|
YEAR SIX BEGINS |
|
WITH US FROM YEAR ONE |
 |
ADOPT A PLATOON
A lonely G.I. in Vietnam
was adopted by many
By GINA GALLO
of TheColumnists.com
The envelopes are stacked and bound, neatly ordered
in three vintage cigar boxes.
After 36 years the letters inside are brittle, creased and cracked
from countless readings, smudged with soot and what looks like
raindrops.
“Tears,” Dale tells me. “I cried like a baby reading
every single one of them.”
For some, 1968 is more than a lifetime ago, and the Viet Nam
War just another grisly installment in our nation’s military
history. For Dale, it marked his introduction to the phenomenon
of war.
“For me, that was the mother of all reality shows,”
he says. “Just barely 18, and there I was, assigned to the
4th Aviation Division of the Central Highlands around Anh Khe.
That was where Dragon Mountain was located, and the Ho Chi Minh
trail, the supply line for the Viet Cong. That’s where I
learned that the only realities in war are life and death. Everything
else is just details.”
Four decades later, those memories still darken his eyes.
“Just eighteen,” Dale repeats. “Back home, the
most exciting thing I’d done was go to stock car races.
And suddenly there I was, hanging out of planes gripping enough
weaponry to wipe out a whole village. I went from high school
student to jungle tail gunner. Before, a great Saturday afternoon
might have been hanging out at the beach and trying to pick up
girls. In ‘Nam, the only thing that distinguished Saturday
was if you lived to see Sunday. That’s when you knew your
reality shifted. The only thing that mattered was surviving,
a real ‘cut-to-the-chase’ mentality that tends to narrow
your focus.”
It was a mountainous jungle region, Dale tells me. A triple-canopy
jungle growing one level on top of another, where the wildly
skewed trees and plants appeared almost prehistoric. And inside
the jungle, only thin shafts of light penetrated the canopy of
growth overhead, where even the shadows were a deep emerald green.
Almost like a giant green cathedral, except that it was an altar
of death more than a place for prayer.
“In war, everything is stripped down to the basics,”
he says. “At the beginning, I prayed enough to qualify for
sainthood. I was trying to process everything that was happening
around me, trying to find some kind of rationale. After a while,
everything you do gets compressed because you’re living
in the moment, and you’re living like an animal, on pure
instinct, since it’s your senses that keep you alive.
“I remember flying over teak plantations where elephants
hauled lumber with their trunks. All very scenic, except that
my only focus was, where’s Charlie? Which one of us is going
to die today?
“I have a collection of photos from my war years. Some show
Vietnamese women grinding rice into flour, and incredible temples
with giant Buddhas that were defaced with swastikas, and little
kids not much more than babies doing some tough farm chores.
And there are some of the Montagnards, the Vietnamese Indians
who live in the highlands.
"My grand kids ask me to tell them stories about those photos,
how exciting it was to see such exotic things. The truth is,
I can look at those photos and remember exactly what I was thinking:
Which one of those women or cute little kids was hiding a grenade,
or where were the trip wires that would blow us all to Kingdom
come? And although the Montagnards’ women would parade past
us bare-breasted, any man who got too close would be beheaded.
“War condensed its military to a very efficient package
of instinct, survival and--if we allowed ourselves to think about
it, fear. Something we couldn’t afford to acknowledge in
a combat situation. That’s a lot to ask of anyone, but especially
a bunch of kids.”
Dale tells me how the surrealism of war alters the senses. How
in a landscape that reeked of smoke and simmering heat and damp,
they learned to scent death and fear and danger as efficiently
as bloodhounds. An acquired skill that could work in reverse,
usually when memories of home took over.
“Part of that sense of surrealism came from not knowing
what day it is, or what was happening anywhere else except in
your narrow field of focus. In war, there’s no time clock
you can punch out and resume your normal life. The only things
'normal' we could cling to were memories of home. And those memories
became little scenarios that could be conjured up in the most
unlikely situations.
"I remember sitting in the back of the plane, my legs still
vibrating from the rounds I’d just shot, and choking on
smoke and fuel fumes....but somehow, I could smell the pot roast
my mother made for Sunday dinner. Other times it was the combination
scent of Aqua Velva and cigars that was my grandfather teaching
me to play checkers. Or I’d run my hand along a rifle stock
and imagine the silkiness of my girlfriend’s hair at the
drive-in movie. The last one we saw was 'Cool Hand Luke.' In
the jungle, I couldn’t think of anything better than to
be in my ‘65 Mustang with a cute girl, a bucket of popcorn
and Paul Newman on the screen. In War, you can’t imagine
any of those things ever happening again. Those memories were
like watching scenes from someone else’s life.”
