What is a Vietnam Veteran...

From the VN Vets main site and written by a friend of mine.
Copyright notice at the end.

"WHAT IS A VIETNAM VETERAN?"
A college student posted a request on an internet newsgroup asking for personal
narratives from the likes of us addressing the question: "What is a Vietnam
Veteran?" This is what I wrote back:


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Vietnam veterans are men and women. We are dead or alive, whole or maimed, sane
or haunted. We grew from our experiences or we were destroyed by them or we
struggle to find some place in between. We lived through hell or we had a
pleasant, if scary, adventure. We were Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, Red
Cross, and civilians of all sorts. Some of us enlisted to fight for God and
Country, and some were drafted. Some were gung-ho, and some went kicking and
screaming.

Like veterans of all wars, we lived a tad bit--or a great bit--closer to death
than most people like to think about. If Vietnam vets differ from others,
perhaps it is primarily in the fact that many of us never saw the enemy or
recognized him or her. We heard gunfire and mortar fire but rarely looked into
enemy eyes. Those who did, like folks who encounter close combat anywhere and
anytime, are often haunted for life by those eyes, those sounds, those electric
fears that ran between ourselves, our enemies, and the likelihood of death for
one of us. Or we get hard, calloused, tough. All in a day's work. Life's a bitch
then you die. But most of us remember and get twitchy, worried, sad.

We are crazies dressed in cammo, wide-eyed, wary, homeless, and drunk. We are
Brooks Brothers suit wearers, doing deals downtown. We are housewives,
grandmothers, and church deacons. We are college professors engaged in the
rational pursuit of the truth about the history or politics or culture of the
Vietnam experience. And we are sleepless. Often sleepless.

We pushed paper; we pushed shovels. We drove jeeps, operated bulldozers, built
bridges; we toted machine guns through dense brush, deep paddy, and thorn scrub.
We lived on buffalo milk, fish heads and rice. Or C-rations. Or steaks and
Budweiser. We did our time in high mountains drenched by endless monsoon rains
or on the dry plains or on muddy rivers or at the most beautiful beaches in the
world.

We wore berets, bandanas, flop hats, and steel pots. Flak jackets, canvas, rash
and rot. We ate cloroquine and got malaria anyway. We got shots constantly but
have diseases nobody can diagnose. We spent our nights on cots or shivering in
foxholes filled with waist-high water or lying still on cold wet ground, our
eyes imagining Charlie behind every bamboo blade. Or we slept in hotel beds in
Saigon or barracks in Thailand or in cramped ships' berths at sea.

We feared we would die or we feared we would kill. We simply feared, and often
we still do. We hate the war or believe it was the best thing that ever happened
to us. We blame Uncle Sam or Uncle Ho and their minions and secretaries and
apologists for every wart or cough or tic of an eye. We wonder if Agent Orange
got us.

Mostly--and this I believe with all my heart--mostly, we wish we had not been so
alone. Some of us went with units; but many, probably most of us, were civilians
one day, jerked up out of "the world," shaved, barked at, insulted, humiliated,
de-egoized and taught to kill, to fix radios, to drive trucks. We went, put in
our time, and were equally ungraciously plucked out of the morass and placed
back in the real world. But now we smoked dope, shot skag, or drank heavily. Our
wives or husbands seemed distant and strange. Our friends wanted to know if we
shot anybody.

And life went on, had been going on, as if we hadn't been there, as if Vietnam
was a topic of political conversation or college protest or news copy, not a
matter of life and death for tens of thousands.

Vietnam vets are people just like you. We served our country, proudly or
reluctantly or ambivalently. What makes us different--what makes us Vietnam
vets--is something we understand, but we are afraid nobody else will. But we
appreciate your asking.

Vietnam veterans are white, black, beige and shades of gray; but in comparison
with our numbers in the "real world," we were more likely black. Our ancestors
came from Africa, from Europe, and China. Or they crossed the Bering Sea Land
Bridge in the last Ice Age and formed the nations of American Indians, built
pyramids in Mexico, or farmed acres of corn on the banks of Chesapeake Bay. We
had names like Rodriguez and Stein and Smith and Kowalski. We were Americans,
Australians, Canadians, and Koreans; most Vietnam veterans are Vietnamese.

