| I also read about Ron Ridenhour who was the first to write about what
happened at My Lai, Vietnam. And
also yesterday I searched on "Make friends, not
war". This is something which came to my mind as I
thought of visiting schools here. I googled it and found
a very good article from a Vietnam vet.
Here is one quote
Thirty years beyond my hands-on
effort as a teenage soldier, I remain committed to
bringing peace and freedom to all countries of the
world. This is not to say that my interests are in
returning to the military rules of engagement. On the
contrary, I will use knowledge, friendship,
communication, tolerance, and prosperity as my tools
of engagement.
Viet Nam 1999
A report by Brian Wizard
TOOLS OF ENGAGEMENT
If I've heard it said once, I've heard it said
many times, “The Viet Nam War is over, done,
finished. You lost. Let it go.”
Most people who tell me that weren't there. Those
who were there and believe the verbal claims, are
right. They did lose and the war is over.
Obviously, their commitment to the struggle for
freedom did not rival mine. I took it to heart.
Not necessarily any of the political rhetoric
spewed forth from any side, but definitely the
idea that life in a free and open society is the
best. We all want the best. We all deserve the
best.
When I fought for such an ideal in Viet Nam I was
only nineteen years of age. I was too young to
vote for the politicians who sent me into harm's
way for whatever personal or professional
justifications they might have had. I was also
too young to handle the intoxicating effects of
alcoholic drink. I sure could kill, burn, maim,
and cripple, though. I had what it took to
execute the military rules of engagement from a
frontline position. The alternatives of
incarceration or self-exile to a foreign country
didn't interest me.
To set the record straight, no, I could not
personally handle the psychological aftereffects
of my over-the-edge, on-the-job-training as a
frontline combat warrior. I needed just as much,
if not more, retraining of my combat-conditioned
mind and body to bring me back into the peaceful
lifestyle of a civilian as went into giving my
civilian mind and body the mental capacity and
physical wherewithal to wage war.
I am no longer a naive nineteen-year-old. I now
possess a much larger data base from which I can
draw conclusions based on experience. Let me
share some of that knowledge with you. I did not
lose the fight for freedom in Viet Nam.
Thirty years beyond my hands-on effort as a
teenage soldier, I remain committed to bringing
peace and freedom to all countries of the world.
This is not to say that my interests are in
returning to the military rules of engagement. On
the contrary, I will use knowledge, friendship,
communication, tolerance, and prosperity as my
tools of engagement.
Viet Nam 1999
On May 12, 1969, at approximately 0200 hours, I
departed Viet Nam after my mandatory military
tour of combat duty. For ten months I held the
position of an assault helicopter door gunner.
Yes, I saw some action. Yes, what I saw and did
had a long-term effect upon me. How? The whole
ordeal disturbed my well-being socially,
spiritually, professionally, emotionally and
mentally. Unattended, I had to carry not only the
burden brought on by the lack of treatment for
what is now documented and judged to be a
service-connected, psychological combat wound,
but I also had to engage in another conflict in
order to obtain professional attention. This new
war was a battle for justice, and it is still
being waged. I have taken my initial Veterans
Administration claim all the way to the Supreme
Court. I wage this war not for myself, as much as
for every member of the active military and
military veterans.
Thirty-odd years ago I left Viet Nam with
unresolved issues and a lack of closure. What
happened after I left? Who lived? Who died? What
about the people I met? What about my dog, Bitch?
What about the towns I frequented? How has Viet
Nam changed? Has the country, the land, recovered
from the explosive misery of war?
This is a report on my efforts to resolve issues
and stimulate closure. My memories of Viet Nam
and what it meant to be a soldier in Viet Nam,
emanate from a core of negativity. My job as a
soldier was to negotiate peace through the barrel
of a machine gun. That was then.
This is now. Thirty years and thirteen days after
I departed Viet Nam in 1969, I returned. On May
25, 1999, I landed at Ton San Nhut Airport,
Saigon/Ho Chi Minh City, Viet Nam, at
approximately 0100 hours. I had no problem
passing through customs and immigration.
Nonetheless, the government employees of both
departments possessed a hard and unfriendly
countenance. Beyond the uniformed heavies, I
found just the opposite: people who were kind,
friendly, ready to smile, talk and please. The
exact kind of people I remember meeting, and
defending to the death, three decades ago.
From the airport, I took a taxi to the Empress
Hotel. The streets were quiet, almost empty. If
you plan on going to Viet Nam, make your first
night's hotel reservations yourself by contacting
any of the hotels directly. If you make a
reservation through your travel agent, you will
spend three times as much money. It is not the
hotels' or the travel agents' fault. It's the
middleman between the travel agents and the
hotels who jacks the price up 200 percent.
The staff at the Empress Hotel was very friendly
and helpful. The Empress is located downtown Ho
Chi Minh City, and close to the Hong Kong Bank,
which at the time of my visit had the only ATM in
the city.
The Rex Hotel is government owned and twice the
price of the Empress, but it is twice the hotel.