Dale’s hand reaches out to tap the stash of letters.
“This is what gave me my reality back. This made me believe
in angels.”
He tells me the letters were part of a stateside project, written
by patriotic Americans interested in supporting their troops.
The letters were written and then distributed to units deployed
throughout Viet Nam and Cambodia.
“At first, they were just very general letters,” Dale
says. “They didn’t have our names, so mostly they started
off as ‘Dear Soldier.’ If we responded, more letters
would follow, and packages, and then it just seemed to snowball.
It was like being adopted by a surrogate family. And remember,
this was 1968, when the political situation back home was like
a ticking bomb. The Viet Nam war was a huge bone of contention
for the American public, and returning vets were called baby
killers. So for us to receive letters of support and gratitude
while we were over there was just incredible.
“The people who wrote to me gave me more than I’ll
ever be able to express.
Besides my own family, they were there to give me support and
encouragement, but mostly a reminder of what life had been, and
could be again. By sharing a part of their lives with me, they
gave me back pieces of my own. And they made me remember why
I was there.”
Besides the letters from his own family and friends, Dale’s
collection includes thick stacks of envelopes from a Kentucky
family of six that, over his two years deployment, drew him into
their circle of love. One envelope contains only a flattened
Good ‘n Plenty box and a brief message from 11-year old
Darcy:
“It wouldn’t fit with the candy so I had to eat it.”
Another letter, boldly printed by 8-year old Brian, includes
some dried crumbles that were once blades of grass.
“Kentucky bluegrass,” Brian wrote. “It ain’t
reely blue, but Daddy says so and Im not alowed to sass him.”
While reviewing the letters, Dale doesn’t notice the misspelled
words, smudged letters or even the tears now tracking his cheeks.
He only remembers the kindness of a family who reached out to
a lonely soldier, making each letter a combination Christmas
and birthday and special celebration.
“I got hand-knitted mittens for Christmas--not exactly items
you need in a jungle, but that was such a precious gift to me!
I got letters from Sandy, the 16-year-old, about the ‘big
madras debate.’ She’d made herself a madras skirt,
which at that time was considered the height of fashion, and
then her mother told her madras wasn’t proper attire for
church. So as the designated man-of-the-world out in the jungle,
I was consulted for the tie-breaker opinion. They told me news
about the farm, the neighbors, the state fair and Clarine’s
prize-winning hog. Hell, they even sent pictures of the hog.
Sharing parts of their ordinary lives that seemed so extraordinary
to a scared, lonely kid.”
Carefully folding the last of the letters, Dale’s eyes are
now as clear as his memories.
“Everyone’s got their own opinions on what wins a war.
If anyone asked me, I’d have to say morale. Knowing there
are people who believe in you makes all the difference in the
world. These people couldn’t take away my fear, so they
gave me love instead. That was enough. That’s what kept
me going.”
_____________________________
For anyone interested in
supporting our military this holiday season , why not give the
gift that really does keep on giving? You can adopt a platoon
or a soldier by going to
http://www.adoptaplatoon.org/new/
The Adopt-a-Platoon Soldier Support Effort is a non-profit organization.
They ensure that no deployed military personnel will be forgotten
during this holiday season by providing mail support. This group
promotes patriotism, develops special projects to benefit our
military and their families, and establishes support networks
between our troops and the country they serve. Whether you choose
to send a letter, a candy cane, or an endorsement of support,
please show your appreciation of our military. It’s because
of their brave efforts that the only thing circling our skies
on Christmas Eve is Santa and his sleigh. In this season of giving,
the best way to thank our troops is to share a part of your home
and your heart.
©2004 by Gina Gallo. The illustration utilizes elements from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
Author’s Note: Special thanks to E-5 Thomas Lawson (U.S.Navy
Retired), E-4 E.E.Westphal (U.S.N.) and SPEC 5 Rick Cooper (U.S.
Army Retired) for their unfailing support, input and expertise.
You can comment
on this column online. Please address your message to either
"The Editors" or GINA GALLO. To send an email, click
here: talkback@thecolumnists.com
| Home | About Us | Archives | Talkback | Shopping Mall |