Blog 65 War/VIETNAM (GARY)
I talk about Vietnam to someone in my circle at the Roasting Company and what it holds for me: "You know you can look at that place on Google Earth." I think I have heard of this before but chose not to look. Today I finally download Google Earth, and I am blown away at how the whole earth can be put on my computer.
I enter “Nha Trang Air Base” in the search field and I get its history. Then I go back to Google Earth and enter “Nha Trang Air Base or airport.” I don't remember which but there it is. I feel my body shuddering as I look closer and closer.
It's not there. What I remember is no longer there. The only building I recognize is the large steel roof of the base church where the priest forgot part of the mass. I am dismayed, relieved, and in some sort of state of shock. How could something that affected me so profoundly no longer be there, and how could I be looking right at it? To me, it has been alive and active in my mind for forty-one years. To me it is like last year. It's gone! It is hard for part of me to believe, but at least part of me gets it now. My story no longer has a physical presence, and it's hard to comprehend. Maybe now I can be home and be free of Vietnam?
I think I am done. I am finally home, but there is one more episode that makes it all complete for me. It is hard to type this because the emotions are so strong. This happened last weekend.
I show up in uniform for my first California State Military Reserve Meeting. I get my first salute at the doorway to the armory. I shadow the lieutenant and take emergency readiness classes. Then it's time for lunch. A group of us decide to walk three blocks to the fast food place. It's hot, we are all in uniform and someone honks their horn. I think it is someone making fun of us. Then I notice someone is waving at us. On the way back from lunch someone is waving at us again. Then someone stops and wants to take our picture. The police officer waves as he drives by us. I finally realize these people are proud of us, and acknowledging us. I discreetly wipe my right eye and hold back the emotions as I connect with what I so missed when I came back from Vietnam, a “Welcome Home.” I got it. Thanks America, I finally got it.
After the weekend drill at the armory I am driving home in my tight new uniform, and wearing my hat with the captain's bars. It is a warm summer day and a man ahead of me is driving his red Ferrari with the top down. I used to envy that or fantasize what that might be like. But today it means nothing. I feel only pride and a sense of satisfaction. I am home. I am happy driving my truck and I am home, at last I am at home.
This July 25th, 2008, makes it 40 years and 341 days for me to come home, but who is counting? Ha, ha, ha. I am home. HOME AT LAST.
“A man afraid of himself has no place to hide.” — Gary Plep, 1976.
Yet whenever I think I am done with something I am not.
It is Monday evening’s group three weeks later. I have supported one of the men to journal. This evening he claims time as he has something he wants to share. I am thinking it is something about his childhood or relationship.
He says quite flatly, “I would like to share a story about Vietnam that I have never shared.” I tear up just a little as I have an idea now of what is coming. He asks if it is all right with me and I tell him, "Yes, please do."
He describes flying a helicopter in Vietnam to pick up dead and wounded, and it is a hot landing zone, meaning there is a lot of incoming enemy fire. He lands, picks up dead and wounded, and before he can pull up a sniper with an AK-47 in a tree directly ahead shoots out the bubble of his helicopter sending shattered pieces of plexiglass everywhere. He is hit twice. He yells to his copilot to pull the chopper up and out of the landing zone, but as he turns to yell at him he sees he has been shot dead between the eyes. He is on his own now, and pulls up and out and flies to the hospital landing zone some fifteen minutes away. He makes it to the zone, falls out, and hits the ground unconscious. He wakes with Nurse Molly (actual name unknown) holding his hand, and telling him they didn't think he was going to survive. She visits with him daily until he recovers. One day a staff officer comes to see him, pins a bronze star on his chest, shakes his hand and leaves. He is back to the war zone and flying out dead and wounded again. He and his colleagues are angry with the copilot for doing something stupid to get himself killed. That is post-traumatic syndrome for you. Not logical. He states, “I am still angry, not at him. Just angry.”
Both of us wiped a tear or two from our eyes, but I was surprised to see I could just be there and he could tell the story so calmly. He said it was the first time he had told anyone this story. I tear up a little now as I write, and have great respect and appreciation for the women who saved our souls: another piece of the healing and coming home.
Too many movies. I guess I will never be done, but I am HOME. It has been hard to feel whole while part of me has been in another country. I needed to be welcomed home by strangers on a street, honking their horn as they drove by. I needed to welcome myself home.
Welcome home, brother. You have traveled a long distance to get here.
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