Click amount to donate direct to CounterPunch
  • $25
  • $50
  • $100
  • $500
  • $other
  • use PayPal
Please Support CounterPunch’s Annual Fund Drive
We don’t run corporate ads. We don’t shake our readers down for money every month or every quarter like some other sites out there. We only ask you once a year, but when we ask we mean it. So, please, help as much as you can. We provide our site for free to all, but the bandwidth we pay to do so doesn’t come cheap. All contributions are tax-deductible.
FacebookTwitterGoogle+RedditEmail

Veterans’ Love Story

Ah, Valentine’s Day approaches again–a good time to review one’s love life. Memories long buried, personal and collective, may emerge, if one goes deep enough.

Over 40 years ago I was commissioned an officer in the U.S. Army, following the tradition of the many fighting men of my family who went into the military. I did basic training at Ft. Riley, Kansas, home of the Big Red One, First Division. During those turbulent sixties I took an oath to defend my country and its Constitution. I have kept that oath.

I have a short story to tell. It’s a veterans’, plural, love story. It combines my experiences with those of various members of our Veterans’ Writing Group, lead by author Maxine Hong Kingston, editor of our recent book “Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace“. I tell it partly to plead for forgiveness for myself and others caught in war and for the things we do. Our story begins as a nightmare. Please stay with it to the end, through the difficulties. Love can be difficult, yet eventually can triumph.

***

“AT EASE!” the young lieutenant barks at our rifle squads, tired from a long march. We are outside Da Nang.

“Fall out, ten minute break,” his voice softens. We step off the trail and draw candy bars and cigarettes from our packs.

“You, soldier!” he points in my face.

“Yes sir!” I stiffen to attention.

“See that cave?”

“Yes sir!”

“Charlie’s in there. He’s hiding. Hunt him down. Smoke him out!”

“Yes sir!”

This is no longer Ft. Riley, Kansas, but I’m still a teenager. These are no longer boys playing in the woods, which I enjoyed. No one told me that war would be like this. I had been in-country only a few weeks-this boy soldier. I flash back to the first cave and what happened there:

We entered that cave, looking for VC. I felt like a mole. Poisonous snakes might attack me. Trapped in a small space, unable to see very well, I didn’t want to go back into another putrid tunnel. What if the enemy set a trap? The memory still haunts me.

“We know you’re in there,” we yelled at the entrance of the first cave. “Come on out,” we pleaded. We listened at the entrance of a simple hole in the ground. We waited. “Come on out,” we repeated. We waited for what seemed like a long time.

Hearing no sound, we assumed no one was inside. So we finally threw a few firecracker grenades in, counting them as they exploded-One, two, threeYes! July 4th-explosions, a light show.

Expecting no one inside, we edged in

Body parts everywhere.

We couldn’t look at each other, bowed our heads in shame, unable to say anything. At least one of us began to cry.

We needed a body count. We tallied parts of seven children’s bodiesand nine old, thin bodies of small-boned people.

That was a tiny cave. The one I was just commanded to enter is huge.

Belly tightening and breath shallow, I take my flashlight and M16, now a seasoned veteran at the age of nineteen. I’m on a manhunt into a cave again, still carrying the memory of small-boned people inside me.

Each family has staked out a little space in this dank dungeon. The stench hits me first-from holes in the ground for excrement. I gag, want to throw up. I’m trained, disciplined, hardened, but not for this.

Acrid smoke hits my eyes-small fires for light and cooking-blinding this mole even more. No wind, no ventilation, no water. This is surely hell. How blind we are.

I grope forward, try to avoid stepping on bodies. Hundreds are lying, sitting, crouching-children crying, old men and women coughing or moaning.

No men of fighting age, yet.

I feel as if I am on a chain being drawn further and further into the cave by some powerful energy.

My head hits the cave’s ceiling and I fall to my knees. I throw out a hand, touching not the filthy floor, but the fingers and palm of a young woman’s hand. She steadies me. Our survivals are suddenly linked. Our eyes meet. She smiles. She’s beautiful. A rush enters my body.

