It was 15 days before Christmas 1969 and I was about to land in Bien Hoa, Vietnam. My wife and daughter were going to wait out my tour, living with my Folks. Like thousands of other young married couples, we did not have the resources to be independent after I was drafted in July. My first paycheck after one month in the US Army had been $79.00. I was replaying the last memory of my family in my mind. I could see the fear and uncertainty through their tears as I climbed the steps to the plane. They had no idea what was to happen next and neither did I. Now here I was, in the hottest, dirtiest, busiest place I had ever imagined.
In-country processing was a blur of instructions, warnings and hot beer. I was unknown to anyone in a sea of uncaring humanity. I had become a number, a replacement, a fricking new guy. Assignments were handed out and with obedience of a teenager I accepted my orders and boarded the nearest helicopter for the ‘bush”. Upon arrival I became the newest piece of fresh meat in the jungle of Southeast Asia.
I had gone to church my whole life and sort of believed in God, at least in the concept of a higher being. Now I was beginning to witness things that my mind thought was necessary, but my soul would not accept. And so began the tug of war for my spiritual well-being, that was to last for many years to come. In the weeks and months to come I witnessed humanities inexplicable march toward disaster. Much like the passenger on the train that sees that up ahead, the bridge is out, but is incapable of disembarking in time. The only thing to do was to hang on. In fact, hanging on, became the day-to-day goal for everyone I knew. To contemplate the chaos and attempt to maintain any type of control was not possible. Confusion was everywhere I turned. My hope was that after a few months, some sense of purpose would emerge, but it was not to be.
It had been my habit to pray every night as I was drifting off to sleep. I had done this as my Mother had taught me, since I was old enough to speak. Now it seemed senseless. How could a benevolent God allow this insanity to happen. So for the first time in my life, I stopped talking to God. I was raised In the Evangelical United Brethren Church and we were big on tradition and prayer. We read the Red Letter version of the King James Bible out loud in Sunday School class, we believed we had it figured out. It was about this time, after a few weeks in Vietnam that I started to get mad, really mad. I was mad at anything that I could not control, which was everything.
For some people, anger is a destructive force that stands in the way of their purpose. For me, it was a reason to get my act in order. Slowly, I began to take charge and be responsible for my small corner of the world. In that world I found others who were doing the same thing. One guy read letters from home to a guy who never received any mail. Another would write poetry at night in a notebook. Yet another would brush his teeth three times a day. I began to realize that these small acts of responsibility were their attempts to rise above the insanity. As I looked closer, I began to realize that almost everyone had adopted a habit that would bring them back to a little piece of humanity. I was still very angry but now I could see that using that emotion as a springboard to getting back some control of my life.
I didn’t resume talking to God for several years and I am still angry about the situation in which I found myself. However, with the wisdom of age, I understand that God was right there in those seemingly insignificant acts of independence. With minor acts of daily tasks , while in the face of chaos, we began to take our lives back. We unknowingly were becoming the best humanity has to offer, in the worst of times. It was slow and not always successful , but those of us who were able to accomplish those small daily tasks began to realize that it was possible to have purpose in the light of destruction.
I lived through Vietnam and came home to my family and was confused and angry for many years. My Dad never talked to me about my experiences. I don’t think he wanted to unleash the anger. My Mom did what all Mom’s do, she just loved me. Occasionally, when she didn’t think I was looking, I would catch her looking at me, with a tear in her eye. My wife endured the erratic behavior and the anger and the confusion that was a Vietnam Veteran’s legacy in the 1970’s. Eventually, I began to talk to God again and to my amazement found out he had not gone anywhere.
There is just one question I would like answered if I ever get God on the phone. Why?