I have so much to catch everyone up on. We have been in Hoi An, about thirty minutes south of Da Nang, since early Saturday morning, January 21. It is now January 26 and we are in Hue. I will write about that, and the trip here, in the next blog post. I took the night off while the rest of the group has dinner at a Buddhist pagoda where the food is being prepared by the nuns. I was simply exhausted after we stopped at the site of the former 1st Cav and 101st Fire Support Base Tomahawk, located in one of the mountain passes between Da Nang and Hue. It was very emotionally exhausting. More about that experience, later.
I hardly know where to begin. The flight to Da Nang from Saigon was uneventful, although we were about an hour late taking off due to “technical problem.” They didn't tell us what it was and we didn’t inquire. This is an area where the Marines and various Army units operated during the war and there is little evidence in the cities that anything bad ever happened, here. However, it is not the same when you are in the small, rural farming villages. We are here during the Tet celebration and it’s pretty wild. It is the “Year of the Dragon,” which is the “best year” and it means success and good luck for babies born during this upcoming year. Many Vietnamese and other Asians, who celebrate this holiday, put off having children until the Year of the Dragon so that they can insure good things for their kids. Many of the Vietnamese I have met on the street are very excited about my Afghanistan tattoo which is a dragon above the words, “Afghanistan 2009-2010.” Maybe it was some psychic message that I would be, here, during this time that caused me to choose the dragon for the tattoo.
We arrived in Hoi An early Saturday morning we had the day was a day off except for meeting in the early afternoon to see where everyone was at and discuss how we were all feeling. Peter said that he wanted to do a Warrior Circle, where we would each speak “our truth” that we had learned, so far, and we decided to meet Sunday afternoon and do that. I will admit that, at first, several of us did not really want to do this for reasons that do not matter because we did do it and it was a great experience. Saturday morning, I slept in but got up at nine (we are normally up by seven) so that I could get to the free breakfast buffet before it closed at ten. Man, you talk about a spread. It was more like the breakfast, lunch and dinner buffet because you could get anything from a great omelet to Pho (pronounced “Fuh,” white eyes, not “Foh”)—traditional Vietnamese noodle soup with various meats and vegetables—rice dishes, cereals, fresh fruits and juices of all varieties and wonderful baked goods—croissants, small baguettes and many different pastries. Baking is one of the few good things the French did for the Vietnamese and they learned it really well. I swear I could survive on the bread and various cheeses they had.
After breakfast, my friend, Vela, and I headed to downtown Hoi An to shop for clothes and other things that caught our eye. I bought a beautiful, short-sleeve silk shirt that is so light it is almost like wearing nothing. You can wash it out by hand at night and it is dry by morning. I then purchased a mandarin’s shirt that buttons up the front with little loops over a globe-shaped button. It has an incredible embroidered dragon on one side and Vietnamese writing on the other that commemorates the Tet. I paid a total of $25 for both. Then we found the tailor and each had custom VC “pajamas” made, also from fine silk. My pants, like our former enemies’, are black, but my shirt is a dark jade with a mandarin collar. It has three buttons like the other shirt and long sleeves. I wore them the next day and they are clearly ideal for this weather, particularly the humidity. Any wind, even the slightest breeze, passes right through and helps keep you as cool as is possible. When I told Mona that I had spent $50 on VC pajamas, she thought I had lost my mind since, as she said, “You don’t even wear pajamas.” I explained the difference. Vela wanted leather sandals and while he was trying to explain what he wanted to the sandal-maker, I sat on a small chair to observe the street, which was jammed with people, motor bikes, and cars. I suddenly realized that my head was on a swivel and I was watching every person getting near me. Son-of-a-bitch. Apparently, I came to Vietnam to have a flashback about Afghanistan. Seriously, I had to return to the hotel and Vela continued to shop. I have had absolutely no fear or weird sensations—other than at important sites, for me—since I got here. I will say, again, that the Vietnamese people are the most loving, kind and gentle folks I have ever been lucky enough to meet. I wonder, when, and if, peace eventually comes, if the Afghan people will be as forgiving. I doubt it since carrying a grudge, there, seems to be a national past time, based on my experiences. The rest of my day was uneventful and relaxing.
