424, 427, 429-430,

431-435 and walking, attempts at,

234-236, 237-239, 242-243,

264-267, 273, 274-275,

280-281, 306 and wheelchair, limitations of,

300, 306, 361-363 wounded in Vietnam, 148-149,

185-188 Puller, Lewis B. Ill (Lewpy) (son),

207, 218-219, 223, 226, 227,

229, 231, 239-240, 244, 249,

256. 267, 268, 290, 2%, 306,

309, 329, 332, 385, 391, 405 baby-sitting for, 317 babytalk of, 257, 282, 294 birth of, 207 in crawling stage, 261

and father's alcoholism, 399,

404, 419, 422 growth of, 220

helplessness after birth, 208, 217 in school, 352, 368 at walking stage, 275-276 Puller. Maggie (daughter). 309, 317. 329. 332, 385, 386, 391, 402, 405 birth of, 309. 330 and father's alcoholism, 399,

404, 418-419, 422 in school, 352, 368 Puller, Martha. See Downs, Martha

Puller FHiller, Toddy (wife), 56, 63, 66-67, 73, 81, 151, 159, 257-258, 269, 270, 276, 277, 293-294, 296, 300, 309, 315, 324, 329-330, 331, 347, 352, 391, 392, 393, 397, 400, 401, 418-419, 430, 434, 435-437 and Chesty's death, 317, 319 at Chesty's funeral, 321, 322 courtship of, 44-45, 48, 50, 53,

56-60, 61-62, 234 gives birth to Lewpy, 207 gives birth to Maggie, 309 and husband's alcoholism, 394, 399, 402, 404, 405, 406-407, 409-410, 422 before husband's departure for

Vietnam, 69-72 and husband's law school, 288,

289, 330 and husband's suicide attempt,

394-395 letters from husband to, 91, 111,

126, 137, 161, 181, 189 at Marine Corps birthday ball.

272-273 marriage of, 62-63 meets husband, 38-39 meets husband after wounding,

192-193 after move out of hospital, 239, 240, 242, 245, 249, 250, 260, 261. 263 and politics, 327, 332-333, 345,

Fortunate Son

Puller, Toddy (cont.)

354, 358, 359, 374, 383,

385-387, 388, 390 pregnancy of, 61-62, 64-65, 67,

68, 305-306 supportiveness during husband's

hospitalization and surgery, 194,

195, 197, 198, 207, 208-209,

210-211, 217-221, 223, 225,

226-229, 231-233, 244-245,

254, 259^260, 282-284,

286-287, 289-290, 291 and Vietnam antiwar movement,

267-268 and Vietnam Veterans Memorial,

429, 434-435, 436-437 after wounding of husband, 186,

188, 189-190, 192-193,

201-202 Puller, Virginia. See Dabney,

Virginia Puller Puller, Virginia Evans (mother),

18-20, 21, 22, 24, 29, 32, 33,

37, 44-45, 48, 65, 232, 276,

277, 284, 309, 310, 316, 319,

324, 327, 358, 359 and husband's death, 317-318,

319 at husband's funeral, 320-324 and husband's strokes, 302-303,

304, 312, 313-314 after husband's stroke, 289, 293 meets son after wounding, 193 as newlywed, 239 singing voice of, 27 and son's accident, 15-16 before son's departure for

Vietnam, 67-68, 69 son's recollections of, 3, 5, 9, 11,

12, 14, 15-16 and Toddy, 58-60, 62 Puller for Congress Committee, 352 Purple Heart, 149, 189, 311, 440 PVA (Paralyzed Veterans of

America), 346-352

Quang Tri (Vietnam), 336 Quantico (Virginia), 37, 39, 269 Quinn, Bob, 345, 347, 357

Ram, Comehus Herbert, 433

Ranger School, 64

Rastetter, Tom, 354, 362, 363,

368-369, 381, 383, 385, 386 Rattley, Jessie, 357 Reagan, Ronald, 400 Reagan administration, 424 Red Chinese, 4 Red Cross, 189 Republican party, in U.S., 325, 341,

345, 347, 365, 366, 376, 383 Rheault, Colonel Robert B., 262 Ribbon Creek (South Carolina), 23 Richardson, Elliot L., 331 Riviera (Vietnam), 116, 119, 121,

123, 124, 127, 130-132, 133,

137, 138, 165, 171, 172, 173,

176, 180-181, 216, 221, 229,

250 Roark, Lieutenant Jackson, 248 Robb, Charles S., 349-351, 353,

354, 378, 388 Robb, Lynda, 350 ROKs, in Vietnam, 182 Rooftop Singers, 239 Rotarians, 372 Russia. See Soviet Union

