Air University Review, July-August 1985
ONE wintry day in 1984, I found that the monthly mailing from the History Book Club included an advertisement for a tour of the European battlefields of World War II.
Normally, I give advertisements a passing glance, but because I was already stationed in Germany, I began to think of all the things this tour might offer. It would allow me to see more of Europe, particularly those historic grounds I had of ten read about. I would meet new people and perhaps exchange thoughts on history, strategy, and leadership. Most important, I might be able to give my parents some little return for all they had given me.
My father is in his seventies now, but he had been to Europe forty years ago as an officer with the Eighth Infantry Division. The route of the tour would take us to many of the same places where he had been. My mom and dad liked the idea, so we joined the tour on a warm summer day in London.
There were twenty-five people in the group, and it was more eclectic than I had expected. There were other World War II veterans: an NCO from Bradley's headquarters, a ball turret gunner, a troop transport specialist, a combat engineer, and an infantry company commander. None of them had stayed on active duty; they all had spent many years in other careers: lawyer, firefighter, educator, and historian. Still, each had been a participant in the United States' greatest military endeavor; and though they were no longer young, their recollections were distinct, often poignant, and touched with pride.
After the initial awkwardness, camaraderie among the veterans and the others on the tour began to develop. Despite the diversity of occupations and the range of ages (sixteen to seventy-one years old), we started to talk more openly about the sites of World War II that were the object of our tour and about broader topics that arose from the more limited discussions. We were fortunate to hear lectures by distinguished World War II participants and knowledgeable students of the war. Many points were debated, and many left unresolved.
Sometimes during these discussions––I'm not sure when––I was struck by the fact that these veterans––those with whom we spoke and those among our group––were venerated. The respect shown for them, even when their comments were subjective or unclear, was genuine and gratifying, not just for the veterans themselves but for all of us. We wanted these men who had fought, suffered, and endured for all of us to know that they were still appreciated at the end of their lives for something they had done as young men. Shortly thereafter, I realized the far different status of myself, the only Vietnam veteran in the group.
Vietnam was not the focus of our trip, and I can say without qualification that I did not resent the adulation these veterans were given for their part in another, greater war. Nevertheless, it seemed strange that my status or the subject of Vietnam was never mentioned. Surely there was some discussion that offered a vehicle for comparison between the two wars or for a broader consideration of war in which Vietnam might have been mentioned. As far as I know, it never happened.
I was not, and am not, bitter about this. The omission didn't reduce my enjoyment of the tour. I learned a lot, I saw a lot, and I had a wonderful shared experience not only with my parents but with a new group of acquaintances. But the tour and the realization of my status––unique among that group but certainly shared by millions of other Vietnam veterans––left me feeling philosophical, and I've since pondered several questions.
Where do I stand as a Vietnam veteran? I am not a "classic" veteran. I wasn't drafted; I wasn't there in the days of America's heaviest ground involvement; I didn't return home in the midst of antiwar demonstrations; I didn't leave the service when my tour in Vietnam was over. I had chosen to get a commission through ROTC, not because I knew that I wanted a military career but, rather, because I knew that I wanted to serve. When I finished college in 1971, "Vietnamization" was the U.S. policy of the moment, and American involvement in Southeast Asia was declining. While in technical training school, I volunteered for Vietnam. Very few training graduates were being sent to Southeast Asia; the number of billets was quickly dwindling. I felt lucky, yet apprehensive, when I was one of the few who were ordered to Vietnam. There were many more who volunteered––for whatever reasons––but were not sent.
In late March 1972, I arrived at Tan Son Nhut, the air base just west of Saigon, where I would spend the next year. The war was winding down; media coverage was decreasing; Americans seemed to be willingly putting the war behind them. The heyday of antiwar activity was past. The riots, the My Lai incident, the Pentagon Papers, Kent State––all had occurred while I was in college. I arrived in Vietnam knowing that it wasn't going to be a crusade. The confusion, the vituperation, and the duplicity were already known. The idealism had already been tarnished, if not entirely erased.