On Sunday, January 22, we took the bus to Song’s—our tour guide—ancestral village. We were the first Americans to be there since the war and all of the village came out to welcome us. By the way, the Vietnamese call it “The American War” and, before us, it was “The French War.” Difference in perspective, I guess. We went to the home of Song’s cousin where there were altars set up for his ancestors and we each lit a joss stick and placed it in the appropriate place, saying whatever came to our collective minds. His cousin has two Vietnamese acres, which I think he said were 20 x 25 meters, each. At that measurement, Mona and I have thousands of acres. The intensity of their farming is simply amazing. Rice here, sweet potatoes there, beans climbing poles, beautiful lettuces. One of the reasons we went here is that “Soldier’s Heart” donated two cows to Song’s cousin, one heifer, one steer. Our group leaders are Ed and Kate, so, in big white letters, were the names “Ed” and “Kate,” painted on the animals’ sides. It was a riot, as you can see from the pictures. Song’s cousin told us that she makes about $360 a year from her gardens and that, after expenses, she nets $260. The heifer and steer will greatly increase her income because the cow will pretty much stay pregnant and she will sell the calves. The steer will be rented out for stud services and they will be used for plowing. Before this, everything she did in her gardens was done by hand. She had a huge pig that had recently given birth and there was something like a dozen piglets all scrumming for a teat. There was a pen full of ducks and chickens running around, one with brand new peepers. The one with the chicks was actually hobbled with wooden gizmos around her legs so she couldn't run away from the chicks. Pretty damn funny.
One of the women who came to visit was carrying a small child in her arms. It was a little boy who was a victim of herbicides and it just broke my heart. He had Downs-syndrome and a large head caused by being born hydro-encephalitic. The mother and child were carrying on a conversation and it was obvious that he had not suffered brain damage, but he could not walk. I stood there and knew that I had to hold him, so I approached the mother and signed what I wanted to do. She gladly gave him to me and I held him and looked at him as he babbled something to me in Vietnamese. He took my finger and squeezed it and I just completely broke down. It was another sad reminder of the long-term hell we have caused the Vietnamese people—this was a fourth-generation child.
I noticed several ponds in the village that were surrounded by low concrete walls. Song told us that these ponds had been made from bomb craters. Talk about using all available space. We left the village and headed back to Hoi An. Near the hotel, we stopped at a silk factory that was as amazing as it was almost prehistoric. The looms were these huge, old-style machines with a young woman at each one—bang, bang, bang. Our factory guide showed us the entire process and it was unbelievable. The young silk worms are in piles of green vegetation that they eat until they are about an inch long and white and fat. They spin their cocoons and they are either yellow or white. When the cocoons are “ripe,” they are tossed into hot water—yow—and another girl takes them and begins to pull the fine silk thread loose and starts it into the thread extractor. If you can believe this, our hostess told us that they get between 600-1000 meters of thread from each cocoon, which are about 1½ inches long and ¾’s of an inch wide. Eventually, the thread is dyed and then woven into the many products they produce—table cloths and napkins and these amazing embroidered pictures that look like photographs. I bought a beautiful table cloth and eight napkins, embroidered with flowers for $33. I’m guessing that something like this would cost more than $100 at home. The embroidered pictures were way out of my price range and many of them were $600 and more. Outside, I heard a bird singing and saw that it was a type of myna and I made the video to the right as it responded to my clicking and whistling. It was a funny little guy and seemed very happy.
Monday, the 23rd, was Tet, so the night of the 22nd was New Year’s Eve. What a difference forty-three years makes. Although everyone babbles on about the Tet of 1968, the Tet of 1969 was no cake walk, with most major US bases under attack and many small fire bases and LZs also getting hit. That year, the attacks are actually referred to as the Post-Tet Offensive of 1969 and it went on for a month. In Qui Nhon, where I was with the 184th, our ammo dump was hit three times—February 23, March 11-12 and March 23. It was hell and we spent those nights running around inside the dump looking for satchel charges as things were blowing up all around us. This year, there was none of that and I felt extremely relaxed, even when the huge fireworks display began at midnight and lasted almost thirty minutes. It was the first time in many years—maybe even since I returned from Vietnam in 1970 that I was able to watch and enjoy fireworks. The last time I actually remember going to a fireworks display was a July 4 event in Concord, New Hampshire, I think when Jonas was about sixteen months old. I’m pretty sure the only reason I went was because it was his first 4th celebration and my memory is that I was pretty freaked out. Not here, at this time. I’m fairly certain it is due to the fact that, as I have said several times, already, the Vietnamese accept us and have honored us in many ways since we got here. I guess, in some way, coming here has been like coming home and receiving the welcome that none of us got back in the day.
