A Vietnam Veteran Speaks About the War on Terror

We met at the park during a brisk autumn afternoon. He was alone on a basketball court, dressed in some dark sweats, casually shooting hoops. It was apparent that he had been there for a little while, yet not very long. The place was not totally empty, there were others around. We noticed a young boy playfully walking his dog. He smiled at the sight, before resuming his shootaround. He seemed to be a good shot, making more than he missed. However, it was easy to tell he was distracted, totally lost in thought. He was not the first person to use the game of basketball as a form of therapy; he likely will not be the last. When asked about what was on his mind, he kept shooting while he pondered his answer..

"Every day can be its own struggle, you know." He said while staring straight ahead, focused on the hoop. "I'm no different from anyone else who's been through it." He fired another jump shot that kissed off the backboard before dropping through the hoop. He shrugged as I tossed him the ball back. "I can say it does get worse when we are at war, though. First time was Grenada, then Desert Storm, then Bosnia, now this war. Each war hit me like a ton of bricks followed by a freight train. This war has been worse for me, though."

He stood at the foul line, took a deep breath, before swishing a shot that bounces back toward him. He stopped for a moment; his eyes locked on that young boy and his dog prancing on the field in front of us. The "freight train" experiences are something he has lived with, off and on, for decades. He says it has become somewhat predictable at this point, though that does not make it any easier to handle.

"For me, it always starts with nightmares. Each one is so real, some crystal clear plasma HD-type of flashbacks, except they've been twisted into something worse. It can be horrifying." So you can get somewhat sleep-deprived. Drugs don't really help that. You find yourself reminded by little things, then time feels like its running together, you know?. I start to see people who look just like somebody I knew way back when." He paused while he ran down his shot.

"Just the other day, I saw somebody who looked just like this soldier I knew way back when, give or take several years. I started to walk over, open my mouth to say something, but then, I remembered." He fired again, the shot missing its marked. His eyes followed the ball as it bounced directly to me. He stared in the distance; it seemed he was staring toward me, toward the ball, but really seeing nothing. He had that infamous thousand-yard stare. "I watched that man die years ago."

He has lived and breathed war. He has stared death straight in the face, and lived to talk about it. He watched teammates and friends die in front of him and been the direct cause of death for several. That experience makes him something of an authority on war, or at least its human cost.

"I hate war." He said, gesturing for me to pass the ball back. "I hate everything about it. There is nothing fun or glorious about blowing away someone for wearing the wrong colors. I can remember every single time I pulled that trigger and ended a life. There was no good in it. War is death, ugly brutal death."

Vietnam was decades ago, but him, sometimes it feels like yesterday. The day when he got that call that he had been drafted still burns bright in his memory.

"Yeah, getting picked from a crowd to fight another man's battle, yeah, that was rough." He said, clearing his throat. "My family took it worse than I did, though. It was during the holidays so the family was around. My mom almost never stopped crying. My pop would go so still sometimes. I remember he would just stare at me, sometimes, like he was trying to never forget me, like I'd end up lost over there. My sister tried to pretend it wasn't true. Me? I was still a little ignorant, you know? I was still a cocky teenaged snot-nosed punk then, not a man yet." He laughed to himself. "Hell, I was still a virgin. I didn't know anything about anything, much less war, you know?" He chuckled again. "I didn't know a damn thing about Vietnam, or the Viet Cong or nothing. I just acted like I was going to go over and end the war in a weekend, be back hanging on the block before the week was out."

He shook his head, before firing another shot toward the basket. The ball went straight through, before rolling back toward him. "That act lasted up until we were on the blacktop, getting ready to fly off. Then it hit me: I might never see home again. I could actually die over there. I got so scared." He paused again. "Like I said, until that second, I was a young punk, nothing around the block could scare me. Or that's how I liked to act back then. But, on that blacktop, that was real fear. I could taste my heart in my throat." He fires another shot toward the basket, just off center. "That fear stayed with me every second, from the day we left until the day I came back. Even now, I still get flashes of that fear coming up every now and again. It was the worst period of my life. War is hell; anybody who says different either never served or has gone crazy."

And how does he feel about the current war?

"It is the most ridiculous thing." His eyes blazed. "Why are we there? What point does it serve? What is the mission, again? Wasn't that mission 'accomplished'? It's a Vietnam Déjà vu all over again," He began to pace.

"I've watched every single scrap of news I could get my hands on about it. First, we were liberating Iraq because of the threat of Saddam, right? Then, we're fighting against the threat created by us eliminating Saddam. First we're chasing down the terrorists who attacked us at home, now we're supposedly fighting them over there to keep them from following us home. What the hell sense does that make? But, I guess its okay for our boys and girls in uniform to serve as a handy nearby target, right?" He sputters for a moment, then gathers himself. "Then you got all the politicians spinning their spin, meanwhile the White House keeps sending more of our boys and girls into Hell for some twisted agenda. It just makes my blood boil."

He has to stop, take a few deep breaths. It is apparent that war angers him, especially war he considers senseless. However, this war has also given him a frighteningly new perspective.

"I have a son serving in Iraq right now." He looked down, for the first time. His son is the reason he requested to remain anonymous, not wanting to risk his son seeing his true feelings about the war, while not wanting to remain silent anymore.

"He wasn't even active duty, he was in the Reserves. The only reason he joined up was money for college, like so many of them over there. Then they dialed up his unit. Been over there far too long, extensions and all that crap. Now it's the holidays, and he's still there. Our family is real big about the holidays, you know? But, instead of being home with his people, my son is stuck in hell, just like his old man was. The only difference was that his hell is filled with sand while mine was a wet jungle." He slammed the ball into the concrete, catching it before it ricochet elsewhere. He takes a moment to rein in his emotions.

"He and I talk whenever he can, not often." His voice cracked a bit. "My son's changed, sounds like a different person sometimes. He tries to pump up the positive, hyping up some of the good they've done over there, downplaying the bad. Like he really believes in what they are trying to do. But I know my son." He chuckled. "He was never the best liar in the world."

He has become more animated with every word. He ran a hand over his face then tightened his fist. He took several deep breaths, seeming to try to calm down.

"The thing is, we both know what he's trying to do, but that's a conversation that will wait until he comes back safe and sound. If lying to me and/or himself will help him to keep his head up and survive, then please, by all means, he can lie as much as he needs." He chuckled again. "I remember Allen Iverson used to say that he had to believe he could win a championship with the guys he was with, or else he would've had no motivation to play. It's kind of like that, I guess. I went through that during Vietnam. We'd try to believe in what we were doing in that jungle. I watched a few people crack over there, it is a horrible thing." He swallowed. "Whenever I talk to him, I try to keep the topics light, but when it gets heavy, I try to make sure that he knows I love him and support him fully.

"And I do support him and the troops, just not this war. I never wanted to see him go through what I went through. I remember catching the news of people picketing against Vietnam. I remember how people looked at us and treated us when we got back, like we were pariahs, got the plague or something. I never wanted my boy to feel that. But it might already be too late for that." He grabbed the ball tightly, squeezed his eyes shut. "I thought I hated war when it was just me, when it was just my life." His jaw clenched briefly. "But, this is far, far worse."