Vietnam-Dick

Soldiers are Never Sure of their Future

     I was cleaning drawers one day and came upon a stack of letters tied with a pink ribbon. At first, I thought they were from my first husband who was a prolific letter writer for twenty years before, during and after our marriage. These envelopes and pages had the map of Vietnam in the corner, and I knew immediately they were from Dick. My heart fluttered, memories of a sixteen year old running to the mailbox daily, came rushing back.
     I began writing to Dick as a project for a class. Our teacher suggested that our men in Vietnam would love pen pals of any age. So our assignment was to write one letter to an anonymous soldier, where they would be given out in the country we saw every night on our television sets. I didn�t personally know anyone serving in the war and my Dad had been in WW II, but never spoke about it. My parents believed the war was right; to serve your country was what young men should do.
     In about 2-3 weeks, I received a letter. It was sweet, mostly about his family in Indiana. I had told him about Atlanta. He had just broken up with his girlfriend right before he was drafted at eighteen. He didn�t talk about the war, except to say that he was lonely and worked long days filling sandbags. I knew that they weren�t allowed to speak about where they were and the deaths, military tactics, etc. I was interested but involved in my own world, not somewhere that seemed a million miles away.
      I had a boyfriend, going to dances, dating, playing records, sneaking cigarettes and riding around in my boyfriend�s convertible being �cool�.
      I did write back to Dick and he responded, sometimes I would get three letters, all written on the same day. This went on for months and he began to get close to me, I sent a picture and he reciprocated. He was a good looking guy, dark hair, mustache, great smile and very built. It was a black and white picture but his eyes looked like they had seen a lot of pain for a young man.
      Of course, he seemed much older and mature than my friends. They cared about music, French kissing, going �all the way�, and cars. My boyfriend spent more money on his 55 Chevy than he did me.
Dick started calling me his �baby� and writing romantic poetry to me, I responded like I was his girl waiting at home for my soldier. I mailed him a St. Christopher�s Medal with my name on the back and he sent a princess ring with tiny diamonds in it. Also, patches from his uniform and other things from Vietnam. His letters were full of �when I get home to you, we will get married�. I ignored the serious words, not wanting to upset him.
       Then the day came when the letters stopped for four weeks. I was so upset.
I finally got a letter from his commanding officer; I was crying and terrified to open the letter. The St Christopher Medal fell out. I couldn�t breathe, with shaking hands I read. Dick had been sitting on the floor of a helicopter when bullets hit him. One had reflected off his St. Christopher�s Medal, there was a dent in it but he had also been hit in the thigh and leg. He was in the infirmary. They were mostly flesh wounds so he was back in battle within a month. He claims my Medal saved his life, maybe it did.
He had been Sergeant in head of a squadron for several months. He wrote that he had been busted back to Private First Class. This happened because he refused a direct order; to send his men into an area where �Charlie� was rumored to be. He said they were ill equipped. The men who went in their place were all killed, but one.
        I noticed that Dick�s letters were becoming harder to understand and he seemed very angry and upset with everything. Later I would learn he was using drugs. Also, the situation in Vietnam was becoming impossible for everyone. He was sent home when Nixon brought the troops out and he called me from Illinois. He was going to be driving an eighteen wheeler for a company and would be in Atlanta soon. He would call.
I was seventeen now and had graduated from high school. I was attending a community college, living at home, and working. I was dating another man who I would eventually become engaged to.
       When Dick called, I was surprised and excited. He came out to our home, parking his truck across the street. He was handsome, polite, and my parents liked him. He was buying his truck and making good money. The next day, we took the cab to Six Flags, an amusement park and had a great time. I noticed he was eating bennies (Benzedrine) like they were candy. I figured a truck�s life, driving at night, can�t be easy. We went to a local park the next day, and I had packed a lunch. He fell asleep on the blanket, suddenly he woke up screaming. The little kids playing near by ran to their Mom.
         Dick began to talk then, about the nightmares, his smoking marijuana to sleep.
The friends he had seen blown to pieces in front of him. A Vietnamese hooker blew herself up, showering bones and blood, with a grenade in one of their tents. His LSD use to escape from reality. This was something I couldn�t begin to handle.
      Our good-bye was sad and bitter sweet. He knew I was too na�ve and he had seen more than either of us could understand.
       He called one day a year later, he had married a local girl but they were divorcing. I was happily pregnant with my first son. I hope and pray he found peace and happiness somewhere.

Here I am Across the Sea

Here I am across the sea,
fighting in a land that wants to be free.
In a war torn land that's ragged and cruel
where people don't live by the golden rule
In a land that is struggling with hardship, and crying with pain
where men are dying, for freedom and dying in vain,

Here I am across the sea, away fom my loved ones, my home, my family.
These precious things that mean so much to me. Away from America.
The land that I love, and long to be, a land that is not war torn,
free from pain and suffering, where man don't die in needless vain.

Here I am across the sea, fighting for that special gift that was given to me That special gift called liberty.
The gift that is lost in this war torn land.
A gift held back by a misguiding hand.
The hand that knows only torture and pain that causes men to die in vain.

Here I am across the sea, not because I want to be but because I am needed. We are here to rid this land of pain.
To give it our blessed gift of freedom and liberty.
We need God's help, we can not do it alone.
To try and make ths land like our own.

Here I am across the sea, trying to do my best, and while I am here
like all the rest, I hope God hears my humble prayer,
my plea to end this war,
grant this land peace
Send me back where I long to be, in America !
The land of freedom, my home land of LIBERTY!

Written by:
SP/4 Richard B. O'Brien
HHC 1st AIR CAV. Div.

Paul, our 1st Son