On New Year’s Day, we all went to Song’s home, where we met his wife and two sons, one educated in the US, the other in New Zealand. Both are great guys and now in computer sciences, helping bring their country into the modern age. From what I’ve seen, so far, Vietnam is moving forward at leaps and bounds in this regard, as well as in development of the major cities. Hell, in Danang, there are large apartment complexes going up everywhere outside the city so I guess they’re on their way to having suburbs. On one bus trip, as I contemplated these developments, as well as modern hotels and office buildings going up everywhere, I could not help but think that we had apparently fought these people, not to stop Communism, but to turn them into us. At Song’s we participated in his rituals regarding paying homage to his parents and grandparents at the main family altar, where there were various foods, drinks, paper clothing and shoes and numerous other items needed by people even in the afterlife according to Buddhist ritual. In fact, at the end of blessing the many items and saying prayers to his ancestors, his sons took the paper clothing, shoes and other items and burned them outside in a large container in the street. There was also an altar to “the garage god.” This was to say prayers so that Song and his family would be protected in their car. There is also a “Kitchen God.” On New Year’s Day, the Kitchen God goes to heaven and reports on how the family has been over the past year. It is a very important matter because it all relates to your karma and how you will be received in the afterlife.
That afternoon, we all met in a gazebo for our Warrior’s Circle. I had never done this before and I was a little nervous because I was really unclear about what “truth” I would share with the group. Each person went , in turn, after Ed and Kate, our group leaders, led us in a wonderful Lakota song. I am not going to discuss what each person said, because these things were very personal to each of us. However, John, the former air ambulance EMS, who is now working on his PH.D. dissertation, said something very humbling and wonderful about me that he had put on his blog and it was a little disconcerting as I had written about him just night before in my last blog post and saying that he was one of us, veteran, or not. I knew then that I would share what I had written about him because the inescapable psychic connection was too obvious. Had I chosen to write about him because somehow I knew he would be writing about me? Did he write about me because he knew that I had written about him? In addition to that, given the hell that many of us have lived in for many years as a result of our war experiences, I decided that I would read a few paragraphs from the draft of my book, aptly titles, “This is What Hell Looks Like.” It is about my experiences in EOD in Vietnam and before that at Dugway Proving Grounds in Utah, where I happened to be when we accidentally dropped a ton of nerve gas on a sheep ranch. This is what I read:
"Hell is a relative term. If you talk to any combat veteran, he or she could tell you stories of devastation and destruction. Each of us has our own private hell and has to find our own salvation.
Anne was an Army nurse, who spent a year up to her elbows in blood at an evacuation hospital. Jerry was the officer in charge of a graves registration unit and still talks to the men he prepared for shipment home. Bob fell off a cliff, broke almost every bone in his body and now cannot stand to cross bridges, or look over the side of the road into deep desert canyons. I was blown up, almost blown up several more times, and saw too many bodies blown to pieces. Each of us has our own version of what hell looks like.
Veterans wonder what it all meant, many for their entire lives after coming back. I want to figure this out, now, so I can move on. Until now, I have not been able, probably been unwilling, to figure that out on my own, and have often been unable to listen to, or seek the advice of, others who might have been able to help. Despite hospitalization in 1987 for drug and alcohol addictions and PTSD, despite the individual and group therapy, I have not found any better understanding of myself, or much solace. I had all but given up until I decided to go into another addictions program in 2007 after withdrawing from prescription morphine.
During one of our classes on anger, the counselor said, “Religion is for those who are trying not to go to Hell. Spirituality is for people who have been to hell and don’t want to go back.” I thought he was talking directly to me."
