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Reflections on the National SaluteBy Jim Brodniak / Jim Hoagland / Danny Friedman / Elton Manzione"WHAT AM I DOING HERE?" As we approached Washington, DC, the question crept into my mind again: "What am I doing here?" The National Salute to Vietnam Veterans was finally here. Some called it the 10-years-too-late welcome home parade. Some saw it as the country's honor to Vietnam vets. Some said it was America's thank you. Why was I here? I didn't want a salute. I'd been home more than 15 years and those I loved had made me feel more than welcome. I needed no honor for I had done nothing more honorable than staying alive for 10 months of hell; thank you for what? Saving Keokuk, Iowa from hordes of shoeless, under-nourished peasants? No, once again I was in that Vietnam Vet vise. One side saw me as killer; the other as hero. No one remembered, thanked, honored or saw the scared 19-year-old, ten thousand miles from home, doing a rotten job—sometime brutally, sometimes heroically. No one questioned whether that job ever should have been done at all. Everyone saw the SEAL, the Purple Heart, the two Silver Stars. No one ever saw me or what I had lost at Nam Doing, Lang Vei and Cam Lo. Why was I here? To buy the Vietnam Commemorative knife at $120? To buy the Vietnam Commemorative plate at $95? To pay $20 for the entertainers' salute? To buy my piece of the rock for $19.95? Let's have a war, they said—and make some money. Let's bury the dead, they said—and make some money. Let's honor the dead, they said—and make some money. Let's welcomed the vets, they said—and make some money. It was a typically American production. With six dollars in my pocket, that wasn't why I was here. We paid for the monument. It was we who were awkwardly saying "welcome home" to each other. They were just using us again—to make money. They were using us again—to sell another war. That's not why I was here. Was it to turn my back on that black marble "V" at the right moment, like the RCO? I knew too many of the names on that wall. Te ad paid to high a price or me turn my back on them now. I didn't turn we the RPG's were crashing—insuring their places on that wall— and I wouldn't turn my back now. But it wasn't all a sham. As I wandered through a maze photo display titled "Missing I Action" I couldn't hold back the emotions any longer. A Black brother was walking in the opposite direction—tears filled his eyes. Without a word we slapped palms, hugged each other, cried—sharing that hurt and frustration we had shared in a damp jungle at different times and different places, so long ago. That could be why I came. Sunday—20 minutes before we left for the long drive back to Georgia—I got up the courage to step into the embracing arms of the black marble "V." My son and my wife stood a little distance away as I traced the names with my fingers-Lentini, Rossi, Chambers, Swetz, Downey. My wife and a friend hugged me as we all wept. As we moved up the hill, back to the World, my son walked up. He was crying. He was only 13—he didn't know any of them. "They all died for nothing, didn't they?" "I don't think so. Some of them died for me." "Dad?" "Yes?" "You'll never have to look for my name on a memorial like that." I suddenly knew why I was here. Elton Manzione "WE'RE ALL SURVIVORS" What can one say about meeting guys you knew in a bad dream 14 years ago? Many have changed over the course of the years, some to the ultra-right, some to the ultra-left; but all have one thing in common—Vietnam—the bitter memories, and of the two nations from which they were outcast. It was a very emotional time in Washington, DC, November 10th through the 14th, 1982. Meetings of men who had wondered whether the buddy they left behind made it out okay. The searching of faces, halting recognition, then hugs and tears of remembrance. "You made it!" "Yeah, but bobby didn't and neither did Carlos." The silent pause as the men remembered what the names really meant. Then the tear-stained faces, their eyes lifted towards the sky, the quivering lips and emotion-choked voice saying, "A toast..to the guys on the Wall...they're here...with us.. Forever!" Washington DC'ites really didn't know what the hell to think of the "National Salute" and all these middle-aged men in fatigues drinking the town to oblivion. Some said, "Why don't they let the war go, why do they have to relive every gory detail? Can't they see that no one cares?" The unified response was, "Yeah, we know, but then, you never did care." But maybe the National Salute will reverse the idea that the warrior was the war, and maybe the warriors will disgard the idea that the anti-war protestors cost the lives of their buddies. The former was the hope of many, the last a personal hope of mine. The Washington DC Chapter of VVAW set up an information booth at the Sheraton-Washington Hotel during the two days of organizational welcoming programs. We had help with the booth from Chicago, Athens, Norman (OK) chapters. Many vets came to us in surprise that we were still around and active. There were approximately 100 to 200 past members who showed their old VVAW patches and ID cards. Many others voiced support and showed interest in joining VVAW. Of course we also encountered the vet who despised us and what we stood for, but they were a small minority. We handed out over 1000 membership forms during the two days. Our Agent Orange class action outreach was very successful. We had about 900 people sign a list for further notification on the class action suit, and 350 of those took the paperwork to join the class action. Some of these were taking one set of forms back home with them to photo-copy for other vets who couldn't make it to the "Salute." We were speaking to 70-90 per