Why did I go? I didn't think that we were going to win. There wasn't any sense of being part of a noble effort, but I do remember some of my motives. I wanted to serve. I had been taught that serving in uniform was a good thing, and events of the late sixties and early seventies had not been enough to change that belief. I also felt that if one believes in service, then one should serve where the need is greatest. By 1972, it was clear that Vietnam was not a place where this nation's vital interests lay. However, I knew that I could not be comfortable with my own conscience if I didn't volunteer to go. There was also advice from my brother, who had already served a tour in Vietnam. His advice was manifestly practical, although it had both laudable and less than praiseworthy aspects. He told me to go to Vietnam because I would learn more about my profession there than in some place where there wasn't a war. He also said to go because in later competition for promotion, my folder would indicate that I had been to Vietnam, and that would always be an advantage over any competitor who had not.
Anyone who made the trip to Vietnam remembers it. I was scared. It was my first active duty assignment after training, and I was going to a far away place where people wanted to kill me. I was also afraid that I wouldn't perform well, and a long journey did nothing to eradicate my fears. The long trip did refocus my immediate concerns; I arrived tired, disoriented, hot, and hungry.
My days of acclimation were few. I arrived in Vietnam at the start of North Vietnam's largest general offensive. It probably wasn't as hectic or as dangerous as it seemed at the time, but it gave me a sense of urgency. I wasn't in the front lines; I wasn't being shot at; I didn't have any troops to lead or be concerned about. As a headquarters staff officer, my contribution would be limited. Yet I believed that if I did my job well it could make a difference. The commander of Seventh Air Force would get some small part of his decision-making information from me. I felt that lives depended on the clarity and accuracy of what I said and wrote.
Most people who remember anything about 1972 don't think of the war in Vietnam. If they make the connection at all, they think of it as one of the waning years of the war. America's involvement on the ground was then small compared to 1968 or 1969, but U.S. air operations were extensive. They began as an effort to blunt the North Vietnamese offensive in the south, but they escalated into renewed bombing of the north, culminating in Linebacker 11.
I learned a lot. I felt that I contributed. But when the peace accords took effect in late January 1973, I had little sense of accomplishment and no sense of victory. For my last month and a half in Vietnam, I caught up on sleep, grew a moustache, and helped close down the headquarters. When I left in March 1973, I knew that there weren't going to be any ticker tape parades. In fact, I didn't even go home. My next assignment was in Hawaii, so I got off the plane halfway across the Pacific. It was the United States, but it had few familiar sights and sounds. With its climate and population, it was reminiscent of the place I had just left. I was no longer scared, and now I was a Vietnam veteran.
Although I am a Vietnam veteran, I don't believe that many people would think of me as such. I didn't get drafted; I didn't put in my time and then get out; I didn't suffer many of the hardships that the front-line ground troops or even the aircrews did; I didn't struggle to find a civilian job or to readjust to society. In the recent catharsis and recognition of the contribution of those who served in Southeast Asia (the dedications of the Vietnam monuments; the burial of the Vietnam unknown), there does not seem to be a place for those with experience similar to mine.
Objectively, I'd have to say that this is probably the way things ought to be. Those who were scarred physically or emotionally deserve the help of their nation. An "outreach" program for people like me would be preposterous. Yet, while we don't need healing or pity, we do need something––perhaps described by the word appreciation. There is little prospect for that. I cannot imagine that, forty years after my time in Vietnam, I will return to see those places where I served. It is even less likely that I will be a part of a tour group whose members will venerate me for my contribution to America's most disappointing effort.
Realistically, I should have known all of this going in, but the realization didn't dawn right away. Perhaps it didn't because it has taken a while to distance myself––professionally, mentally, and emotionally––from Vietnam. Unlike veterans of World War II, my war didn't end. We Americans left, but the war went on. In my two years in Hawaii, I spent part of every working day reading, writing, or briefing about Vietnam and Cambodia. Perhaps my continued association with the day-to-day events, coupled with the freshness of my personal experience, inhibited the construction of a perspective, but I did begin to read and to be influenced by the public literature of Vietnam.