We were farmers, students, mechanics, steelworkers, nurses, and priests when the
call came that changed us all forever. We had dreams and plans, and they all had
to change...or wait. We were daughters and sons, lovers and poets, beatniks and
philosophers, convicts and lawyers. We were rich and poor but mostly poor. We
were educated or not, mostly not. We grew up in slums, in shacks, in duplexes,
and bungalows and houseboats and hooches and ranchers. We were cowards and
heroes. Sometimes we were cowards one moment and heroes the next.

Many of us have never seen Vietnam. We waited at home for those we loved. And
for some of us, our worst fears were realized. For others, our loved ones came
back but never would be the same.

We came home and marched in protest marches, sucked in tear gas, and shrieked
our anger and horror for all to hear. Or we sat alone in small rooms, in VA
hospital wards, in places where only the crazy ever go. We are Republicans,
Democrats, Socialists, and Confucians and Buddhists and Atheists--though as
usually is the case, even the atheists among us sometimes prayed to get out of
there alive.

We are hungry, and we are sated, full of life or clinging to death. We are
injured, and we are curers, despairing and hopeful, loved or lost. We got too
old too quickly, but some of us have never grown up. We want, desparately, to go
back, to heal wounds, revisit the sites of our horror. Or we want never to see
that place again, to bury it, its memories, its meaning. We want to forget, and
we wish we could remember.

Despite our differences, we have so much in common. There are few of us who
don't know how to cry, though we often do it alone when nobody will ask "what's
wrong?" We're afraid we might have to answer.

Adam, if you want to know what a Vietnam veteran is, get in your car next
weekend or cage a friend with a car to drive you. Go to Washington. Go to the
Wall. It's going to be Veterans Day weekend. There will be hundreds there...no,
thousands. Watch them. Listen to them. I'll be there. Come touch the Wall with
us. Rejoice a bit. Cry a bit. No, cry a lot. I will. I'm a Vietnam Veteran; and,
after 30 years, I think I am beginning to understand what that means.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Copyright © 1996 Dan Mouer, All Rights Reserved


96 Montego (Lil' Blue)

Errrrrr....what about Jones ?
I think he fell between the cracks
myself.