Now what do I do?

I feel her grasp become a clasp-sensuous, even amorous, tracing the lifeline on my palm. She traces the lifeline on my palm. She seems to want something from me. Her touch is firm, yet gentle. A feeling of connection surges through me.

Is she the enemy?

Where am I?

What am I hunting?

Who is this woman?

Unable to surrender to her feelings and relate to her, I release my hand, mumble an apology, and bolt out of the cave. Outside, I hold my splitting head in my hands.

How could anyone experience connection or desire in such a place?

* * *

I’ve been a member of the Veterans’ Writing Group for the last decade. We tell, write, and listen to each other’s stories, sometimes of love and war. To tell, write, and listen to war stories can heal and connect us to each other, breaking a sense of isolation and shame. This story includes Michael’s story as a young officer in Vietnam, Glenn’s story from World War II and my father’s untold stories. It is a combined veterans’ story. I have carried it inside for decades and now need to tell it and write it down, even at the risk of breaking “Code Blue” silence.

A vivid memory from Desert Storm (Iraq War 1) triggered this story. I was watching television news in New Mexico with my girlfriend Elena Avila, a Chicana whose father worked for many years at Ft. Bliss, Texas, named after one of my ancestors. Her son was in the military at the time. She shook her head and lamented something like, “Brown on brown, our boys killing their boys. It’s not right.”

After 9/11, I accepted a teaching position at the University of Hawai’i. Many dark-skinned people from Hawai’i and elsewhere are on the front lines of Iraq and Afghanistan. I am proud of Lt. Erin Watada, a Hawaiian, for having the courage to refuse deployment in the current Iraq War.

I began writing this short story (which has had a long life inside me) as a poem in 200l. The United States had started to attack Afghanistan, bombing caves and underground hideouts. I knew that there were more than soldiers in those caves. Entire families were taking refuge in the ground, which has long provided some sanctuary from war-making; modern high-tech weapons can now even penetrate and destroy life underground.

You may wonder why I call this a “love story” and tell it as we approach Valentine’s Day. Only a brief moment of desire is expressed at the end, to which the soldier does not fully surrender, though he did terminate his search and destroy mission. This climaxes the story; the Vietnamese woman’s ability to feel compassion for and connection to someone who might even kill her transforms the soldier and the story. Such a flash of love can shine brightly, change behavior, and be redemptive. A moment of deep love, especially under difficult circumstances, can change a life.

In addition to that Vietnamese woman’s love, for that is how it felt, I want to express my deep personal love to the following people:

My first adult girlfriend, Marilyn Yeo. As a University of Kansas undergraduate in the sixties she challenged my participation in the military during the Vietnam War. She may have saved my life, and certainly reduced damage to my soul. She also took me to hear my next great love: Martin Luther King, Jr.

Dr. King presented such a convincing case against war that I decided to resign my commission and not go to war. My buddies who did go to war were not as fortunate, even those who came back. I listen to their stories and try to re-tell some of them by weaving them together into a coherent whole in an attempt to describe for civilians what happens to men in battle.

My former girlfriend Elena Avila, a curandera (folk healer), for the time we spent together and how much she taught me about indigenous and Mexican people.

The Veterans’ Writing Group, with whom I have met for around a decade now, under the able leadership of Maxine Hong Kingston. In the fall we published our first book “Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace,” where I wrote about the trauma of being raised in a military family.

As I look back over my life during this Valentine’s season, I realize that leaving the military during the Vietnam War was the single most important decision of my entire 62 years. I appreciate all the good people along the way who have helped me with my post-traumatic stress.

I send my Valentine’s Day love to the following-unknown Vietnamese woman in the cave, Marilyn, Martin, Elena, and brother and sister vets. I pledge to do my best to stop war. For my shortcomings, I ask for your forgiveness.