The first books I read had been published while I was in Vietnam. They dealt primarily with the events leading to the United States' involvement and the early years of the war. They were good books, but there were tinged with lament and condemnation. I appreciated Fire in the Lake (1972), The Best and the Brightest (1972), and The Politics of Heroin in Southeast Asia(1972), but I often resented their tone and could not avoid feeling that I was personally being characterized as a fool for having been part of such a sorry venture, especially since so many of its uglier aspects were already known when I volunteered to go. Despite my resentment, such books had an influence on my perspective.
In the next few years, I read more books about Vietnam as they proliferated. I wasn't consumed with the idea that I had to read every book about Vietnam, but I kept waiting for one that would describe or reflect my experience. A number of books were represented as analyses of Vietnam's effect on America's armed forces and her soldiers. Some of their passages struck resonant chords, but they were angry books, often written by service members or retirees with transparent subjectivity. Their titles were often enough to convey their message: Defeated (1972); The Death of the Army (1972); The Tarnished Shield (1973); America's Army in Crisis (1973); Soldiers in Revolt (1975); Crisis in Command (1978). In the end, I could remember them only as bitter and vituperative.
In the late seventies came two books from combat officers. Even before reading them, I knew that a Rumor of War (1977) and Fields of Fire (1979) were not going to describe my experience. Their authors were front-line platoon commanders. Nevertheless, they were men who had been to Vietnam not as observers or journalists or senior commanders but as young men, scared and inexperienced as I had been. Although their narratives were realistic and depressing, there was something positive about the protagonists.
I began to find books that seemed to have an objective perspective although they were written by participants. They were not without subjectivity, but Summons of the Trumpet
(1978) and On Strategy (1981) impressed me as history and rational inquiry, respectively, with their viewpoints unclouded by fresh blood in the eye. America's Vietnam experience was assessed by experts from several disciplines in a symposium summarized in the book Vietnam As History (1984). Despite its title, Without Honor (1983) had the virtue of ten years' perspective and lacked the pervading sense of recrimination that I found in earlier works. To me, the public literature was beginning to deal rationally with America's experience in Southeast Asia.
With the change in tone in the literature, other media depictions seemed to change. Dr. Lawrence H. Suid has explored attitudes toward Vietnam in the movies (see "Hollywood and Vietnam," Air University Review, January-February 1983, pp. 121-27), but I noticed the changes in the more widely viewed characterizations on television. Besides the documentaries that are now exploring the whole of the Vietnam experience (e.g., PBS's "Vietnam: A Television History"), the entertainment shows are reflecting a different attitude toward Vietnam veterans. No longer are veterans simply psychotics waiting for the right dramatic moment to experience posttraumatic stress and then be shot or jailed by the hero of the series. Sometimes Vietnam veterans are the heroes, functioning individuals who do not make Vietnam the center of their existence. The characters (e.g., Magnum of "Magnum, P.I.," and Rick Simon of "Simon and Simon") are shown using their Vietnam experience as a strength. While this is good, I have trouble identifying with their experiences and their lifestyles.
Occasionally, interview shows feature Vietnam veterans. One show presented veterans, some of whom felt that they had been denied their deserved welcome home. Fifteen years later, they believed that the time had come to air their feelings. As the show progressed, I wondered whether I would be able to identify with these veterans. Unfortunately, as in other cases with a similar format, the veterans (in response to some goading by the interviewer) began to sound strident, bitter, and pathetic. Whether such adjectives also describe me is for others to say, but I chose not to identify with such feelings.
I could identify with some of the feelings expressed in Everything We Had (1981), a recounting of experiences by Vietnam veterans. Although many were combat vets, some were more like me: staff or support officers. As one might expect, the feelings expressed weren't exactly congruent, but the appearance of the book continued the trend: the attitude toward Vietnam veterans was changing. Today, that attitude is not one of adulation, but it seems at least to be one of acceptance. While I note the evidence of a changed attitude in our books, films, television shows, and other cultural expressions, the acceptance is not complete which brings me around again to the tour with my father.
