When I was a kid, I used to think that the words "vet" and "veteran" were abbreviations for the profession of "veterinarian." I used to think there were a heck of a lot of animals doctors around and how come I didn't know any considering the vast amount of people taking up that particular profession. I don't know how old I was when I realized that a veteran was not an animal doctor but a fella who had been in the military and that the term "vet" could refer to an animal doctor or a person who had been in the military.
When I was 17 or 18, I seriously thought of joining the military for four days. On the morning of the fourth day of my consideration I thought, "why would I want to fight for the same nation that has tried to wipe my people off of the face of the earth and continues to do so, though with a different sort of violence."
Knowing that I'm not the only person in the world and that my conditions were not the only conditions in the world, I never faulted anyone else who had made the decision to join the military. I'm no leader. I'm no god. I have no right to judge. I knew that many Indians lived in poverty and many of those Indians who joined the military were looking for a way out of said poverty. I also knew that there were many reasons other than that for folk to join the military as well. There is no one reason as many would prefer to think.
I've known and worked with many Vietnam Veterans throughout my life.
One did a lot of the tunnel rat work. He talked of pouring gasoline down those tunnels and setting them on fire, going down there with a pistol to clear it out, etc. He talked of a sawed off shotgun type of weapon that could blast a forty foot hole in a fence (exaggeration, I don't know). He was an alcoholic.
Another vet was a Marine who talked of his best friend dying in his arms. How he killed a lot of Vietnamese. How he got shot in the leg at the Battle of Hue and told the doctors that if they cut his leg off he would kill every one of them. He, too, was an alcoholic, though sober most of the time I knew him.
Another was in Army Intelligence. He told me he killed over two hundred people that he knew of and that they came to him every night so he only got about three hours sleep each night.
One of my aunts was a nurse in Vietnam. The story goes that she flew in the planes that would take the wounded from Vietnam to Japan.
I have an uncle who is a Vietnam Vet who was in the Airforce and a member of a helicopter crew. They had a rotation in which one man of the crew was always left behind. One day when he was that man his crew all got shot down and killed. I remember missing him when he lived in Vancouver, Washington and was away from his family.
I lived with a Vietnam Vet whom I used to ask a lot of questions. He yelled at me one day to "stop asking me questions about that shit! There are things I would much rather forget." He was in the Navy and used to go up and down the rivers in PT boats. Since then, I'll let vets tell me their stories if they want. I don't ask.
I've known many vets who have not seen combat and still have a special brand of military dysfunction in civilian life.
It was a vet who introduced me to sweating, the Inipi ceremony.
I used to sweat a lot, but haven't in a long time now, years I think. The second time I sweated with this one tall Vietnam Vet he collapsed on my lap and cried for I don't know how long. I comforted him as best I could.
I met one Vietnam Vet friend who was a Marine when at a slide show offered by a mutual friend. He got up and talked without looking at the audience. He said he had a hard time "not wanting to solve all of his problems by killing people." I thought that I didn't want to get to know that guy, but when I did, I found him to be one of the kindest people I had ever met. I used to sweat with him a lot.
I knew another fella who was in the Navy in Vietnam. He told me he had written down all of the horrible things he did over there and showed it to his wife who came close to leaving him because of that. He, too, was one of the kindest people I ever met. What the heck?! He used to pour water at some of the vet sweats I attended.
I used to help at Vet sweats quite often, helping with the fire mostly. They would always invite me in, which always made me feel uncomfortable. I didn't feel uncomfortable because I wasn't a vet so much as I feared they could see something in me that I wasn't totally aware of...because...you see, I've had a lot of dreams of having been in war.
Once I woke up on a battle field where hundreds of wounded and dying lay all around me. I was one of the wounded. I was in such horrific pain. I managed to lift my head enough to see a large hole in my stomach. I tried to raise my arms to cover the wound with my hands, but the pain was so excruciating that I couldn't lift them. I could see hundreds of dead and dying all around me. I made myself wake up.
I have had a recurring dream where me and a friend are stepping up onto a small dirt hill of about three or four feet in height. We had just finished a battle and we had killed a lot of people and were just feeling the glory of such a horrific bloody victory. I never saw the killing directly, but I knew I had killed many that day.
Maybe, just maybe, there is something more to me that those fellas could see that I can't, and that makes me feel kind of uncomfortable.
Many years ago I interviewed
Philip Red Eagle who authored a book of two short novellas called "
Red Earth." Philip is a Vietnam Vet who was in the Navy. On the cover of his book was the painting called "Scream" by
Rick Bartow, an artist and Vietnam Vet. The painting is troubling and amazing. Phillip signed his book for me and did so in a special manner using stamps with red ink. The book is an amazing story of time travel back and forth from the Vietnam War to the present (as it were at the time of its publication).
About six years ago, I worked as a driver for a thrift store. One of the fellas that I worked with lived with his best friend whose name I have since forgotten. He told me his friend was a Vet from the war with Afghanistan. He told me the story of how, while on patrol, his friend stepped on a land mine. It was one of those mines that explode after you raise your foot. All the rest of his platoon got a safe distance away, and he surrendered to the fact that he was gonna die. He lifted his foot to discover that it was a dud.
I gave that man that book, "Red Earth," and a few other things in one of my many life purges. I believed it would be good for him.
"What did you do to him?" my co-worker asked a few days later.
"What are you talking about?" I asked.
"Last night, after reading that book you gave him, he unloaded the pistol he keeps by his bed and put it away. He always slept with a loaded gun close to him. This is the first time I had seen him do that since he got back from Afghanistan."
I have met folk like
Ishmael Beah, who was a boy soldier in Sierre Leone. He wrote a book called "A Long Way Gone," about his experiences. He committed and witnessed many acts of brutality during that civil war. After I interviewed him, I gave him a hug, and realized he was a few inches shorter than me and rather slender. This human had killed a lot of his fellow humans and here he was, again, one of the kindest folk I have met.
Once I had an internet battle with some folk who said that if I had compassion for these vets, what about the vets that killed the Lakota at Wounded Knee. I told them they were racist as they could have asked the question in a different manner but instead chose to bring it up in terms of my race. Made me mad. I apologize to those folk now, as I could have handled the situation very differently and maintained a good peace between us...live and learn. One thing I do know, however, is that many "Indian Fighters" became friends with Indians afterward, some of them even preferring Indian company over white in later years. Which makes me think of a funny story.
I worked with a fella who was a Vet of Iwo Jima. Big Jim Easley, I think his name was. I didn't hear any of his stories, but knowing he was a vet of that battle motivated me to watch a documentary about a reunion of the folk that fought that horrific WWII battle. As one American Vet talked with a Japanese Vet through an interpreter, the American was telling him how he had a Jap bullet still lodged in his body. The Japanese Vet told him, "It's probably mine. Sorry."
If folk who were so intent on killing each other at one time could stand face to face and enjoy each others company, I think we all have the capability of doing so without ever having taken up arms in the first place.
"It's time to go hunting," he says, and suddenly you find yourself walking in a field with Dick. His shotgun is constantly pointing at your face. No matter where you move, his shotgun is always in your face.
