Vince
served with the 4th Medical Battalion, 4th Infantry
Division f
rom
1968 to 1969 in Pleiku and An Khe, Viet Nam. He was a soldier, a poet, a teacher, a friend to all who knew him. Vince passed away in 1995.
Vince
served with the 4th Medical Battalion, 4th Infantry
Division from
1968 to 1969 in Pleiku and An Khe, Viet Nam.
He was a soldier, a poet, a
teacher, a friend to all who knew him. Vince passed away in 1995.
On Father’s Day near the wall, a young woman saw
the insignia I wore and asked, “Were you with the Fourth Division?”
When I nodded “yes,” she said, “My father was in the Fourth.
He was killed in 1970. Can I give you a hug for him— for Father’s Day?”
I hugged her
with a father’s joy, though the tears blinded me.
A little bit of healing happened for both of us that day.
On Veterans Day near the Wall, a Gold Star Mother saw
The insignia I wore and asked me, “Were you in Vietnam”
When I nodded “Yes” she said, “ Will you stand-in for my son
and give this old lady a hug?” I hugged her with a son’s love,
though the tears blinded me. A little bit of healing happened
for both of us that day.
In Canberra, at the dedication of the Australian Vietnam
Veterans Memorial, I saw an Aussie vet standing in the crowed,
Staring at the Memorial. I knew the look—
His body shook with emotion, the tears blinded him.
I put my arm around him and asked, ”Are you all right?”
We hugged in the warmth of brothers and wept together
And I took off my insignia and pinned it on him.
A little bit of healing happened for both of us that day.
People ask me when the ghosts of Vietnam will finally
Be put to rest. The answer is simple—when there are
Enough open arms,
Enough open hearts,
Enough hugs to heal all the pain.
Arlington, Virginia, 1992
The First Sergeant stood in the doorway for a long time,
Watching Bill. I’m sure he thought he was watching
Another G.I. high on drugs. I stayed close, ready to run
Interference if
I had to, but glad when it wasn’t necessary—
The Sergeant snorted, shook his head, and left the hooch
In disgust. I could have explained what Bill was doing,
But I don’t think the Sergeant would have understood.
Bill and I had both been drafted, and each of us had left
Behind a bride when we went off to war. Friendships
Could be built on lesser things, especially in 'Nam—
But even I didn’t know about the candle for the first few months.
Every Saturday night at 9 o’clock, while the rest of us
Were chugging down beers at the movie, he’d stick
A lighted candle on his footlocker, lay on his bunk
in the dark, and stared at the flame. I found him
that way one night after looking all over camp for him.
I waited, wondering at 10 o’clock he stood up dazed,
like a psychic coming out of a trance. He told me about it
as we as we sat and drank the warm beers I was carrying.
They’d figure out the time difference, and while Bill stared
at his candle in Vietnam, his wife was also staring at a candle
in a dormitory in Ohio.
“I can’t explain it, Vince” he said,
“But I was with
her. I really was—though I couldn’t tell you
Where we were.” What could I say? I believe him.
After that, I tried to be around when Bill lit his candle,
so that he and his wife would not be disturbed. Sometimes
some guys would come back from the movie early,
and ask me, "Where’s Bill?" “Don’t bother him,”
I’d say. “He’s in Ohio.” And they’d laugh and walk away,
making jokes about us drinking too much beer.
Because I was in love, I could believe him.
Maybe I just shared in his delusion—I don’t know.
I know envied him.
In fact, one night I got a candle and tried it myself—
But it didn’t work for me. Of course, I hadn’t written
To my wife about it—I was afraid she’d think the war had
Finally robbed me of all sense. It didn’t work for me,
But that proves nothing. Perhaps, like love, the miracle
Depended on both sides moving toward the center,
moving gently by candlelight to a place where only
souls can touch. For the rest of my life, I regret
my lack of faith in love.
An Khe 1970/Chicago 1986
Whether it's a drunken driver who's just crashed
and burned on the expressway, or a distraught husband
who's just used a bread-knife to end his wife's adultery,
or a nut who claims that aliens from the planet Pongo
made him superglue the tails of those six puppies together,
whenever something bad happens, someone always says,
"He hasn't been the same since he came home from Vietnam."
Whenever something bad happens,
the reporters fan out and interview everyone in sight.
And no matter what the story, eventually they all find the same person:
The fat-thin person,
The tall-short person,
The bald-headed, blond, brunette person,
The African-Asian-Caucasian person,
The person that claims that she is a relative,
That is a friend, the master of disguise
Who looks into the camera and says:
"He hasn't been the same since he came home from Vietnam."
Well, I'm tired of all that.
I think it's time to change the headlines,
To change the stories,
To change the captions.
Tomorrow, I'd like to open the paper and see
this headline on page 1.
Vietnam Vet stands in field of flowers, singing.
Birds flock around him as his old friend says:
"He hasn't been the same
since he came home from Vietnam."
Or:
Vietnam Vet acknowledges the value of human life--
Hugs every person he meets and blesses them.
His neighbors say:
"He hasn't been the same
since he came home from Vietnam."
Or:
Vietnam Vet watches the sun rise
over a white-sand beach
and thanks God for the dawn of a new day,
Thanks God for the beauty all around him,
Thanks God for everything.
And his family says:
"He hasn't been the same
since he came home from Vietnam."
Night is the hand of a friend
Leading me to the ramparts
To search for quiet fires
Of purgation, like one of
A Chosen Few awaiting an
Anti-Christ who may not come.
What I fear is ghosts:
Aborted thoughts and children
Never born, dead friends
Not old enough to die,
And songs I did not hear
In the hearts of mutes;
And night is the hand
of that Judas-friend
Leading me to memories.
Pleiku 1969
Those who care about history or politics
Or who want to believe in a fallible God,
can come to the Wall and search for
Certain significant names.
There are 3 Kissingers on the Wall,
5 McNamaras on the Wall,
10 Nixons on the Wall,
521 Johnsons on the Wall,
And damn it!--those were all the right names,
But all the wrong people;
They weren't even distant relatives!
So, while you've got to give God an A-plus for
Trying, you have to give Him an F for accuracy.