The Empress cost me $28 U.S. The Rex cost $56
U.S. I am sure all the prices have increased
since my last visit.
Public transport around the city comes in three
forms:
Scooter. You can rent one and drive it yourself,
or you can ride on one as a passenger.
Cyclo. This is a three-wheeled rendition of a
Chinese rickshaw. It has a man behind a large
passenger seat who peddles you around.
Taxi cab, which is truly the fastest and safest,
but the most expensive.
The flight from Seattle to HCMC had been
grueling. Nonetheless, I awoke only a few hours
after I went to sleep. My heart raced with
excitement at the realization that this was not
the recurring dream of being back in Viet Nam. I
was back in Viet Nam.
As soon as I opened the window of my third-story
hotel room, the purpose of this journey engulfed
me. My goal was to explore myself, my past, my
disability, my enhancement, and not only my
future, but my future relationship with the
Vietnamese people. My mental reconditioning
started with the sights, sounds, and smells of
present-day Viet Nam. The indigenous ambiance
gave the very air I breathed definition. It was
Vietnamese air.
Among all that existed to stimulate my memories
there was one thing lacking. I didn't miss it,
but every sensor in my body, mind and spirit felt
its absence. There was no war. Without fear of
death accompanying every second, Viet Nam was a
very comfortable place to visit.
With the stress of war not barking at everyone's
heals, there was no collective fear permeating
the aura of the people, or their city.
The struggle the people have now is ages old,
economic. In fact, the collective cry I heard
repeated by the people was, “Economics, not
politics.”
I knew this cry all too well. I, too, wanted to
succeed at business, before I allowed myself time
to play.
On my first day back in Viet Nam I rode around
town on a cyclo. This allowed me a slow moving
and personal contact. The cyclo driver was more
than happy to tell me about the different
aspects, sights, and intricacies of the city.
Many cyclo drivers are former ARVNs. They did not
fare well after the communist takeover. Reduced
to the bottom rung of the social ladder, former
ARVN soldiers found advancement difficult. Many
cyclo drivers spoke English better than the
younger, more affluent taxi drivers.
I let fate send me wherever this cyclo driver
took me. I knew some sort of business opportunity
was out there. I brought a few copies of my two
non-war related books, Heaven On Earth and
Shindara. Even if I had to give the books away,
someone would want to read them.
First stop on the cyclo driver's tour was the
Hong Kong Bank. I needed to hit the ATM for some
Viet Nam dollars. The ATM asked an interesting
question. How many dollars did I want? It gave me
two choices: 1 million or 5 million. Having just
arrived, I thought five million would be a good
start. Even in $50,000 V.N. bills, five million
is a large wad of cash to carry. That was only
$350 U.S. How far it would take me, I didn't
know.
The cyclo driver then drove me to what he thought
I should see: the War Remnants Museum. The story
told inside the museum had a serious
anti-American bent to it. It was sort of like
watching a sit-com re-run: an old story built
more on fiction than fact with a script I knew by
heart. What I saw appealed to my business sense
and encouraged me to meet the museum's director.
The director was eager to help me. I told her I
would like to show her a video of the war that
portrayed my personal perspective, a perspective
not seen in her museum. She invited me back the
next day with a promise to give me some of her
valuable time.
The museum also has an extensive market on its
premises. With a firm business contact under my
belt, I had time to play. It was early in the day
and the main flow of tourist traffic had not yet
arrived. A saleswoman sat behind her cash
register reading an English-language novel. I
struck up a conversation with her. Not only did
she read English well, she also spoke it well. I
asked if she would like to read a novel I wrote.
I gave her Shindara to read under the condition
that she do it soon so she could give me her
harshest critique over supper sometime in the
near future.
There are some dangers in Ho Chi Minh City. If
you wear or carry anything of value you will
become a target of the street thieves, especially
when riding on a cyclo. There are no police
patrolling the streets. Let me give you an
example:
Later in the week, after spending two days riding
around in a hired taxi, with a driver and an
interpreter I needed to do some laundry. The
hotel charged $2 U.S. to wash one T-shirt. I
lightheartedly complained to the front desk
clerk. She told me I could buy a new T-shirt at
the nearby market for $1 U.S.
I hired a cyclo driver and went to the market.
Tropical evenings have little twilight. After
enjoying a couple of beers with the cyclo driver
in order to pick his brain, I forgot I was
wearing a silver necklace. Had I known I was
going to be riding around on a cyclo after dark,
I would have left this necklace in my hotel room.
The necklace had a hefty silver chain with a
large quartz crystal strung on it. The crystal
was one I had personally set, and the setting
included one of my signature silver leaf
embellishments. This bright and shiny piece of
jewelry was an immediate target for street
thieves.
I had a beer-buzz going on and I was having fun.
We picked up a young lady the cyclo driver
introduced me to, who sat between my legs as we
rode among the scooter, cyclo, and taxi traffic
on our way to dinner.