The Warrior Circle was a moving event and when we were done talking, we passed the pipe, and smoking as we each had our own private thoughts.
I am now in Ha Noi and I want to get this up, so I’ll finish later. Apparently, there was some problem with the internet in Hoi An, but not here. It’s too weird being here, but more on that later.
I hardly know where to begin. The flight to Da Nang from Saigon was uneventful, although we were about an hour late taking off due to “technical problem.” They didn't tell us what it was and we didn’t inquire. This is an area where the Marines and various Army units operated during the war and there is little evidence in the cities that anything bad ever happened, here. However, it is not the same when you are in the small, rural farming villages. We are here during the Tet celebration and it’s pretty wild. It is the “Year of the Dragon,” which is the “best year” and it means success and good luck for babies born during this upcoming year. Many Vietnamese and other Asians, who celebrate this holiday, put off having children until the Year of the Dragon so that they can insure good things for their kids. Many of the Vietnamese I have met on the street are very excited about my Afghanistan tattoo which is a dragon above the words, “Afghanistan 2009-2010.” Maybe it was some psychic message that I would be, here, during this time that caused me to choose the dragon for the tattoo.
We arrived in Hoi An early Saturday morning we had the day was a day off except for meeting in the early afternoon to see where everyone was at and discuss how we were all feeling. Peter said that he wanted to do a Warrior Circle, where we would each speak “our truth” that we had learned, so far, and we decided to meet Sunday afternoon and do that. I will admit that, at first, several of us did not really want to do this for reasons that do not matter because we did do it and it was a great experience. Saturday morning, I slept in but got up at nine (we are normally up by seven) so that I could get to the free breakfast buffet before it closed at ten. Man, you talk about a spread. It was more like the breakfast, lunch and dinner buffet because you could get anything from a great omelet to Pho (pronounced “Fuh,” white eyes, not “Foh”)—traditional Vietnamese noodle soup with various meats and vegetables—rice dishes, cereals, fresh fruits and juices of all varieties and wonderful baked goods—croissants, small baguettes and many different pastries. Baking is one of the few good things the French did for the Vietnamese and they learned it really well. I swear I could survive on the bread and various cheeses they had.
After breakfast, my friend, Vela, and I headed to downtown Hoi An to shop for clothes and other things that caught our eye. I bought a beautiful, short-sleeve silk shirt that is so light it is almost like wearing nothing. You can wash it out by hand at night and it is dry by morning. I then purchased a mandarin’s shirt that buttons up the front with little loops over a globe-shaped button. It has an incredible embroidered dragon on one side and Vietnamese writing on the other that commemorates the Tet. I paid a total of $25 for both. Then we found the tailor and each had custom VC “pajamas” made, also from fine silk. My pants, like our former enemies’, are black, but my shirt is a dark jade with a mandarin collar. It has three buttons like the other shirt and long sleeves. I wore them the next day and they are clearly ideal for this weather, particularly the humidity. Any wind, even the slightest breeze, passes right through and helps keep you as cool as is possible. When I told Mona that I had spent $50 on VC pajamas, she thought I had lost my mind since, as she said, “You don’t even wear pajamas.” I explained the difference. Vela wanted leather sandals and while he was trying to explain what he wanted to the sandal-maker, I sat on a small chair to observe the street, which was jammed with people, motor bikes, and cars. I suddenly realized that my head was on a swivel and I was watching every person getting near me. Son-of-a-bitch. Apparently, I came to Vietnam to have a flashback about Afghanistan. Seriously, I had to return to the hotel and Vela continued to shop. I have had absolutely no fear or weird sensations—other than at important sites, for me—since I got here. I will say, again, that the Vietnamese people are the most loving, kind and gentle folks I have ever been lucky enough to meet. I wonder, when, and if, peace eventually comes, if the Afghan people will be as forgiving. I doubt it since carrying a grudge, there, seems to be a national past time, based on my experiences. The rest of my day was uneventful and relaxing.