Saigon (Vietnam), 336

Saluda (Virginia), 18-22, 25, 26,

27, 29, 30, 37, 67, 68, 188,

207, 319, 322 San Diego (California), 11, 12, 13 Sandzen, Dr., 224, 228, 231,

243-244, 245, 252-254, 257,

258-259, 271 San Francisco, Haight-Ashbury

section of, 73 Saratoga (USS), 365-366, 378,

379 "Saturday Night Massacre," 331 Schwarz, Michael, 293 Scruggs, Jan, 396, 397, 424, 434-

435 Seabees, 158, 159, 163, 164, 172,

187 Seattle, 74-75

Second Marine Division, 12, 17 Secret Service, 342

451

Selective Service System, 36, 341,

346 Senate, 370, 376 Foreign Relations Committee,

311 Watergate investigating

committee, 329 See also Congress Sequoia, 340 Service Life Extension Program.

See SLEP Shakespeare, William, 71 Shaughnessey, Commander,

214-215, 218, 221, 223-224, 228, 236, 247, 264, 266, 273 and crutches, 242-243 departure of, 278-280 introduction to, 213-214 reassignment of, 271-272 supportiveness of, 275 techniques of, 237-238, 245 Shelleman, Kenneth Hyde, 61, 80,

81, 82, 83, 233-234, 433 Shepherd, General Lemuel C, 17,

18 Silver Star, 54, 189, 270, 311, 441 "60 Minutes" (TV show), 431 Ski (walking point in Vietnam), 96,

141, 142, 143 SLEP (Service Life Extension

Program), 365 Smithers, Lieutenant Bill, 278-279,

280, 292, 294 Sorg, Sergeant. 40-41, 42, 46-47,

48, 49 South China Sea, 76, 116, 117, 118,

132, 162, 164, 184 Southeast Asia, 35, 38, 52, 65, 72, 256, 308, 375 See also Vietnam South Korean allies, 181 South Vietnam, 54, 76, 101, 255, 293, 336 border of, 291 civilians in, 143, 274 escalation in, 53-54 military units from, 153,

166-167 See also ARVN; Vietnam

Soviet Union, 441

and Hungarian Revolution, 25 Soviet veterans, in Washington,

DC, 438-440 Speer, Byron Morrow, 38, 433 Stalin, Joseph, 25 "Stars and Stripes Forever," 191 Steinhoff, Jeff, 206, 226-227 Stewart, Jimmy, 49, 50 Stone, Irving, 330 Sullivan, Tim, 355 Supreme Court, 310 Suttle, Captain Frederick N., Jr.,

327, 433

TAOR (tactical area of

responsibility). 111, 113-116,

176 Tate, Sharon, 262 Taylor, Elizabeth, 376 Teheran hostage crisis, 400 Ten Commandments, 28 Tet offensive (Vietnam), 53-55, 60,

112 Thanh, Captain, 155-157, 158-160 Thieu, Nguyen Van, 255, 336 Third Battalion, Twenty-seventh

Marine Regiment, 113-114 Third Marine Brigade, 6 Tho, Le Due, 325 Thompson, Margaret, 354, 382, 390 Todd, Colonel Robert G. (Toddy's

father), 62, 63, 64, 65, 70,

207, 217, 219c 220, 231, 308 Todd, Margaret (Toddy's mother),

62, 63, 64, 65, 217. 231, 257 Todd, Rob, 257-258 Todds, the. 70-71, 72, 188, 208,

209, 218-219, 220, 232, 256,

268, 276, 277, 327, 350, 358 Tomb of the Unknowns, 310, 397 "Tomorrow" (TV show), 402 Tompkins, Tommy, 189 Trible, Paul. 347-348, 350, 357,

361, 364-365 background of, 345-346 and blacks, 373-374, 383-384 flag waving of, 349, 355, 368

Fortunate Son

Trible, Paul (cont.)

on House Armed Services

Committee, 370, 371 and House Merchant Marine and Fisheries Committee job, 393 at NAACP meeting, 373-374 and parking space incident, 392 political ability of, 351,

356-357, 366 press coverage of, 359, 366 reelected, 385-387 support for, 353, 377, 382 and Watergate, 381 Trible, Rosemary, 353, 356, 357, 361 Tu Cau bridge (Vietnam), 123, 124-127, 137, 150, 151, 155, 161, 172 Tu Cau River (Vietnam), 115 Turner, Corporal, 99, 100, 137, 143, 150, 158, 161, 163, 164-165, 177, 180, 183, 186 as acting platoon sergeant,