Suddenly, from my five o'clock position, a
scooter with driver and passenger, both young
men, pulled up beside us. The traffic was so
thick that this did not appear unusual. The
passenger reached toward my neck and yanked the
necklace from my body. They sped away as best
they could.
It took me a nano-second to think, “How
rude.” The rest of the second I spent
unlocking my combat frame of mind. I became the
warrior of old and gave chase to my new
Vietnamese enemy.
My left leg went up and over the girl. I hit the
street running, my bag of T-shirts still in my
hand. The traffic congestion slowed the rip-off
artists' get-away to a crawl.
If I had had an auto-focus camera with me at that
moment I could have snapped a great photo. The
look on the rear thief's face when he turned
around, no doubt after hearing the sound of my
feet slapping the pavement at an accelerated
rate, was precious. His eyes bulged, and his face
stretched in awe and surprise. He tapped madly
upon his driver's shoulder. I can only imagine
his words were something to the effect of,
“Dee dee mow! That crazy tourist is gaining
on us!”
When I saw the wild expressions of the cyclo
driver and my female companion, as they caught up
to me, I appreciated having their company. I had
someone to talk to about the incident.
My intent was to retrieve my necklace. Lucky for
me, the scooter-mobile thieves broke right and
sped away down a less congested side street.
Why was that lucky? Public fighting is a crime.
Prison was not on my itinerary. The driver
informed me, “No one gives chase! Police
will arrest you if you hurt a Vietnamese. No
matter why.”
The next day, I went to a police station and
asked the man at the front desk for confirmation
about the consequence of fighting back. He
affirmed the cyclo driver's words. I had no right
to attack the thieves. “What am I supposed
to do?” I asked. “No one has the right
to rob me without retaliation.”
“Bring the thieves to us,” he told me.
“Yeah, right. In a body bag,” I wanted
to tell him, but I kept that to myself.
I returned to the museum to meet with the
director. She took me to an air-conditioned room.
After she had prepared the television and VCR,
and her secretary brought us bottled water and
glasses, we took seats at a table to watch my
video documentary, Thunderhawks.
The air conditioning was a relief. Viet Nam's
heat and humidity have not decreased. I
remembered how good it used to be in my airborne
capacity; fast-moving assault helicopter gunners
and machine guns were air-cooled.
After watching my video, the director
congratulated me on my honesty in portraying my
side of the war. As we walked through the museum,
I told her that the honesty of the museum was not
at the same level as my video. As we viewed
various captioned photographs, I pointed out the
propaganda. One photo depicted a GI carrying the
upper torso of a dead NVA. The caption read,
“GI laughing at the mutilation of a
Vietnamese soldier.”
I told her, “That man is not laughing. He is
grimacing. He's on body bag detail and not
enjoying it one bit.”
I suggested that the museum needed to open up to
other sides of the same story, my side included.
She said she would have to discuss this with the
committee.
Eight months later, I received a request from the
museum for my Thunderhawks video documentary and
the novels that make up my Viet Nam War-related
trilogy, The Will He Make It Saga. The committee
decided to include them in the museum's archives.
I regard this business activity to be a healthy
step toward the mutual healing of the people of
both countries. It is definitely part of our walk
together across the bridge of peace,
understanding, and prosperity that spans the time
between our negative past and our positive
future.
On the following day, I hired the taxi and its
crew for a two-day drive-around adventure. Our
first stop was Bien Hoa, my base camp during the
war. I felt a rush of excitement similar to what
I felt upon the return to my hometown after the
war. Had I known how good going “home”
to Bien Hoa would feel I would have done it
decades ago. In Bien Hoa I became reunited with
some old friends: the downtown water tower, still
standing tall, and the Esso gas station, now a
Shell gas station, and still pumping gas, and
between those two landmarks I found the small
park that is still the center of a four-way
intersection. I could see all three landmarks in
a glance during liftoff from and return to the
Birdcage, thirty-odd years ago.
We drove through downtown once, just for a recon.
On the drive back, I looked for another landmark,
the original Dong Nai Hotel. I remembered this
hotel to be a place where officers and civilians
used to live in luxury. I had wanted to visit the
hotel during my tour of combat duty, but never
could due to my low rank and matching low pay. I
felt disappointed when I could not find the hotel
as I remembered it. It turned out that the hotel
I remembered has become sheltered by a new
addition. As we drove by the new addition, I
looked through its foyer, and there in the
background I found the old hotel.
As we parked in front of the entrance to Bien Hoa
Airbase, I told my interpreter, “I'm
home.” This homecoming was a deep
psychological re-conditioning. I was among old
friends. Inanimate as they were, their images had
never been diminished by time.
I wanted to climb the water tower's ladder. I
remembered too vividly the time our perimeter
took enemy fire from the water tower during TET.
A gunship solved that problem. I thought the view
from that high vantage point would make a good
video shot. I walked toward the ladder with the
intent to climb it until I heard a voice yelling
at me. My interpreter explained to me that I
would have to seek permission from the Water
Department. We went to the Water Department and
asked for the permission.