"JV" wrote in message news:godeovolf35h2767togl3n43o01mt3p45n@4ax.com...
> From the VN Vets main site and written by a friend of mine.
> Copyright notice at the end.
>
> "WHAT IS A VIETNAM VETERAN?"
> A college student posted a request on an internet newsgroup asking for personal
> narratives from the likes of us addressing the question: "What is a Vietnam
> Veteran?" This is what I wrote back:
>
>
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
>
> Vietnam veterans are men and women. We are dead or alive, whole or maimed, sane
> or haunted. We grew from our experiences or we were destroyed by them or we
> struggle to find some place in between. We lived through hell or we had a
> pleasant, if scary, adventure. We were Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, Red
> Cross, and civilians of all sorts. Some of us enlisted to fight for God and
> Country, and some were drafted. Some were gung-ho, and some went kicking and
> screaming.
>
> Like veterans of all wars, we lived a tad bit--or a great bit--closer to death
> than most people like to think about. If Vietnam vets differ from others,
> perhaps it is primarily in the fact that many of us never saw the enemy or
> recognized him or her. We heard gunfire and mortar fire but rarely looked into
> enemy eyes. Those who did, like folks who encounter close combat anywhere and
> anytime, are often haunted for life by those eyes, those sounds, those electric
> fears that ran between ourselves, our enemies, and the likelihood of death for
> one of us. Or we get hard, calloused, tough. All in a day's work. Life's a bitch
> then you die. But most of us remember and get twitchy, worried, sad.
>
> We are crazies dressed in cammo, wide-eyed, wary, homeless, and drunk. We are
> Brooks Brothers suit wearers, doing deals downtown. We are housewives,
> grandmothers, and church deacons. We are college professors engaged in the
> rational pursuit of the truth about the history or politics or culture of the
> Vietnam experience. And we are sleepless. Often sleepless.
>
> We pushed paper; we pushed shovels. We drove jeeps, operated bulldozers, built
> bridges; we toted machine guns through dense brush, deep paddy, and thorn scrub.
> We lived on buffalo milk, fish heads and rice. Or C-rations. Or steaks and
> Budweiser. We did our time in high mountains drenched by endless monsoon rains
> or on the dry plains or on muddy rivers or at the most beautiful beaches in the
> world.
>
> We wore berets, bandanas, flop hats, and steel pots. Flak jackets, canvas, rash
> and rot. We ate cloroquine and got malaria anyway. We got shots constantly but
> have diseases nobody can diagnose. We spent our nights on cots or shivering in
> foxholes filled with waist-high water or lying still on cold wet ground, our
> eyes imagining Charlie behind every bamboo blade. Or we slept in hotel beds in
> Saigon or barracks in Thailand or in cramped ships' berths at sea.
>
> We feared we would die or we feared we would kill. We simply feared, and often
> we still do. We hate the war or believe it was the best thing that ever happened
> to us. We blame Uncle Sam or Uncle Ho and their minions and secretaries and
> apologists for every wart or cough or tic of an eye. We wonder if Agent Orange
> got us.
>
> Mostly--and this I believe with all my heart--mostly, we wish we had not been so
> alone. Some of us went with units; but many, probably most of us, were civilians
> one day, jerked up out of "the world," shaved, barked at, insulted, humiliated,
> de-egoized and taught to kill, to fix radios, to drive trucks. We went, put in
> our time, and were equally ungraciously plucked out of the morass and placed
> back in the real world. But now we smoked dope, shot skag, or drank heavily. Our
> wives or husbands seemed distant and strange. Our friends wanted to know if we
> shot anybody.
>
> And life went on, had been going on, as if we hadn't been there, as if Vietnam
> was a topic of political conversation or college protest or news copy, not a
> matter of life and death for tens of thousands.
>
> Vietnam vets are people just like you. We served our country, proudly or
> reluctantly or ambivalently. What makes us different--what makes us Vietnam
> vets--is something we understand, but we are afraid nobody else will. But we
> appreciate your asking.
>
> Vietnam veterans are white, black, beige and shades of gray; but in comparison
> with our numbers in the "real world," we were more likely black. Our ancestors
> came from Africa, from Europe, and China. Or they crossed the Bering Sea Land
> Bridge in the last Ice Age and formed the nations of American Indians, built
> pyramids in Mexico, or farmed acres of corn on the banks of Chesapeake Bay. We
> had names like Rodriguez and Stein and Smith and Kowalski. We were Americans,
> Australians, Canadians, and Koreans; most Vietnam veterans are Vietnamese.
>
> We were farmers, students, mechanics, steelworkers, nurses, and priests when the
> call came that changed us all forever. We had dreams and plans, and they all had
> to change...or wait. We were daughters and sons, lovers and poets, beatniks and
> philosophers, convicts and lawyers. We were rich and poor but mostly poor. We
> were educated or not, mostly not. We grew up in slums, in shacks, in duplexes,
> and bungalows and houseboats and hooches and ranchers. We were cowards and
> heroes. Sometimes we were cowards one moment and heroes the next.
>
> Many of us have never seen Vietnam. We waited at home for those we loved. And
> for some of us, our worst fears were realized. For others, our loved ones came
> back but never would be the same.
>
> We came home and marched in protest marches, sucked in tear gas, and shrieked
> our anger and horror for all to hear. Or we sat alone in small rooms, in VA
> hospital wards, in places where only the crazy ever go. We are Republicans,
> Democrats, Socialists, and Confucians and Buddhists and Atheists--though as
> usually is the case, even the atheists among us sometimes prayed to get out of
> there alive.
>
> We are hungry, and we are sated, full of life or clinging to death. We are
> injured, and we are curers, despairing and hopeful, loved or lost. We got too
> old too quickly, but some of us have never grown up. We want, desparately, to go
> back, to heal wounds, revisit the sites of our horror. Or we want never to see
> that place again, to bury it, its memories, its meaning. We want to forget, and
> we wish we could remember.
>
> Despite our differences, we have so much in common. There are few of us who
> don't know how to cry, though we often do it alone when nobody will ask "what's
> wrong?" We're afraid we might have to answer.
>
> Adam, if you want to know what a Vietnam veteran is, get in your car next
> weekend or cage a friend with a car to drive you. Go to Washington. Go to the
> Wall. It's going to be Veterans Day weekend. There will be hundreds there...no,
> thousands. Watch them. Listen to them. I'll be there. Come touch the Wall with
> us. Rejoice a bit. Cry a bit. No, cry a lot. I will. I'm a Vietnam Veteran; and,
> after 30 years, I think I am beginning to understand what that means.
>
>
>
> --------------------------------------------------------------------------------
>
> Copyright © 1996 Dan Mouer, All Rights Reserved
>
>
> 96 Montego (Lil' Blue)

Naw, he just tried to.

