Non-heroic Service

I’m a Vietnam Vet. I’m proud of that. I often wear a Vietnam Vet hat and I even have a Vietnam Vet shirt. Living in a patriotic area like Acadiana, I am often thanked for my service when wearing my hat. I am often approached by other vets and we exchange “where did you serve?” inquiries. I enjoy that, bonding even briefly with others who had the experience.

I am also sometimes embarrassed and have thoughts that I am a bit of a fraud and that the thanks come 50 years late-talk about mixed emotions.

“Vietnam Vet” evokes images and memories of rice paddies, villages full of unidentifiable Viet Cong, one of the hottest,  and dampest places on earth, an embarrassing police action that ended in retreat and defeat. My service was not like that. I didn’t experience any of it. I should not be compared with those who did. Although I was away from home on extended tours for many months, I never set foot on Vietnam soil and served for 11 years. My service was on a relatively safe Aircraft Carrier, the USS Ranger. I didn’t carry a gun or shoot anyone. I worked in a legal office. 

The closest thing to combat I experienced was when our ship returned from a tour cruising within sight and smell of hell.  We passed under the Golden Gate bridge from which protestors threw garbage down on us. That’s why I wear the cap. That’s why I proudly proclaim my Vietnam Vet status. Sometimes that proclamation is more courageous than my service was. 

I don’t want this country to forget that it treated war heroes like my dad who served on Iwo Jima during WW2, running telephone lines between foxholes under fire, with deserved respect, but treated Vietnam Vets as baby killers and pawns of the “American War machine” too dumb or socially inept to avoid the draft. I wear it because many not only did not come back,  but their remains remain rotting on foreign soil. I wear it because the overpaid are cheered for kneeling during the National Anthem and a famous boxer was honored for being a coward and draft dodger. Others served and died in the place of those who snuck off to Canada and returned to acclaim.

I wear the cap not because I was a hero but because many of my brothers were but it seemed no one gave a damn.

If you see me or my comrades wearing a cap, it’s nice to thank us for our service, but it’s a higher obligation to thank God for those who didn’t live to wear caps or grow old in a country that once hated them. It’s okay to lift a prayer for those “lucky” enough to a return to a life of PTSD before PTSD was cool or even named. 

It’s Veterans’ day. No big deal. It’s not even a real holiday and it’s just a cap.