Veteran needs no reminder of his time spent in Vietnam
By PAUL BETIT
Staff Writer
I won't be visiting the replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in South Portland.
It's not that I'm not moved by the 58,165 names listed on the wall. I knew a few of those men.
To me, they are much more than names etched in stone.
However, I don't need to be reminded about the time I spent in Vietnam.
I do understand the significance of the unique monument built to memorialize the ultimate sacrifice made by thousands of young American soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines who served in South Vietnam.
There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about Vietnam, and the experiences I had there.
Unlike a lot of the men whose names were on the wall, I wasn't a grunt, the name for those guys who actually did the fighting in Vietnam.
I was a traffic analyst for the Army Security Agency. I was charged with analyzing enemy radio traffic. I made sure our intercept operators were tuned to the right frequencies at the right time to copy radio signals sent by the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese military. It was a hush-hush, top-secret job.
For most of my time in Vietnam, I lived in an air-conditioned trailer. I slept in a relatively comfortable bed. Although the food was nothing to write home about, I could eat three hot meals a day. We also had cold beer, another rarity in Vietnam.
Compared to the conditions most U.S. troops lived under while serving in Vietnam, I had it pretty good.
Of course, that doesn't mean I didn't know there was a war going on.
One night, Charlie, one of the pet names for the VC, lobbed 35 mortar rounds into our post.
One afternoon, a couple of platoons from the Army of the Republic of Vietnam's training center, one click up Highway One from our base, had an impromptu firefight right in front of our post while on maneuvers. Bullets cracked past our heads as we rushed into the trench line surrounding our base.
Nearly every night, I'd see tracer rounds fired in the distance. Seconds later, I'd hear the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons.
Most days, the Marines fired their 155 mm howitzers over our post into the nearby jungle. The huge artillery shells sounded like freight trains passing overhead.
Sometimes, the ground shook, the effects of B-52 bombing runs on the Ho Chi Minh trail, about 15 miles west of our base. One afternoon, I saw one of the giant bombers winging its way back to Guam.
The Vietnam War was all around me.
For a long time, I felt guilty about how I spent my time in Vietnam. I never felt bad about being there. I remain proud of the four years I spent in the Army, and I wouldn't trade those experiences for anything.
However, I didn't feel good about the relative safety my Army job afforded me. It didn't seem fair. Call it survivor's guilt.
About 10 years ago, while driving to Portland, I picked up a hitchhiker on Pleasant Street in Brunswick. From the ragged appearance of his well-worn Army field jacket, I guessed he'd been in Vietnam.
In fact, the man was returning to Portland after a stay at the Veterans Administration Center in Togus.
On the way down I-95, he told me his story. Long after I left Vietnam, he served with an infantry outfit along the DMZ separating South Vietnam from North Vietnam. From his account, every night was a nightmare. Enemy probes. Firefights. Mortar attacks. Artillery barrages.
Then, he told me what his life had been like during the 20 years following his return. Drug abuse. Run-ins with the law. Unemployment. A general inability to get along with the rest of us. His was a classic case.
By the time, we reached Yarmouth, I'd heard enough. I broke down. I told him how sorry I was my Vietnam experience was so unlike his. "I wish my time there had been like yours," I said.
As we drove down the interstate, the man reached across and put his hand on my shoulder. "Hey buddy, I wouldn't wish that . . . on my worst enemy," he said. "Consider yourself lucky."
Lucky I am.
Fifteen years ago, I visited the wall on the Mall in Washington, D.C. I found the names of the soldiers I knew who died there. I often think of them. I also think of a lot of other guys affected by the war whose names are not on that wall. Those memories are my monument to them.
A sportswriter for the past 21 years with the Portland Press Herald/Maine Sunday Telegram, Paul Betit served with the U.S. Army's 8th Radio Research Field Station at Phu Bai, South Vietnam, for 16 months in 1966-67.
This column ran Aug. 13, 2006, in the Maine Sunday Telegram as part of the newspaper’s coverage of the visit of a replica of the Vietnam Memorial Wall to South Portland.