On Sunday, January 22, we took the bus to Song’s—our tour guide—ancestral village. We were the first Americans to be there since the war and all of the village came out to welcome us. By the way, the Vietnamese call it “The American War” and, before us, it was “The French War.” Difference in perspective, I guess. We went to the home of Song’s cousin where there were altars set up for his ancestors and we each lit a joss stick and placed it in the appropriate place, saying whatever came to our collective minds. His cousin has two Vietnamese acres, which I think he said were 20 x 25 meters, each. At that measurement, Mona and I have thousands of acres. The intensity of their farming is simply amazing. Rice here, sweet potatoes there, beans climbing poles, beautiful lettuces. One of the reasons we went here is that “Soldier’s Heart” donated two cows to Song’s cousin, one heifer, one steer. Our group leaders are Ed and Kate, so, in big white letters, were the names “Ed” and “Kate,” painted on the animals’ sides. It was a riot, as you can see from the pictures. Song’s cousin told us that she makes about $360 a year from her gardens and that, after expenses, she nets $260. The heifer and steer will greatly increase her income because the cow will pretty much stay pregnant and she will sell the calves. The steer will be rented out for stud services and they will be used for plowing. Before this, everything she did in her gardens was done by hand. She had a huge pig that had recently given birth and there was something like a dozen piglets all scrumming for a teat. There was a pen full of ducks and chickens running around, one with brand new peepers. The one with the chicks was actually hobbled with wooden gizmos around her legs so she couldn't run away from the chicks. Pretty damn funny.
One of the women who came to visit was carrying a small child in her arms. It was a little boy who was a victim of herbicides and it just broke my heart. He had Downs-syndrome and a large head caused by being born hydro-encephalitic. The mother and child were carrying on a conversation and it was obvious that he had not suffered brain damage, but he could not walk. I stood there and knew that I had to hold him, so I approached the mother and signed what I wanted to do. She gladly gave him to me and I held him and looked at him as he babbled something to me in Vietnamese. He took my finger and squeezed it and I just completely broke down. It was another sad reminder of the long-term hell we have caused the Vietnamese people—this was a fourth-generation child.
I noticed several ponds in the village that were surrounded by low concrete walls. Song told us that these ponds had been made from bomb craters. Talk about using all available space. We left the village and headed back to Hoi An. Near the hotel, we stopped at a silk factory that was as amazing as it was almost prehistoric. The looms were these huge, old-style machines with a young woman at each one—bang, bang, bang. Our factory guide showed us the entire process and it was unbelievable. The young silk worms are in piles of green vegetation that they eat until they are about an inch long and white and fat. They spin their cocoons and they are either yellow or white. When the cocoons are “ripe,” they are tossed into hot water—yow—and another girl takes them and begins to pull the fine silk thread loose and starts it into the thread extractor. If you can believe this, our hostess told us that they get between 600-1000 meters of thread from each cocoon, which are about 1½ inches long and ¾’s of an inch wide. Eventually, the thread is dyed and then woven into the many products they produce—table cloths and napkins and these amazing embroidered pictures that look like photographs. I bought a beautiful table cloth and eight napkins, embroidered with flowers for $33. I’m guessing that something like this would cost more than $100 at home. The embroidered pictures were way out of my price range and many of them were $600 and more. Outside, I heard a bird singing and saw that it was a type of myna and I made the video to the right as it responded to my clicking and whistling. It was a funny little guy and seemed very happy.
Monday, the 23rd, was Tet, so the night of the 22nd was New Year’s Eve. What a difference forty-three years makes. Although everyone babbles on about the Tet of 1968, the Tet of 1969 was no cake walk, with most major US bases under attack and many small fire bases and LZs also getting hit. That year, the attacks are actually referred to as the Post-Tet Offensive of 1969 and it went on for a month. In Qui Nhon, where I was with the 184th, our ammo dump was hit three times—February 23, March 11-12 and March 23. It was hell and we spent those nights running around inside the dump looking for satchel charges as things were blowing up all around us. This year, there was none of that and I felt extremely relaxed, even when the huge fireworks display began at midnight and lasted almost thirty minutes. It was the first time in many years—maybe even since I returned from Vietnam in 1970 that I was able to watch and enjoy fireworks. The last time I actually remember going to a fireworks display was a July 4 event in Concord, New Hampshire, I think when Jonas was about sixteen months old. I’m pretty sure the only reason I went was because it was his first 4th celebration and my memory is that I was pretty freaked out. Not here, at this time. I’m fairly certain it is due to the fact that, as I have said several times, already, the Vietnamese accept us and have honored us in many ways since we got here. I guess, in some way, coming here has been like coming home and receiving the welcome that none of us got back in the day.
