Vietnam

I can remember growing up in Copperas Cove, Texas just on the outskirts of Fort Hood. Home of the Third Armored Division and more. My Dad was stationed there from 1963 to when he retired in 1970. But I can't say I remember much about him during those years. He went to Vietnam twice, 1965 to 1967 and 1968 to 1970. He also was sent to some temporary deployments too. I can't remember where they were. He would be home and then gone again in what seemed like one day to me. To me he was essentially gone. Vietnam standard duty for so many of our Dads and mine wasn't any different. Most of our Dads eventually came home but we always knew that the next time they might not. Everyone knew at least one person who lost their Dad to Vietnam. It just wasn't talked about. The only talking about Vietnam was done on the news by people who weren't there or only went to make a name for themselves. I would see Dan Rather or Walter Cronkite on the news and they would talk about Vietnam or Cambodia and all the political crap surrounding those battles. Then a lonely graphic would appear about once a week during the newscast showing so many Americans dead but always emphasizing the number of Chinese was higher. Did it really matter to us kids what the difference in dead soldiers was to the Chinese? Hell no! We just wanted our Dads to come home and maybe just maybe they would be all right. Every trip I ever made to the doctor between 1963 and 1974 was at an Army hospital, Darnell Army Medical. Every time I sat in the same waiting rooms that always had wounded soldiers watching TV or reading or what ever. And most of them weren't just mildly wounded, these were men that had arms or legs missing, bandages still wrapped around their face. and casts on limbs sitting in wheelchairs. There were so many I'm sure the hospital didn't have the space for them. Did anyone ever ask me how I felt about that? No. Did anyone ever ask how I felt about my Dad being in Vietnam so long? No. Did they ever offer to give counseling? No. Did anyone even care about all those men that didn't come home or the ones that did but were missing legs and arms? No. I don't ever recall the news talking about those stories. My Dad came home one day. But I could tell in that brief period of time, he had changed. He bought a truck and a shotgun the next day. He took me squirrel hunting with that new shotgun. It was the first time he had ever taken me hunting. No squirrels that morning as the Army was doing flight maneuvers right over the stretch of woods we were hunting. Then he packed the truck and was gone. In my memory it was the next day but I am not sure. It has been nearly forty years since he left and he is still quiet about what he saw there. I am sure he will take his thoughts and memories of Vietnam to his grave. I often have wondered just what was it he saw or what were the things he did that compelled him to put in for his retirement while still in Vietnam. I do respect what he did for our nation and I respect the Army. I even tried enlisting myself but that crack on my skull kept me out (remember the brain damage post). I didn't even get the steak dinner the recruiter had promised me. But now I write my memories instead of re-living my Dad's.