There was not instant friendship among the World War II veterans, but there was easy talk and reminiscence. You could see the same thing on television when veterans of D-day were interviewed on the fortieth anniversary of the Normandy invasion. These men could speak freely and often sentimentally of their experiences. For some, it was difficult and emotion-evoking, but they were restrained by their own feelings and not by the sense that they would be rebuked or ignored or shunned.
I rarely talk of Vietnam to those who were not there, and it is only slightly less seldom that I speak of it to those who were there in the years before I was. This leaves a very small circle in which I can drop Vietnam unreservedly into a conversation. Even then, it is often anecdotal conversation. There are no contemplative sessions, no broad discussions of the "why" of it all or our place in it.
And why should there be? World War II veterans do not wonder among themselves why they went or what they fought for. Forty years after the event, Studs Terkel's book says it all in the title, The Good Way (1984). Perhaps the distinction that is most relevant is that my father won "his" war, and I did not win "mine."
As a veteran of an air force (or army or navy) that couldn't get the job done (for whatever reason), I cannot reflect happily on victory. Furthermore, lacking any laurels of combat, I seek recognition as an intelligent observer of the war, perhaps as a substitute for the recognition I would like to have as a participant.
Perhaps I am coming to the conclusion, twelve years later, that what my service in Vietnam did was make me feel the loss of the opportunity to do something noble or decent on a grand scale, to be part of a worthwhile national endeavor. War by its nature is not noble or decent, but its objectives can be worthwhile, even it the results can always be questioned in comparison to the costs.
This was reinforced as my father, the other veterans, and I walked through the American cemetery on the heights above Omaha Beach. We found several crosses marked "8th Infantry Division," my dad's old unit, and he was moved to tears. He could not be consoled, and he had to leave the rows of crosses. He and I walked the winding path from the heights to the beach. He had crossed this beach once before, when he landed as part of the division advance party a month after D-day. As he walked the beach now, he limped from the wound he received in the Huertgen Forest. We said almost nothing as we walked the length of Omaha Beach. It did not occur to me to ask if he thought of dead comrades interred on the hill above or the months he had spent in the hospital, or if the persistent pain in his leg for the last forty years had ever made him question whether he had done the right thing by joining the army and serving his country. I would like to think that I know my dad well enough to be sure of his answer to such questions, for he reared me to believe that duty is a virtue. There was no question that his generation's discharge of its duty had been the right thing, despite the cost.
It is almost inconceivable that a similar situation could exist for me and my son thirty years from now. I don't envision walking the tarmac at Tan Son Nhut or pausing by the ruins of Seventh Air Force Headquarters in the year 2012. But how would I answer the question: "Was it all worth it? " I shall be able to respond that I was one of my generation who saw his duty to be service rather than avoidance or protest. I do not regret having served, compared to the alternative. I learned a lot and gained friends with whom I share a bond that cannot be achieved in any other way. I don't think that I miss the confetti or parades, and I've gotten over the lack of appreciation. But there is a void, a sense of having been denied the chance to be part of a great, noble endeavor. I don't love my father less because he had such a chance, but I do envy him. Very much.
Hq U.S. European Command
Major Charles Crawford (B.S., Georgia Tech; M.S., University of Southern California) is Chief, Intelligence Briefing Branch, Directorate of Intelligence, Hq USEUCOM. His previous assignments include Hq Seventh Air Force; Hq Military Assistance Command, Vietnam; Hq Pacific Command; and the Defense Intelligence Agency. Major Crawford is a graduate of Squadron Officer School and Armed Forces Staff College.
Disclaimer
The conclusions and opinions expressed in this document are those of the author cultivated in the freedom of expression, academic environment of Air University. They do not reflect the official position of the U.S. Government, Department of Defense, the United States Air Force or the Air University.
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