Dr. SHEPHERD BLISS is a retired college teacher who now farms in Northern California. He has contributed to 19 books, most recently to “Veterans of War, Veterans of Peace,” www.vowvop.org. He is currently writing a book on “Sweet Darkness, Luscious Berries, and Endarkenment”: sb3@pon.net

.

 

More articles by:

Shepherd Bliss teaches college part time, farms, and has contributed to two-dozen books. He can be reached at: 3sb@comcast.net.

October 17, 2018
David N. Smith
George Orwell’s Message in a Bottle
Patrick Cockburn
When Saudi Arabia’s Credibility is Damaged, So is America’s
John Steppling
Before the Law
Frank Stricker
Wages Rising? 
James McEnteer
Larry Summers Trips Out
Muhammad Othman
What You Can Do About the Saudi Atrocities in Yemen
Binoy Kampmark
Agents of Chaos: Trump, the Federal Reserve and Andrew Jackson
Karen J. Greenberg
Justice Derailed: From Gitmo to Kavanaugh
John Feffer
Why is the Radical Right Still Winning?
Dan Corjescu
Green Tsunami in Bavaria?
Rohullah Naderi
Why Afghan Girls Are Out of School?
George Ochenski
You Have to Give Respect to Get Any, Mr. Trump
Cesar Chelala
Is China Winning the War for Africa?
Mel Gurtov
Getting Away with Murder
W. T. Whitney
Colombian Lawyer Diego Martinez Needs Solidarity Now
Dean Baker
Nothing to Brag About: Scott Walker’s Economic Record in Wisconsin:
October 16, 2018
Gregory Elich
Diplomatic Deadlock: Can U.S.-North Korea Diplomacy Survive Maximum Pressure?
Rob Seimetz
Talking About Death While In Decadence
Kent Paterson
Fifty Years of Mexican October
Robert Fantina
Trump, Iran and Sanctions
Greg Macdougall
Indigenous Suicide in Canada
Kenneth Surin
On Reading the Diaries of Tony Benn, Britain’s Greatest Labour Politician
Andrew Bacevich
Unsolicited Advice for an Undeclared Presidential Candidate: a Letter to Elizabeth Warren
Thomas Knapp
Facebook Meddles in the 2018 Midterm Elections
Muhammad Othman
Khashoggi and Demetracopoulos
Gerry Brown
Lies, Damn Lies & Statistics: How the US Weaponizes Them to Accuse  China of Debt Trap Diplomacy
Christian Ingo Lenz Dunker – Peter Lehman
The Brazilian Presidential Elections and “The Rules of The Game”
Robert Fisk
What a Forgotten Shipwreck in the Irish Sea Can Tell Us About Brexit
Martin Billheimer
Here Cochise Everywhere
David Swanson
Humanitarian Bombs
Dean Baker
The Federal Reserve is Not a Church
October 15, 2018
Rob Urie
Climate Crisis is Upon Us
Conn Hallinan
Syria’s Chessboard
Patrick Cockburn
The Saudi Atrocities in Yemen are a Worse Story Than the Disappearance of Jamal Khashoggi
Sheldon Richman
Trump’s Middle East Delusions Persist
Justin T. McPhee
Uberrima Fides? Witness K, East Timor and the Economy of Espionage
Tom Gill
Spain’s Left Turn?
Jeff Cohen
Few Democrats Offer Alternatives to War-Weary Voters
Dean Baker
Corporate Debt Scares
Gary Leupp
The Khashoggi Affair and and the Anti-Iran Axis
Russell Mokhiber
Sarah Chayes Calls on West Virginians to Write In No More Manchins
Clark T. Scott
Acclimated Behaviorisms
Kary Love
Evolution of Religion
Colin Todhunter
From GM Potatoes to Glyphosate: Regulatory Delinquency and Toxic Agriculture
Binoy Kampmark
Evacuating Nauru: Médecins Sans Frontières and Australia’s Refugee Dilemma
FacebookTwitterGoogle+RedditEmail