Coming home: Haunted by the past, of memories Vietnam

It’s been nearly 48 years since I returned from Vietnam. Slowly but surely, I’ve evolved into the kind of old man that my father and uncle were, those members of Tom Brokaw’s “greatest generation” who served during World War II. And, as was the case with my father, in Korea.

I find myself reading news reports about the ongoing conflicts in the Middle East and Afghanistan, and potential conflicts with Iran and North Korea, and shaking my head. I recall that my father did much the same when Vietnam casualty figures were announced by the likes of Walter Cronkite. Death, but particularly war death, is never easy to digest.

And I wake, sometimes, in the early hours of morning, reliving experiences that – had they gone another way – could have left me as just another name on the Vietnam Memorial wall.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, the illness that makes life a hellish endurance test for those afflicted by it, including some veterans I call friends. But like many old people, I am haunted by the past. And at least some of that haunting comes courtesy of Vietnam.

It’s not hard to see why. My war was famous for being unpopular. I left a college campus torn by anti-war protests to enlist in the Army. Throughout my 14-month tour in a war zone, I read stories about the ongoing marches and occasional violence occurring back home. And I was confounded.

It was only after I returned to what we referred to as “the world” that, gradually, I began to understand. One moment of insight came five months after I walked through the gate at Oakland Army Terminal, my discharge papers in hand. It occurred when the Kent State shootings occurred. And I thought, “We’re shooting our own now!”

Another came barely three weeks later, as I marched with a number of fellow veterans in a solemn Memorial Day peace demonstration. Even though I was wearing my Vietnam service medals, I was screamed at, called a traitor, by two guys dressed as Abraham Lincoln. Even today, I am impressed by the irony embodied in that moment.

The only other time I remember being openly criticized for my Vietnam service came in a more personal form. A young woman I was interested in found out that I was a veteran. “Well,” she said, “I bet that makes you feel like a big man.” She never spoke to me again.

Those were the worst reactions I ever experienced. I wasn’t called a baby killer. I wasn’t spit at. Still, given the mood of the country, it’s no wonder that I act like most Vietnam veterans I know and respect. We tend to keep our memories private.

I will share, though, what happened shortly after I left the Oakland Army Terminal. I caught a cab to the San Francisco airport and approached the ticket desk of Pacific Southwest Airlines. The agent told me that a plane to San Diego was leaving soon and, if I hurried, I could make it.

So I ran, duffel bag on my shoulder, past other travelers, a number of whom were in uniform. I raced down seemingly endless corridors until, finally, out of breath, I arrived at the departure gate. There I was greeted by another smiling airline employee.

Taking my ticket, she said something to me that I’ve never forgotten.

“You made it,” she said. “We held the plane for you.” And then she added, “Welcome home.”

I’ve never felt the need to be thanked for my service. Such actions smack too much of a kind of jingoism I abhor. My memories, and my reactions to them, are mine to bear as I choose.

That small act of kindness by complete strangers, though, is something I will always treasure.

Dan Webster is a retired reporter and arts critic for The Spokesman-Review. He co-hosts the film review show “Movies 101” for Spokane Public Radio.