My interpreter told me his goal was to become a
lawyer. We discussed law several times throughout
my stay. One discussion was about how bribery is
a mainstay in the process of getting permission
to do anything in Viet Nam. I experienced this
when the Water Department official told me that I
could not climb the tower.
“He says you might want to poison the water
supply and kill everyone in the town,” my
interpreter told me. I laughed at the thought.
We left somewhat disappointed. As we were about
to exit the government compound that housed the
Water Department, two men ran up to us. My
interpreter listened to what they had to say,
then told me, “For $200 U.S. you can climb
the tower.”
I explained to him that I don't do
under-the-table bribery. That is not appropriate
governing. If they want money, then they should
ask for a fee, up front and tabletop.
I went to the Dong Nai Hotel. My mission was to
shoot some video from the hotel's roof. I had to
walk through the new hotel's lobby, where the man
at the front desk greeted me enthusiastically.
“You want massage?” Perhaps I looked as
if I needed to unwind, or get laid.
“No,” I told him. “I want to go to
the roof of the old hotel.”
“No problem,” the receptionist told me.
He assigned me a young lady to show me the way.
I sensed the days of old as I walked down the
narrow hallway and glanced inside a few of the
rooms. The place felt haunted.
On the roof, I found the laundry crew. Mamasans
squatted around laundry as they sorted the day's
work. Sheets hung on clotheslines flapped in the
gentle breeze. Two generations later, and thirty
years back, I existed in a convoluted time frame
of then and now. The old and the new combined
their realities. I enjoyed a sense of floating
within time.
I chose to stay in the past for a while. My next
goal was to spot another old friend:
Non-directional Mountain. This hill was a
landmark we used to set up the flight's approach
to the Birdcage. This partially carved-away
mountain had been a threshold of safety that
announced I had most likely survived another day
defining the frontline of combat.
It didn't take much to find the landmark. From
the top of the hotel I knew exactly where to
look. I smiled when I saw this sentinel of
safety. My memory of this landmark's shape and
position has never faded. The silhouette I looked
at in 1999 was exactly the same as that of my
memories and my dreams.
A small forest now grows where the 118th Assault
Helicopter Company flight of Hueys used to sit. I
wanted to stand where my revetment used to be. I
wanted a piece of the asphalt that made up the
Birdcage.
I left the hotel and walked into the area that
used to be a mine field separating the airbase
from the town. I wasn't far from the area of the
Birdcage and the place my ship, Pollution IV, the
company smokeship, used to park. Something new
stood in the way of my goal: a stone wall.
Unfortunately, as I approached the front gate of
the military compound, the unfriendly,
authoritative voice of a guard told me I could
not enter the base, nor could I video its
entrance.
Another landmark of old was the Newport Bridge. I
had to find it, and I did. The bridge was exactly
the same as I remember it. It still had its guard
houses at each end. The ruts worn into the wooden
footpaths on both sides of the metal bridge were
thirty-odd years deeper.
Standing on the bridge, I saw the old Viet Nam I
remembered, with palm trees standing tall and
thickets of nipa palms lining the river bank.
Grass hooches and wooden docks stuck out of the
foliage. A fisherman peddled his sampan down the
river with oars he worked with his feet, the way
he would peddle a bicycle. This was in contrast
to the new renovated Viet Nam, with its new
multiple-lane, American-built bridge that now
spans the river only a few miles away.
We then drove to Xuan Loc. I wanted to find two
places: the old airstrip and the French-owned
rubber plantation that had a large swimming pool.
Xuan Loc has not been as developed as Bien Hoa.
This means I was able to remain back in the days
of old. Thirty years ago, Bien Hoa was a shanty
town with dirt roads. Xuan Loc is much like Bien
Hoa used to be. While sitting at a restaurant for
lunch, I enjoyed the external stimuli of food,
sights and sounds emanating from all directions.
The dream-like scene actually taking place before
me was dirty and rugged, yet beautiful.
I remained in a time warp. I could easily have
believed that fourteen assault helicopters sat
shut down not far away. I could be on a stroll
into town, while the flight waited for the ground
troops to make their sweep through hostile
territory after a recent insertion.
I re-experienced the difference in cultures when
I went to pee. I stepped up to a hole in the
tiled floor. A bucket of water with a ladle stood
in a corner to help flush things down.
Two reality checks came when I paid the bill. I
didn't pay with Vietnamese piasters or dong. I
paid with Vietnamese dollars. I didn't board my
assault helicopter and fly away, either. I
climbed into a late model Japanese car and drove
away.
After lunch, our first stop was the airstrip.
What we found was a vegetable field. Where were
the girls from Flight Operations? They are
grandmothers now, I suppose.
Excitement rushed through me when we drove into
the rubber plantation and I spotted the swimming
pool. We used to circle this pool whenever we had
the chance. We would use our trained hawk-like
eyes to spot French girls sunbathing poolside.
