The Letter I Forgot to Write

It was back in 1966. I had just volunteered for a tour in Viet Nam. My wife was not very happy though she supported me in my choice.
What I needed to do was write my Mother. It may sound silly to have to write MOM at the age of 28 years, yet it was what I felt. I had kept in contact with Mom when any major event was to occur. She had learned when both my daughters were born. When will I called her. She was at the top of my notification list. Here I was getting ready to let her know I had just volunteered to fight in a war that was just building in a place called Viet Nam. A place no one in my family had any idea why we were there at all. A place that could send my young life to an end. I tried to write that damn letter for 3 months.
On the day I left Colorado for the west coast to join my unit for advanced training in China Lake, California. The letter was still not written. China Lake was over and we were to be deployed to Nam in two days. I wrote letters to my wife, my sister, and a couple of close friends… but not Mom. Forget the coming events. Forget that my wife and my sister knew what was ahead for me. Forget the idea that I had made a stupid decision (at least from my sister’s viewpoint). Sis thought I was a coward for not facing Moms bracing if and when she found out. An ostrich I was and where I was going to stay, where my Mom was concerned.
Mom found out not only where I was but also how long I had been there. First, she tried to get me sent back to the states. When that did not work, she wrote to the chaplain service for help to save her ONLY son. That did not work either. Lastly but not gently, she finally wrote me and when I received the letter, we had just returned from a nasty run up river to My Loc.
It was somewhat funny, a hard to read letter from Mom and a tube filled with pop corn hiding a fifth of scotch. I could feel her crying and feeling lost because of my non-letter. By the time all this happened, I was keel deep in a not so friendly war. We were always heading out to recover some one or some group not able to get back from their mission. Too busy to write Mom a proper letter. I did get off a letter telling her of the excitement I was enjoying. I told her I was on a river and near a great beach to swim and sun bathe. Then I tried to keep her up on what generally was happening. One time she received a letter what had a bit blacked out. What a fuss that one made. Over the next two tours, the letters became less and less specific and less frequent. It seemed my life was much too busy staying or at least trying to stay alive. Doing battle from the deck of a small riverboat, I like trying to be an Eagle when in reality I was a small wood duck waiting for the claws to close in.
By the time I came home, all was forgotten and forgiven. My wife noticed the change in me. The loss of spontaneous smiles and the dark cloud in my everyday mood. Our life together was strained and I was looking for counseling from nearly the beginning of life on his side of the pond.
We would talk about returning to the REAL WORLD. Well, from my point of view, the real world sucked and was ten times more dangerous than The Nam. At least there, we knew whom not to trust. Damn near everyone. The best way to stay alive was to shoot the problem. Then it went away. If another problem occurred, pop and it went away. Sort of simple but somewhat effective. The problem was, the person who cut your hair in the barbershop by day was out to kill you at night. Kids could not be trusted either. Back here in THE REAL WORLD, we were unarmed and what we learned over there was forbidden here in the good old U.S. of A.
You know, I still wish I had never written that letter to MOM, even today.

Will It Ever End?

I started this road some 35 years ago. There were intense times when a group of combat vets would just barely be able to hold to their sanity, and times when the laughter was so sweet one would think there was nothing wrong. Week after week going back to the meetings had, I thought, moved me far away from the fresh raw emotions erupting from my well zone of war. Not so!

This past weekend, I attended a Combat Veterans retreat on the side of Mt. Hood. I was the oldest with age range of 25 to 70. The retreat started slowly with the usual uneasiness of strangers feeling for a safe position with-in the group. No-one wanted to be in the corner nor in the center, yet we were able to make a semi-circle. [All names will be changed to protect the vets and the spouses.]

John started out the first day by drumming an African chant to teach us a way to start and stop each days three sessions. 24 vets with staff and spouses adding to about 30 members. From the song we went to coffee hour and then to the grouping. This was to be the routine for the next four days. Eat and group, eat and group, eat and group, the last group was for slowing down so we could rest for the night. The first night went until almost midnight though.

The second day was easily heated up in emotions as we were able to be more relaxed with each other. Experience after experience was related to the group and some tears were shed. Along with the tears came hugs and a lot of support for the pain felt. By the end of the day there was little doubt, I thought, as to who would be sharing and who would be the hold-outs. Horror story after horror story, pain after pain, emotion after emotion would be escaping from the dark recesses of our minds. I didn't mind telling my horrors, after all, I'd been through this for 35 years.

It was quiet during the first night. The second night the rains came in with a vengeance. Sounds permeated every nook and cranny of my room. That night I became a victim of my own confidence. I had dreams I had long forgot and didn't need to remember. I visited the blood and gore of 40 years ago. Feelings of loss and confusion not felt on this side of the pond. I held my own for most of the night, not wanting to wake my wife and my love. About two A.M., the rush of anger and hate I had so long ago released came back to me as a long discarded enemy.

Enemies like these are not as welcome as you might think. The reason I was shocked into past realities was letting down my guard and not remembering my coping skills learned so long ago. tomorrow came in short order.

I had rested enough to be on my guard for what would be in store for me if I let myself go. I had a great breakfast and assembled with the group for an opening song. From there all hell broke loosed. Emotions became raw, violence was in my face and I was too close to the center of commotion to feel safe. I shut down and slowly slid to the side of the individuals internal conflict to let him relieve his entrapment of the pain from Iraq. As fast as it erupted, the violent emotions subsided.

A calm flowed over the group and an uneasy truce prevailed. As I was on deck before the encounter, everyone looked to me to see if I was able to move through the mire and let things be. I had receded well within myself for protection. Not realizing the situation, I went for coffee. I came back to the same emotional stalemate. I chatted softly with Allen and let him know all was well with me and asked how he was doing. Doing that set a soft breath of safety to cover the group. Lunch was called.

The afternoon and evening sessions were a much more guarded time for all. More breakouts of high emotion, more release and more side glances. We retired to bed with about as low a comfort zone as possible. I had wondered in the morning how many slept with knives or pistols by their side. I know I did.

Monday morning Allen spoke to me with hesitation. I reassured him I was not offended nor wanting to make him feel guilty about his own war wounds. He relaxed and we talked for a time and he learned of my pain and memories of Viet Nam. We both remarked how similar our experiences had been. They were just 35 years apart.

The last day arrived and we were to to read a selected reading in front of some 200 people. We read, accepted many sympathy expressions, retreated to a fine dessert table and went our separate ways. All promised to keep in touch and were proud to have gone through this trial by emotional fire.

I looked over those very young people and wondered aloud..

"When will we learn and will it ever end?"