175-176 in combat, 146-147 joking of, 145, 162 leadership ability of, 86-87, 152 patrol led by, 141-143 strategy of, 144 theorizing of, 166-167 Twenty-seventh Marines, 113, 114, 115, 117

Uniform Code of Military Justice,

246 United Nations, 369 United States, 164, 338, 348, 405 antiwar movement in, 267-269,

270-271, 291-292 and Cambodia, 291-292 mailings to, 125 mainstream of, 400 medical supplies from, 108 vs. Soviet Union, 25 and Tet offensive, 54 troop withdrawals from Vietnam,

255-256, 277, 293, 328-329,

331-332 and Vietnam, 240, 255-256, 310,

326-327, 328, 336-337

wounded from Vietnam to, 75

See also Americans United Steel workers, 364 U.S. AID, 290 USO, 159

U.S. Congress. See Congress USS Saratoga, 365-366, 378, 379

VA (Veterans Administration), 331, 333, 346-347, 427 hospitals, 252-253, 300-301,

313-314, 348-349 housing grants, 308 Office of General Counsel of,

329, 331-332, 344 vocational rehabilitation program, 288 VC. See Vietcong Veterans, and Presidential

Clemency Board, 337, 338, 339 Veterans Administration. See VA Veterans of Foreign Wars, 371-372 Victor Charles. See Vietcong Viem Dong (Vietnam), 123, 132,

176-177, 181-186 Vietcong (VC), 37, 53, 89, 128, 130, 135, 138, 141, 142, 143, 179, 216, 218 and booby traps, 132-133, 134,

172 murder of civilians by, 293 in Riviera, 116, 120-122, 172,

181 snipers, 85, 172, 174 and villages, 97-100, 177 Vietnam, 61, 62, 63, 64, 160, 165, 166, 202, 218, 219, 221-222, 231, 236, 254, 268, 279, 280, 290, 314, 315, 322, 323, 358, 360, 369, 376, 381, 394, 409, 440 and Afghanistan, 439 agreement ending war, 328 Americans and, 75, 262-263, 273-274, 277-278, 305, 308, 310-311, 316-317 Americans killed in, 49, 54-55, 260, 292, 401, 430, 431-433

453

Americans out of, 328-329,

331-332 and antiwar movement, 267-269,

270-271, 291-292 atrocities in, 250, 274, 304-305,

317 attrition rate in, 52 bloody crucible of, 436 campus unrest over, 36 casualties in, 47, 63, 198,

199-200, 211, 252-253, 259,

346-347, 382 children in, 98-99, 111-112, 118 Communists in, 116, 336 cordon and search operation in,

181-182 debate over, 240 defeat in, 384

destructiveness of war, 348-349 frustrations of war, 60 heroism and death in, 38, 40 leadership and, 326, 343 malingering in, 172-173 maneuvering around, 108-112,

113-114, 124, 131-132 money in, 76 news of, 249-250 night patrols in, 114-115,

157-158, 167-170, 176-177 platoon sergeants in, 175-176 and Presidential Clemency

Board, 333-344 Puller's arrival in, 77-82 Puller before departure for,

64-73 Puller's combat in, 103-108,

119-123, 128-130, 132-137,

145-149, 153-155, 167-170,

179-180, 184-186 Puller coming to grips with,

428-431 Puller's doubts about, 261-263,

277-278, 292, 293, 325,

330-331 Puller's first combat in, 103-108 Puller's first command in,

82-103 Puller's flights to, 72-76 Puller reliving, 244, 254,

269-270, 301, 390, 392, 395,

402-403, 420, 425-426, 430 Puller wounded in, 148-149,

185-188 Purple Hearts in, 151 refugees from, 336, 375 and reservists, 306, 307 service in, 338, 350 shaping power of war, 372 spare time in, 112-113, 126-127,

161-162 as stigma, 287 suffering in, 208 as taboo topic, 256-257, 299,

396 and Tet offensive, 53-55, 60, 112 troop withdrawals from,

255-256, 277, 293, 328-329,

331-332 trophies from, 171 troubled era of, 358 unraveling of war, 277, 316-317,

336-337 and U.S., 240, 255-256, 310,

326-327, 328, 336-337 vendors in, 125 veterans of, 278, 310-311, 397,

407, 410-411, 427, 433,

435-437 veterans' protest in Washington,

D.C., 310-311 villages in, 97-100, 117,

118-119, 138-141, 142-145 wounded from, to U.S., 75 See also ARVN; Indochina;

North Vietnamese; Southeast

Asia; South Vietnam; Tet

offensive; Vietcong; specific

towns "Vietnamization," 277 Vietnam Veterans of America, 439 Vietnam Veterans Memorial, 401,