This time, I was poolside. I looked up and saw
the airspace I had flown through many times
before. The people of Viet Nam own the land
because they live on it. If that is the case,
then I owned the air space above the pool because
that is where I used to live. I could easily
imagine the sight the girls used to see as my
ship circled overhead.
Next time through the area I'm going to go
swimming in that pool. Next time, I want bathing
suit-clad French girls, food, drinks and fun. I
still have a dream I want to make come true, pun
intended.
Our next stop was a hotel in the town of Song Be.
Some confusion arose between my interpreter and
me. I wanted to go to Song Be Mountain. He
thought I wanted to go to the town of Song Be,
which is a totally different place. I will have
to check the old maps to be sure, but I don't
think this town existed thirty years ago. I could
be wrong.
The driver and interpreter needed naps before
dinner. “Fine with me,” I told them,
but I didn't need a nap. I needed to mingle and
have a Tiger beer.
What I experienced in Song Be brought back
another flurry of memories. The monsoon season
had just begun. I made the walk from the hotel to
the nearest bar in a downpour. The dirt shoulders
of the road turned to mud soup. There were no
sidewalks. I carried an umbrella, but it didn't
help much keeping my pant legs dry. Billions of
huge rain drops pummeled the world around me.
The bar was an opened-faced cement building. I
walked down an aisle between tables and chairs,
as well as orchids, palms and ferns. The plants
gave the interior a jungle-like ambiance. The
place was devoid of customers. Music played over
the stereo speakers. I inhaled the mix of
fragrances deep into my nostrils. This was Viet
Nam: hot and humid, with the odors of sweat,
plants, and food wafting through air that was
slowly churned by overhead fans.
I was 19 years old again, and walking straight
into the lion's lair. Three young female
lionesses looked up from their mundane chores.
When they saw me standing there, no doubt looking
as dumbfounded as I had looked thirty-odd years
ago, they broke into smiles and rushed toward me.
They were classic bar girls. With no one else to
serve, their collective attention focused on me.
They directed me to a chair at the far end of the
room, closest to the food and drinks.
I placed my order. Ready to please, the girls
brought me a dish of roasted peanuts and a
six-pack of Tiger beer. I had lived this scene
before, only the beer was different. I had
enjoyed similar bar scenes thirty-odd years ago,
too.
I don't think they've had many Americans frequent
their bar lately. I was a source of
entertainment, and exploration. The oldest of the
three was twenty-five years old. She could speak
enough English to carry on a conversation. She
wasted no time in getting physically friendly.
A new twist in the restaurant scene was the
provision of a platter laden with chilled, moist
towels that were individually wrapped in plastic.
Yes, I sat there and let two of the three young
ladies open the sealed towels and wash the sweat
off my face, arms, and neck.
The youngest girl, a mere seventeen, wanted to
know how well endowed I was. With all the
touching and seducing going on, I admit, they got
me somewhat excited. Old Sparky was feeling
nineteen-years-young his own self. When the
oldest of the three girls reached down and found
Sparky ready to play, she squealed with
excitement to express her approval of Sparky's
wherewithal to her cohort. The youngest girl's
eyes widened as she held up her left arm to
clasps her right hand around her forearm. With
slow and meaningful strokes, she said something
in Vietnamese I couldn't understand. Her brazen,
yet embarrassed laughter and body language
clearly explained her understanding of Sparky's
health. She asked permission to have a feel for
herself. Being the gentleman I am, I told she'd
have to wait another year. Maybe she didn't
understand me, maybe she didn't care, but before
the tryst was over, she copped a feel. (I felt so
cheap. I was just a piece of meat to those girls.
Oh, the trauma!)
Back at the hotel, I tipped over around eleven. I
had a room to myself. Lying back on my bed, I
watched geckos raced around the walls. I slept
well every night I was in Viet Nam except for
one, which I'll explain later. I had no dreams of
war.
The next day took me back to Tay Ninh. It was
great to see the Black Virgin Mountain standing
tall, with a crown of clouds adorning her peak. I
wanted to go to the top of the mountain. I would
walk all the way if there was a cleared trail.
Cleared of booby-traps, that is. There was a path
up the mountain, but it led to the Buddhist
Temple on the northeast side. I didn't remember
the temple from before. It was the perfect place
for me to go. I had also returned to Viet Nam on
a spiritual quest.
I didn't have to walk up the trail to the temple.
I took the gondola. That's right. I said,
“The gondola.” It was the closest thing
to a low-leveling Huey I experienced this time
around.
This ride was more of my ongoing rehabilitation,
too. There I was, flying low and slow over banana
groves and thick jungle foliage. Every once in a
while I could see the exposed path below, and
sometimes people walking on the path.
I told my interpreter, “Movement, two
o'clock.” My feigned warning flew right over
his head.
From the landing at the top end of the gondola I
saw something I had never seen before: a huge
body of water. Tay Ninh Province had been one of
my major areas of operations, thirty-odd years
ago. In my video, Thunderhawks, you see an aerial
view of the area where I now saw water. The video
shows the triple-canopied jungle torn apart and
the ground up-churned by extensive B 52 bombings.