Staff Writer
I won't be visiting the replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in South Portland.
It's not that I'm not moved by the 58,165 names listed on the wall. I knew a few of those men.
To me, they are much more than names etched in stone.
However, I don't need to be reminded about the time I spent in Vietnam.
I do understand the significance of the unique monument built to memorialize the ultimate sacrifice made by thousands of young American soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines who served in South Vietnam.
There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about Vietnam, and the experiences I had there.
Unlike a lot of the men whose names were on the wall, I wasn't a grunt, the name for those guys who actually did the fighting in Vietnam.
I was a traffic analyst for the Army Security Agency. I was charged with analyzing enemy radio traffic. I made sure our intercept operators were tuned to the right frequencies at the right time to copy radio signals sent by the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese military. It was a hush-hush, top-secret job.
For most of my time in Vietnam, I lived in an air-conditioned trailer. I slept in a relatively comfortable bed. Although the food was nothing to write home about, I could eat three hot meals a day. We also had cold beer, another rarity in Vietnam.
Compared to the conditions most U.S. troops lived under while serving in Vietnam, I had it pretty good.
Of course, that doesn't mean I didn't know there was a war going on.
One night, Charlie, one of the pet names for the VC, lobbed 35 mortar rounds into our post.
One afternoon, a couple of platoons from the Army of the Republic of Vietnam's training center, one click up Highway One from our base, had an impromptu firefight right in front of our post while on maneuvers. Bullets cracked past our heads as we rushed into the trench line surrounding our base.
Nearly every night, I'd see tracer rounds fired in the distance. Seconds later, I'd hear the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons.
Most days, the Marines fired their 155 mm howitzers over our post into the nearby jungle. The huge artillery shells sounded like freight trains passing overhead.
Sometimes, the ground shook, the effects of B-52 bombing runs on the Ho Chi Minh trail, about 15 miles west of our base. One afternoon, I saw one of the giant bombers winging its way back to Guam.
The Vietnam War was all around me.
For a long time, I felt guilty about how I spent my time in Vietnam. I never felt bad about being there. I remain proud of the four years I spent in the Army, and I wouldn't trade those experiences for anything.
However, I didn't feel good about the relative safety my Army job afforded me. It didn't seem fair. Call it survivor's guilt.
About 10 years ago, while driving to Portland, I picked up a hitchhiker on Pleasant Street in Brunswick. From the ragged appearance of his well-worn Army field jacket, I guessed he'd been in Vietnam.
In fact, the man was returning to Portland after a stay at the Veterans Administration Center in Togus.
On the way down I-95, he told me his story. Long after I left Vietnam, he served with an infantry outfit along the DMZ separating South Vietnam from North Vietnam. From his account, every night was a nightmare. Enemy probes. Firefights. Mortar attacks. Artillery barrages.
Then, he told me what his life had been like during the 20 years following his return. Drug abuse. Run-ins with the law. Unemployment. A general inability to get along with the rest of us. His was a classic case.
By the time, we reached Yarmouth, I'd heard enough. I broke down. I told him how sorry I was my Vietnam experience was so unlike his. "I wish my time there had been like yours," I said.
As we drove down the interstate, the man reached across and put his hand on my shoulder. "Hey buddy, I wouldn't wish that . . . on my worst enemy," he said. "Consider yourself lucky."
Lucky I am.
Fifteen years ago, I visited the wall on the Mall in Washington, D.C. I found the names of the soldiers I knew who died there. I often think of them. I also think of a lot of other guys affected by the war whose names are not on that wall. Those memories are my monument to them.
A sportswriter for the past 21 years with the Portland Press Herald/Maine Sunday Telegram, Paul Betit served with the U.S. Army's 8th Radio Research Field Station at Phu Bai, South Vietnam, for 16 months in 1966-67.
This column ran Aug. 13, 2006, in the Maine Sunday Telegram as part of the newspaper’s coverage of the visit of a replica of the Vietnam Memorial Wall to South Portland.