420-421, 423-424, 427,

429-430, 431-435 Soviet veterans at, 438-440 Vietnam Veterans Memorial

Foundation, 431 Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund,

397, 401

Fortunate Son

Vietnam Veterans Week, 397 Virginia, 349-350, 407 First Congressional District,

351, 352, 355, 357, 366, 368,

377 Virginia Military Institute, 26, 39

Walt, General Lewis W., 188, 334,

339 Ware, Dave, 226-227 Warner, John, 370, 376 Washington, D.C.

dedication ceremonies in,

434-435 march on, 267-269, 273-274 Soviet veterans in, 438-440 Vietnam veterans' parade in,

433, 438 Vietnam veterans' protest in, 310-311 Washington Post, 431 "Waste of an Old War Horse"

(Esquire magazine), 21 Watergate investigating committee

(Senate), 329 Watergate scandal, 327, 330, 331, 381 hearings on, 329 Watson, Corporal, 90, 95, 99, 104, 105, 141, 144, 145, 149, 154, 156, 160, 167, 168, 170, 178, 179, 184, 185 after Puller wounding, 186 Purple Heart request of, 146 as radioman, 86, 87 Watt, James, 424, 431 Wayne, John, 37, 74-75, 134, 179,

437 Wheeler, John, 424 White House

and Medal of Honor winners,

255, 262-263 and Presidential Clemency Board, 333-334, 335-336, 337, 341-342 and USS Saratoga, 378, 379 and Watergate scandal, 330

Willett, Dr. Leo, 271, 280-282,

283, 285-287, 288, 290-291,

292, 295, 304 William and Mary. See College of

William and Mary Williams, Bev, 233 Williamson, Dick, 355 Wolfe, Tom, 431 Woods, Captain Clyde, 88, 89,

91-92, 94, 95, 96, 101, 102,

108, 110, 112, 121, 130, 131,

150, 169-170, 171, 177, 178,

180 and cordon and search operation,

181-182 introduction to, 85, 87-88 leadership of, 104-107, 117,

137, 173, 183 recovered from wounds, 269 wounded in Vietnam, 250 Woodstock, 264 Worid War I, 22, 262 Worid War II, 22, 36, 37, 74, 188,

260, 262, 278, 339, 344, 429 Wright, Jim, 379-380 Wright, Major, 82, 83

Yarborough, Glenn, 61, 234 Yokosuka (Japan), 188, 189, 190 York, Sergeant, 262

Zatzerine, Commander, 198-199 Zier, Lieutenant John, 111, 175, 231, 248, 255, 263-264 Christmas card from, 218, 223 confidence of, 287-288 death of, 325 hospitalized, 234 hugeness and agility of, 102,

105, 112, 113, 247 malaria strikes down, 241-242 playfulness of, 246 recovery after wounding, 173 wounded in Vietnam, 136-137, 229 Zier, Linde, 218, 223, 229, 234, 242, 434

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Lewis B. Puller, Jr., was bom in Camp Lejeune, North Carolina, and lived on various military installations until his father's retirement from the Marine Corps in 1955, when the family settled in Saluda, Virginia. Upon graduation from the College of William and Mary, he joined the Marine Corps, was commissioned as a second lieutenant, and served in Vietnam until his wounds caused his evacuation and subsequent retirement. He was awarded the Silver Star, two Purple Hearts, the Navy Commendation Medal with valor device, and the Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. He graduated from Marshall Wythe School of Law of the College of William and Mary. He is currently a senior attorney in the Office of the General Counsel at the Department of Defense and lives with his wife. Toddy, and their two children, Lewis and Margaret, in Alexandria, Virginia.

THE ONLY MARINE IN HISTORY TO WIN FIVE NAVY CROSSES

MARINE!

THE LIFE OF CHESTY PULLER

Chesty Puller enlisted in the Marine Corps in 1918 at the age ot 20. He chased bandits in Haiti and Nicaragua, commanded the Horse Marines in Peking, battled his way from island to bloody island in the Pacific, led the landing at Inchon, and fought the most savage rearguard action of the Korean War. He became a legend in his own time, yet was forced into early retirement with the rank of lieutenant general. Why? No officer ever inspired greater courage, loyalty, and devotion from his men, pushed them harder or served them better. But this popularity added to his blunt honesty earned him many enemies in Washington, and when the war was done they no longer needed a fighter like Chesty.

Here is the explosive true story of tlie most courageous and controversial commander of them all — the fabulous tale of a real-life hero.

by Burke Davis

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