The way the Vietnamese decided to deal with this
earth-in-upheaval was to flood it.
What took place next might be hard for some of
you to understand, but for me it was the pinnacle
of my journey.
I have a theory that when a person commits his
mind, body, and soul to a fight to the death, the
killing of his living body does not deter the
warrior's spirit from its intent to win.
Therefore, a spirit liberated from the physical
limitations of earthly bondage may be able to
continue the fight on a spiritual level. In doing
this, the liberated spirit can project itself
into its enemy's body, clinging onto life by a
sharing of spiritual space. If this is so,
perhaps an ongoing, spiritually based conflict is
a major source of extreme combat trauma and
stress.
Why would one person have limited space on its
spiritual level? Could not one living human being
be possessed by his own spirit, as well as by the
spirits of those he physically killed in mortal
combat?
It's just a theory, as are all spiritual
speculations. I had a well-defined spiritual
quest, though, and I needed to speak to a monk
about it. Through my interpreter, who told me
later that he found my spiritual quest quite
interesting, I explained to the monk something to
this effect:
“During the war I killed many Vietnamese in
and around Tay Ninh Province. I believe some of
the dead soldiers' spirits have clung to life
within me. They share spiritual space with my
spirit. This has caused some chaos and confusion
within me.
“Today, I have done all that I can do to
bring these spirits back to their homeland. My
hope is that they will understand this and take
this opportunity to move on. What do you suggest
I do to make them understand that it is okay to
move on?”
The monk listened intently to my interpreter as
he told him my story. The monk nodded to my
interpreter, acknowledging his understanding,
then looked at me. Lifting his right arm, he
pointed to a place further up the mountain.
The interpreter repeated the monk's instructions.
“Further up the path is a place called the
Soldier's Cave. It is where many wounded soldiers
died or recovered from wounds. This is where you
can make a prayer and tell the spirits within you
that this is the time and place for them to move
on.”
Sure enough, there it was, the Soldier's Cave.
I'm not real good at making with the prayers. I
personally consider my life to be a form of
worship; my every breath is my prayer and my acts
are the workings of a greater consciousness than
mine. Nonetheless, I gave it shot. I told the
clinging spirits that this was the best I could
do for them. “I brought you home. The war is
over. It is time for you to move on.”
Just before I gave them a swooping arm gesture to
send them on their way, I added, “It's been
a hell of ride for the past thirty years. I hope
you had as much fun as I did. I might have
another thirty years left in me. If you don't
want leave now, I understand. We can all go
together after this body's demise.”
I raised my arms over my head and gave them a
powerful swoop in front of me, ushering out the
guests, and pulling back an emptied space. I
turned to my interpreter and announced, “I'm
free!”
Walking around in the heat and humidity made me
thirsty, so my interpreter and I patronized a
refreshment stand on the path between the
Soldier's Cave and the temple.
While I took a moment to come down from my
emotionally charged spiritual experience, I
noticed an older Vietnamese man pushing a
rock-filled wheelbarrow up the hill. His
objective was to reinforce the wall behind me. He
looked as if he needed some water, so I asked the
interpreter to ask him if I could buy him a
drink. He accepted. It turned out that this guy
used to be the police chief of Plieku. Of course,
that position bought him no favors from the
conquering government.
After we talked, I passed him some money,
suggesting that he buy himself a beer after work.
He said, through the interpreter, “I'll buy
rice, instead, if you don't mind.”
The driver remained at the base of the hill. He
was always in search of a card game. We found him
at the cafe next to the entrance to the gondola.
He had himself a game going with five other men.
They all looked up with surprise when I walked up
to their table and sat down. “What did I
want?” they all asked me with their eyes. My
driver told them I was with him.
While they played their game, they asked why I
was there. My interpreter explained my situation.
The guy closest to me laughed and told the
interpreter that he was a Viet Cong. He thought
it was amazing how his side held the middle of
the mountain, while my side held its bottom and
top. He had been active in combat in 1968 and
”69. We were enemies at that time.
The man at the far end of the table was a former
NVA. He came down the Ho Chi Minh Trail in the
early seventies, after my time. The man to his
right was a former ARVN. I could not have
organized a better reunion. The best I could do
was buy a round of beer and pass out King Edward
cigars. I always thought that if we could have
done this during the war, we could have
negotiated peace.
Around lunch time I was in search of Tay Ninh
West. Just before I left in 1969, the large
hospital at the end of the Tay Ninh West airstrip
had taken some direct hits from NVA rockets. All
that remains of the complex is the water tower. A
park has since replaced the hospital. The
airstrip is now a through road.
We stopped at a restaurant at what I considered
to be the general area of Tay Ninh West. This
cement building was two stories high. It was
clean, neat, and served a great spread of food. I
had Cambodian fish, rice and vegies. The food was
nourishing, but it did not quench all of my
hunger. I wanted to meet the people. Satisfaction
came when I met the restaurant's owner. She came
to my table, and asked, “Who is this
man?”