Engineer
Hey, Jones! Want to hear my Buffalo story? I
got pics to prove it though.


"fob" wrote in message
news:BtHhb.107047$qj6.3419299@news1.news.adel
phia.net...
Errrrrr....what about Jones ?
I think he fell between the cracks
myself.

"JV" wrote in message
news:godeovolf35h2767togl3n43o01mt3p45n@4ax.c
om...
> From the VN Vets main site and written by a
friend of mine.
> Copyright notice at the end.
>
> "WHAT IS A VIETNAM VETERAN?"
> A college student posted a request on an
internet newsgroup asking for personal
> narratives from the likes of us addressing
the question: "What is a Vietnam
> Veteran?" This is what I wrote back:
>
>
> -------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------
>
> Vietnam veterans are men and women. We are
dead or alive, whole or maimed, sane
> or haunted. We grew from our experiences or
we were destroyed by them or we
> struggle to find some place in between. We
lived through hell or we had a
> pleasant, if scary, adventure. We were
Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force, Red
> Cross, and civilians of all sorts. Some of
us enlisted to fight for God and
> Country, and some were drafted. Some were
gung-ho, and some went kicking and
> screaming.
>
> Like veterans of all wars, we lived a tad
bit--or a great bit--closer to death
> than most people like to think about. If
Vietnam vets differ from others,
> perhaps it is primarily in the fact that
many of us never saw the enemy or
> recognized him or her. We heard gunfire and
mortar fire but rarely looked into
> enemy eyes. Those who did, like folks who
encounter close combat anywhere and
> anytime, are often haunted for life by
those eyes, those sounds, those electric
> fears that ran between ourselves, our
enemies, and the likelihood of death for
> one of us. Or we get hard, calloused,
tough. All in a day's work. Life's a bitch
> then you die. But most of us remember and
get twitchy, worried, sad.
>
> We are crazies dressed in cammo, wide-eyed,
wary, homeless, and drunk. We are
> Brooks Brothers suit wearers, doing deals
downtown. We are housewives,
> grandmothers, and church deacons. We are
college professors engaged in the
> rational pursuit of the truth about the
history or politics or culture of the
> Vietnam experience. And we are sleepless.
Often sleepless.
>
> We pushed paper; we pushed shovels. We
drove jeeps, operated bulldozers, built
> bridges; we toted machine guns through
dense brush, deep paddy, and thorn scrub.
> We lived on buffalo milk, fish heads and
rice. Or C-rations. Or steaks and
> Budweiser. We did our time in high
mountains drenched by endless monsoon rains
> or on the dry plains or on muddy rivers or
at the most beautiful beaches in the
> world.
>
> We wore berets, bandanas, flop hats, and
steel pots. Flak jackets, canvas, rash
> and rot. We ate cloroquine and got malaria
anyway. We got shots constantly but
> have diseases nobody can diagnose. We spent
our nights on cots or shivering in
> foxholes filled with waist-high water or
lying still on cold wet ground, our
> eyes imagining Charlie behind every bamboo
blade. Or we slept in hotel beds in
> Saigon or barracks in Thailand or in
cramped ships' berths at sea.
>
> We feared we would die or we feared we
would kill. We simply feared, and often
> we still do. We hate the war or believe it
was the best thing that ever happened
> to us. We blame Uncle Sam or Uncle Ho and
their minions and secretaries and
> apologists for every wart or cough or tic
of an eye. We wonder if Agent Orange
> got us.
>
> Mostly--and this I believe with all my
heart--mostly, we wish we had not been so
> alone. Some of us went with units; but
many, probably most of us, were civilians
> one day, jerked up out of "the world,"
shaved, barked at, insulted, humiliated,
> de-egoized and taught to kill, to fix
radios, to drive trucks. We went, put in
> our time, and were equally ungraciously
plucked out of the morass and placed
> back in the real world. But now we smoked
dope, shot skag, or drank heavily. Our
> wives or husbands seemed distant and
strange. Our friends wanted to know if we
> shot anybody.
>
> And life went on, had been going on, as if
we hadn't been there, as if Vietnam
> was a topic of political conversation or
college protest or news copy, not a
> matter of life and death for tens of
thousands.
>
> Vietnam vets are people just like you. We
served our country, proudly or
> reluctantly or ambivalently. What makes us
different--what makes us Vietnam
> vets--is something we understand, but we
are afraid nobody else will. But we
> appreciate your asking.
>
> Vietnam veterans are white, black, beige
and shades of gray; but in comparison
> with our numbers in the "real world," we
were more likely black. Our ancestors
> came from Africa, from Europe, and China.
Or they crossed the Bering Sea Land
> Bridge in the last Ice Age and formed the
nations of American Indians, built
> pyramids in Mexico, or farmed acres of corn
on the banks of Chesapeake Bay. We
> had names like Rodriguez and Stein and
Smith and Kowalski. We were Americans,
> Australians, Canadians, and Koreans; most
Vietnam veterans are Vietnamese.
>
> We were farmers, students, mechanics,
steelworkers, nurses, and priests when the
> call came that changed us all forever. We
had dreams and plans, and they all had
> to change...or wait. We were daughters and
sons, lovers and poets, beatniks and
> philosophers, convicts and lawyers. We were
rich and poor but mostly poor. We
> were educated or not, mostly not. We grew
up in slums, in shacks, in duplexes,
> and bungalows and houseboats and hooches
and ranchers. We were cowards and
> heroes. Sometimes we were cowards one
moment and heroes the next.
>
> Many of us have never seen Vietnam. We
waited at home for those we loved. And
> for some of us, our worst fears were
realized. For others, our loved ones came
> back but never would be the same.
>
> We came home and marched in protest
marches, sucked in tear gas, and shrieked
> our anger and horror for all to hear. Or we
sat alone in small rooms, in VA
> hospital wards, in places where only the
crazy ever go. We are Republicans,
> Democrats, Socialists, and Confucians and
Buddhists and Atheists--though as
> usually is the case, even the atheists
among us sometimes prayed to get out of
> there alive.
>
> We are hungry, and we are sated, full of
life or clinging to death. We are
> injured, and we are curers, despairing and
hopeful, loved or lost. We got too
> old too quickly, but some of us have never
grown up. We want, desparately, to go
> back, to heal wounds, revisit the sites of
our horror. Or we want never to see
> that place again, to bury it, its memories,
its meaning. We want to forget, and
> we wish we could remember.
>
> Despite our differences, we have so much in
common. There are few of us who
> don't know how to cry, though we often do
it alone when nobody will ask "what's
> wrong?" We're afraid we might have to
answer.
>
> Adam, if you want to know what a Vietnam
veteran is, get in your car next
> weekend or cage a friend with a car to
drive you. Go to Washington. Go to the
> Wall. It's going to be Veterans Day
weekend. There will be hundreds there...no,
> thousands. Watch them. Listen to them. I'll
be there. Come touch the Wall with
> us. Rejoice a bit. Cry a bit. No, cry a
lot. I will. I'm a Vietnam Veteran; and,
> after 30 years, I think I am beginning to
understand what that means.
>
>
>
> -------------------------------------------
-------------------------------------
>
> Copyright © 1996 Dan Mouer, All Rights
Reserved
>
>
> 96 Montego (Lil' Blue)