hour and this was during slow hours. One of the nicest compliments we received came from the president of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund (VVMF) Jan Scruggs, and what he said rang true for many of the other vets. "It's one hell of a party. I've been told by a number of people that the VVAW booth is the best booth for obtaining information on Agent Orange and that the people working the booth are sincere in their claim of being here to help the veteran regardless of affiliation. Keep up the good work." On Friday afternoon I was told that four guys I had left behind didn't make it back. It took sometime for that to sink in because it meant from the time I got to 'Nam and left I had become the sole survivor of the LRRP team I was with. The only other one who made it back had died in the California penal system. As this sunk in it meant that I knew 35 names on "The Wail." The parade on November 14th was organized on a state-by-state order of March. Since many vets could not remember fighting for a state regiment, they decided to march with the division they belonged to in 'Nam. VVAW mustered at the kick-off point of the parade and as the parade went by, many of the marchers raised their fists in a salute of solidarity as they read the banners we held. VVAW pulled up in the rear of the march, but with our banners and chants we drew a goodly mount of applause. Some of the spectators along the way joined our march and some of the Gold Star mothers who had already marched returned to march again with VVAW. In all we had 100-125 people marching with us. Our chant on "Test, Treat, compensate...Agent Orange" drew the respect of all the onlookers. John Beam, a brother from Baltimore, carried a sign which summed up the feelings of many: "I am a Vietnam Veteran. I like the Memorial. And if it makes it difficult to send people into battle again... I'll like it even more." The week that many Vietnam veterans had wanted has come and gone. It comes as no surprise that the conservatives thumped their chest longs and hard about there being no more unsinkable wars. The activities and participants had a right-wing flavor, but VVAW did provide a kind of balance, and most people realized we are still fighting a war, only the enemy is the slow-moving VA. The VVMF must be commended for the determination to see that the activities came about without major problems. For many it became a time to finally let go, to renounce the idea that they were losers. We all recognized long ago that we are survivors. What we lived through the populace has a hard time understanding or accepting. We were not granted the opportunity our fathers were given as they returned from their war. Not all of us are successful; indeed, many who came to DC were unemployed. Still, they felt they couldn't miss the event because of their friendships with either the dead or the living. VVAW was respected and well received for our demands of "Jobs for Vets," "Test, Treat, Compensate Agent Orange Victims, " Save the Vets Centers" and "No More Vietnams." And for the central theme of VVAW's participation: "Honor the Dead; Fight Like Hell for the Living!" Jim Brodniak "NOBODY CAN SAY IT LIKE YOU GUYS!" I had mixed feelings about this day. From one minute to the next I would change from wanting to go and say what needs to be said, to not wanting to participate in "their" day. I came back from 'Nam in '66. I hardly ever meet anybody from that time. A call from a buddy. Are you coming? Sounds like you know you should. A reservation on the bus. Hopeful anticipation from by wife Kathy that I would go. Nobody can say things like you guys. A deep churning in my gut. I gotta do it. Now I couldn't think of anything else. News on TV Thursday and Friday is full of patriotic nonsense. To me patriotism and us was always a big joke. Vets who go for it really have to force it. Facing the facts of our experience is the only thing we can do to keep sane and humane. I wasn't too worried about the patriotic bullshit—you expected that. I was wondering more about how will other Vietnam vets receive us? The bus ride down was different. Normally we don't celebrate in the bus going to demos. Coming home, yes. This ride we celebrated on the way down like we normally would on the way back. We all had that churning in our gut. Black Vets for Social Justice, Vietnam Vets of America—Brooklyn Chapter, and VVAW-NY—a great cross-section of vets. Five standing on the bus. Think of it—THE very same people who used to say that we were not real vets were not sponsoring a "day" for us. Hypocrites! It wasn't your fault, they say. We know, sucker—it was yours! It's clear that they want to buy our silence with this one day. Fifteen years of abuse, physical and mental wounds that won't heal. Shit job situations. Agent Orange. This one day and all is well. What gall! Why should we be silent about the draft or sending other guys like us off to fight in El Salvador or Beirut only to be treated like we are! Screw you! Bring the boys home—NOW! We got down to DC and it was sure cold enough. But the day felt different. What we were about took on a different meaning to me—something special. After killing some time we regrouped and went over to the spot the Washington VVAW vets had set up. Remember this day is for honoring our fallen buddies, we're told. We don't want no hassles. Silence was the tone. The word would be passed when we were to march. We stood on the side with our banners bending strongly in the wind, standing out: our legacy from Vietnam. No More Vietnam Wars! We Won't Be Fooled Again. We Need Jobs. Test, Treat, compensate Agent Orange. No official word about any of this! Vets passed in order by state. Everyone looked like every one else. Friendly jokes back and forth about marching. Who