My interpreter told her my story. She left my
table with something on her mind. She returned
from her living quarters on the second floor. On
the table before me she plunked down a red
cloth-covered display of two Ho Chi Minh combat
medals. She had been a former VC and received the
medals for her combat role as a frontline
infantry soldier. She claimed to have killed two
American soldiers.
“They gave you two medals!” I
exclaimed. “I received twenty-six from my
government.” This could have been a point of
contention, leading to confrontation, but that
was not my mission. This time in Viet Nam I ran
the show. My mission was to make friends, not
war. I stood up and gave the woman a hearty hug.
“We can be friends?” I asked my
interpreter to relay to her. She was very willing
and happy to be my friend.
It was later that night that the scooter-bandits
snatched my necklace. That experience kept me on
my toes. All was not safe in this communist
wonderland.
Let me tell you of the most moving experience I
had. It came from many of the Vietnamese people I
met and befriended. “Thanks for being here
before,” was a phrase I heard from many of
them. Some were ARVNs of old. Others had not
experienced the war, as it was before their time.
Still, they understood that I had had good
intentions as a person when I was a combat
soldier.
Again, what happened next might be hard for some
of you to understand, or believe. Nonetheless, it
happened.
This was the one night I did not sleep well. I
slept safely tucked away in my hotel room at the
Empress. Two days earlier I had returned the
spirits of the soldiers I killed to the Buddhist
Temple part way up Nui Ba Din. Remember how I
told them they didn't have to leave if they
didn't want to? I awoke startled after I clearly
heard a voice state, “I am here. I am
here.”
It didn't take my subconscious a split second to
detect a serious intrusion into the private space
of my hotel room. Normally, I keep a weapon in
the area where I sleep. I was feeling very
vulnerable without one. I immediately turned on
the lamp beside my bed to see who, if anyone, was
actually in my room. If there was an intruder,
there would be a confrontation.
I saw no person, but I did see an energy form.
This nondescript form floated at the foot of my
bed. I felt its awareness of me. It moved faster
than I could and before I knew it, this energy
mass entered my body. My head and shoulders
became weighted down. I stood up and exhaled
powerfully. This action seemed to help the energy
disperse its weight throughout my body.
I went to the bathroom and looked at myself in
the mirror. I saw nothing different. Other than
the heaviness, there was no change. It was an
experience that affirms my theory about the
ability to share spiritual space.
I accepted this intrusion, after all, I had
invited this guest to remain within me. So, I
guess I'm possessed. Great! For a moment there,
after I released all of the clinging spirits, I
had worried I'd be all alone. It was good to have
a friend close by. I did make it clear, though,
that this time I wanted some serious cooperation:
winning lottery numbers, whatever. Something to
help carry the weight.
Some of the events that happened next are
examples of how my new mental conditioning will
change the memories of what I did in Viet Nam.
Remember the clerk I met at the War Remnants
Museum? I gave her a book to read, with full
intentions of hearing her opinion of it. We dated
several times. Dated! We went on bona fide,
getting-to-know-one-another dates.
We went to my favorite eating establishment in
Saigon: the Trade Center. Thirty-two stories
above the seven million inhabitants of Ho Chi
Minh City is a restaurant with a spectacular
view. You can see Non directional Mountain, Nui
Ba Din, Bien Hoa, Ton San Nhut Airport, and much
to my surprise, a large amusement park, with
Ferris wheel and other rides and attractions. (I
did not go to the amusement park. I will the next
time, though.) From this elevated vantage point
you can see old Viet Nam, as I remember it, and
new Viet Nam, with this skyscraper included.
On one date, I took Nhung and her sister bowling.
This was a great new memory of what I have done
in the country of Viet Nam. Instead of knocking
down people, I knocked down 157 out of a possible
200 bowling pins in my best string.
I also met with the one man who buys all the
books that come into the southern part of Viet
Nam. I put a total of nine books, five copies of
Heaven On Earth and four copies of Shindara, on
consignment with him, for distribution to the
various bookstores in the area.
I also met with the head of the university's
foreign exchange department in Ho Chi Minh City.
I thought it would be good if I could do a tour
throughout Viet Nam's universities to show my
video and tell my side of the war story.
In Conclusion
Over the past thirty-odd years of living with
combat stress I have found several methods of
dealing with the never-ending malady. My first
approach was to ignore it. This was easy due to
my lack of knowledge about such inner turmoil. In
retrospect, I realize that my most successful
method of dealing with the combat stress incurred
in Viet Nam was to incur more combat-like stress
by continually risking my life. I should have
become a policeman, fireman, or an ambulance EMT,
but that was not possible due to my condition.
To this day, I cannot understand why the people
in charge of my young and impressionable teenage
mind did not realize that after the institutional
reconditioning of my civilian frame of mind into
the mental state it takes to become a ruthless
warrior they did not provide equal debriefing,
retraining, and reconditioning to assist in my
re-entry into normal civilian life. I completely
understand that the troop rotation system
implemented in the Viet Nam War was unique, and
was supposed to reduce the incidence of combat
stress. I know for a fact that the architects of
the Viet Nam War who implemented this course of
action also realized that some combat soldiers
would return psychologically messed up, in spite
of the troop rotation strategy. Their error was
not providing a follow-up program to bring combat
soldiers like myself back from enjoying a life of
conflict, danger and risk.