"Engineer" wrote in message
news:bm7h9d$jeqv9$1@ID-169205.news.uni-berlin.de...
> Naw, he just tried to.
>
> Engineer
> Hey, Jones! Want to hear my Buffalo story? I
> got pics to prove it though.

My buffs are meaner than your buffs.
http://www.provide.net/~tomhuxton/buffs1.htm

They escaped onto the freeway years ago. Lucky no one was injured, but we
had to pay for body damage to a few police cruisers.

"JV" wrote in message
news:godeovolf35h2767togl3n43o01mt3p45n@4ax.com

> From the VN Vets main site and written by a friend of mine.

Thank you. Please give Dan Mouer my thanks.

"Pepperoni"
wrote in message
news:bm7pg7$jq00l$1@ID-105689.news.uni-berlin
..de...
>
> "Engineer" wrote in
message
>
news:bm7h9d$jeqv9$1@ID-169205.news.uni-berlin
..de...
> > Naw, he just tried to.
> >
> > Engineer
> > Hey, Jones! Want to hear my Buffalo
story? I
> > got pics to prove it though.
>
> My buffs are meaner than your buffs.
>
http://www.provide.net/~tomhuxton/buffs1.htm
>
> They escaped onto the freeway years ago.
Lucky no one was injured, but we
> had to pay for body damage to a few police
cruisers.
>

Mine stopped a 5 ton truck though!

Engineer