On New Year’s Day, we all went to Song’s home, where we met his wife and two sons, one educated in the US, the other in New Zealand. Both are great guys and now in computer sciences, helping bring their country into the modern age. From what I’ve seen, so far, Vietnam is moving forward at leaps and bounds in this regard, as well as in development of the major cities. Hell, in Danang, there are large apartment complexes going up everywhere outside the city so I guess they’re on their way to having suburbs. On one bus trip, as I contemplated these developments, as well as modern hotels and office buildings going up everywhere, I could not help but think that we had apparently fought these people, not to stop Communism, but to turn them into us. At Song’s we participated in his rituals regarding paying homage to his parents and grandparents at the main family altar, where there were various foods, drinks, paper clothing and shoes and numerous other items needed by people even in the afterlife according to Buddhist ritual. In fact, at the end of blessing the many items and saying prayers to his ancestors, his sons took the paper clothing, shoes and other items and burned them outside in a large container in the street. There was also an altar to “the garage god.” This was to say prayers so that Song and his family would be protected in their car. There is also a “Kitchen God.” On New Year’s Day, the Kitchen God goes to heaven and reports on how the family has been over the past year. It is a very important matter because it all relates to your karma and how you will be received in the afterlife.
That afternoon, we all met in a gazebo for our Warrior’s Circle. I had never done this before and I was a little nervous because I was really unclear about what “truth” I would share with the group. Each person went , in turn, after Ed and Kate, our group leaders, led us in a wonderful Lakota song. I am not going to discuss what each person said, because these things were very personal to each of us. However, John, the former air ambulance EMS, who is now working on his PH.D. dissertation, said something very humbling and wonderful about me that he had put on his blog and it was a little disconcerting as I had written about him just night before in my last blog post and saying that he was one of us, veteran, or not. I knew then that I would share what I had written about him because the inescapable psychic connection was too obvious. Had I chosen to write about him because somehow I knew he would be writing about me? Did he write about me because he knew that I had written about him? In addition to that, given the hell that many of us have lived in for many years as a result of our war experiences, I decided that I would read a few paragraphs from the draft of my book, aptly titles, “This is What Hell Looks Like.” It is about my experiences in EOD in Vietnam and before that at Dugway Proving Grounds in Utah, where I happened to be when we accidentally dropped a ton of nerve gas on a sheep ranch. This is what I read:
"Hell is a relative term. If you talk to any combat veteran, he or she could tell you stories of devastation and destruction. Each of us has our own private hell and has to find our own salvation.
Anne was an Army nurse, who spent a year up to her elbows in blood at an evacuation hospital. Jerry was the officer in charge of a graves registration unit and still talks to the men he prepared for shipment home. Bob fell off a cliff, broke almost every bone in his body and now cannot stand to cross bridges, or look over the side of the road into deep desert canyons. I was blown up, almost blown up several more times, and saw too many bodies blown to pieces. Each of us has our own version of what hell looks like.
Veterans wonder what it all meant, many for their entire lives after coming back. I want to figure this out, now, so I can move on. Until now, I have not been able, probably been unwilling, to figure that out on my own, and have often been unable to listen to, or seek the advice of, others who might have been able to help. Despite hospitalization in 1987 for drug and alcohol addictions and PTSD, despite the individual and group therapy, I have not found any better understanding of myself, or much solace. I had all but given up until I decided to go into another addictions program in 2007 after withdrawing from prescription morphine.
During one of our classes on anger, the counselor said, “Religion is for those who are trying not to go to Hell. Spirituality is for people who have been to hell and don’t want to go back.” I thought he was talking directly to me."
The Warrior Circle was a moving event and when we were done talking, we passed the pipe, and smoking as we each had our own private thoughts.
I am now in Ha Noi and I want to get this up, so I’ll finish later. Apparently, there was some problem with the internet in Hoi An, but not here. It’s too weird being here, but more on that later.
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