The architects of the Viet Nam War were
negligent, irresponsible and incompetent in their
handling of this country's greatest assets: its
young warriors. In all of the rhetoric I heard
from the military mental hygiene professionals,
the Veterans Administrations psychiatrist and
mental health experts, I received no solace.
I personally had to carry the burden of combat
stress and its detrimental effects alone,
unattended by any mental health professional for
twenty years. At the brink of my demise, due to
the adverse effects of the war of attrition waged
upon me by those responsible for creating this
inner disturbance, I had to retaliate. I fought
this battle for four long years. It was harder
than any battle I fought in Viet Nam. It was the
new war. My enemy's stronghold was the reluctance
of the VA to perform its duties adequately, as
well as appropriately.
I won my battle against the VA's incompetence.
This victory has helped many veterans who
followed in my wake. I did not win the war,
though. I fought for full compensation for the
detrimental effects the combat malady created. I
took my fight from the Regional VA to the Board
of Appeals within the VA, to the Court of
Veterans Appeals outside of the VA, to the
Federal Circuit Court of Appeals, and finally all
the way to the Supreme Court of the United States
of America. You can find this battle in the
public records of the Supreme Court under docket
No. 99-7176.
Unfortunately, due to the status quo of denial on
the part of the governing bodies, I lost that
battle. I have not lost interest in seeking
justice. The core of my case is the breach of
contract on the part of the United States
government when it did not provide adequate
medical attention to soldiers suffering from
combat stress. This breach of contract continues
in such cases as Agent Orange poisoning, and Gulf
War Syndrome. It will continue until the
incompetent, irresponsible, and negligent
officials in charge of providing immediate and
adequate medical attention to all combat-related
wounds uphold the mutually binding contract
between the government and its military
personnel.
With the judicial system exhausted, I am now
moving the battle onto the Congressional battle
field. Keep in touch, and find out what happens.
It could save you, your children, your
grandchildren, as well as all of your
descendants' lives.
With all of that said and out of the way, I want
to express my belief that the best therapy I have
experienced over the past thirty-odd years was
this recent return to Viet Nam. I recommend that
every Viet Nam combat veteran consider such a
trip. It will be good for your head, your heart,
and your soul if you return with the intent to
make friends, not war. The Vietnamese people are
friendly, happy and willing to make your trip a
good one. There are risky elements, so be
careful. As careful as you would be in any city,
town or country.
As for me, I am desperately trying to turn the
whole negative experience of war into a positive
conclusion. You can help by purchasing any of the
books, videos, or other artworks I have created.
The sequel to the Viet Nam War video documentary
Thunderhawks , titled Viet Nam 1999: Make
Friends, Not War, will be coming out as soon.
Don't forget to look at the photos from my latest
trip.
Sign the guest book, and especially visit the
tribute to the 145th Combat Aviation Battalion's
webpage and sign its guest book. This webpage
presents a good history of the 145th CAB's
action. This webpage is maintained by the sales
of Brian Wizard books, etc. It is okay to support
a veteran. Thank you for your time.
Yours truly,
Brian Wizard
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
This report is a continuation of the Will He Make
It Saga, which is composed of:
Permission to Kill, the Viet Nam War story based
on the author's and his friends' true life
experiences told through the fictitious character
Willie Maykett's combat duty as a helicopter door
gunner.
Back in the World and Permission to Live are two
sequels to Permission to Kill that follow Willie
through the next thirty years of life dealing
with the aftereffects of his combat experience.
These stories are also based on true life
experiences of the author and his friends.
Thunderhawks, the video documentary, is composed
of actual combat footage shot from the door of
Pollution IV and other combat assault helicopters
by the author and his friends.
Heaven On Earth and Shindara are two non-war
novels that have their inspiration and creation
within the text of Back in the World and
Permission to Live.
Brian Wizard Sings For His Supper is a music CD
created and performed by Brian Wizard and
friends. It contains eleven original songs, five
of which are found within the text of various
novels, plus the sound track to the video
Thunderhawks.
All the above come in one package titled, Brian
Wizard's 20th Century Anthology. This collection
of work is accompanied by a signed and numbered
Certificate of Authenticity. It is a book
collector's dream. A limited number of 100,000
Brian Wizard's 20th Century Anthology will be
printed over time.
Be sure to be one of the lucky people in the
world to own this unique collection of books,
video and music by ordering now. Please peruse
Brian Wizard's home page for further details and
ordering instructions, and tell a friend.
Viet Nam 1999
"Make Friends, Not War"
Copyright ©2001-2007 Brian Wizard. All rights
reserved.PDF version
brianwizard.com/samples/vietnam1999.pdf
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