were you with? Where were you at? Handshakes. Welcome Home! Smile. Special cheers for all from Jersey and Ohio. Special cheers for Native Americans. Maybe the people who came up with this day were in charge of the parade, but it was OUR day. Some guys saw others they knew. I met one guy from the Crotch who was in Starlite in August 1965. He stayed until June 1968. He was in trouble. We gripped hands tightly.. I couldn't think of appropriate to say. He sucked it in. He was gone. Soon it'll all blow out. Hope he's with people who love him. After that he'll look for vets. Hope he doesn't self-destruct. The end of the parade was now in sight. After the 82nd and 101st, we'd go. I grabbed one end of a VVAW banner. We were on our way. HONR THE DEAD—FIGHT FOR THE LIVING; the banner is stretched out over my head. Hell No! Our sons Won't go! Then, a while later, Test, Treat and Compensate—Agent Orange (we'd alternate chants throughout the march). Down Constitution Avenue. Maybe 70 to start. Maybe 200 of us when we finished! I turned around just near the end. I couldn't believe it. We got fist salutes from some of the guys in the 101st in front of us; from women of all ages, black and white; eve a friendly gesture from 2 American Legion WW II vets. Our ranks swelled due mostly to vets who circled back and joined us after their state had finished. Over to the grounds.. The monument—indescribable. Ashman, John F. A budding friendship; care packages from the states never shared. Dec 23, 1965. Merry Christmas! I always get that special feeling about going home. I was truly proud of what we did. We had said these things before but this was special. I celebrated all the way home. People had run away to Canada and I never had any problems with that. Some guys had gone over to the Vietnamese; much later on I could deal with that. But us—we went over and came back. We stood up against those we learned were responsible. We marched down Constitution Ave on this special day. This is what we are—determined and proud. Like Kathy said, "Nobody can say it like you guys! I always told you that!" Jim Hoagland "OUR SALUTE" Fifty-five Vietnam veterans, friends and family, wet and tired, were greeted by the empty, cold, wind-swept city of Washington, Dc. It was still early in the morning on this day of November, 1982. And the day was particular, because this was the day that our nation had chosen to "Welcome Home" its veterans of the Vietnam War. Most of us have been home about 14 years. Fourteen years of unemployment or menial jobs. Fourteen years of abuse, indifference and denial by the Veterans Administration while a chemical time bomb called Agent Orange ticked away inside our bodies. Fourteen years of watching our communities deteriorate, their life-blood sucked away by years of neglect. Money that should have been used for housing and economic growth went instead to bombs and destruction. We hadn't come to DC to be welcomed home, certainly not by a government that continues to ignore our basic needs while wasting billions of dollars to cover up their screw-ups and build for another war. There were a lot of hugs and tears as we scanned the growing sea of fatigues for a familiar patch if not a face, as the city came to life. "What years?" "What company?" "Do you remember...?' These words were uttered over and over throughout the day. Welcome home was OK too, veteran to veteran—then, it meant something. We've been through two wars together, over there and over here, and it was more a show of solidarity. We knew in our hearts that neither was really ended. Certainly not by any parade not even important enough to keep the president from playing cowboy on his ranch in California. We came to Washington to honor our brothers who never came home. Those 58,000 names embedded in black marble, dug into the side of a hill between the Washington and Lincoln Memorials. It was a phenomenal tribute to the sickness of war. We were also there to honor our brothers whose names didn't get on "the wall." Veterans who came home broken and sick, left to die by the Veterans Administration. "Not Cost effective." "No scientific proof." "Just a rash." All catch-all phrases echoing the company line as our brothers wasted away, losing their minds, their families and their lives. Yes, we came to honor the dead, but also to fight like hell for the living. We are from groups like Vietnam Veterans Against the War and Black Veterans for Social Justice. We've been home for 14 years walking point for our fellow veterans. We've been fighting for jobs, decent housing and treatment and compensation for Agent Orange victims by the VA. We've been fighting to rebuild our communities, restructure our society's priorities and most of all—no More Vietnams! We stood on the corner of 17th and Constitution with a message for our brothers—we are still here, walking point and taking the heat. We cheered them as they marched by; they had paid their dues and we loved them. They cheered us too—they knew who we were and what we've been doing, and they loved us. Not everyone can stand up and hold a banner. Not everyone can walk point. We've had our casualties, but we're still here. We joined that parade with our banners and were cheered every step of the way. We were proud to be there and no one could take that away, not those in the reviewing stand who refused to recognize us, most of whom couldn't begin to know what we feel, nor the scum who followed us around all day trying to live off our blood and our name, passing out rhetoric that has long blinded them to reality. We cried at that memorial but we weren't ashamed. We will continue to walk point, bringing honor to our dead and fighting like hell for the living. Danny Friedman
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