"No
other unit covered as much ground as we did, or spent more
days in the field," recalled Dave Cook, a 53-year old
history teacher from Maine who had been a mortar-man in the
327th's "C" Company. "We set the standard for
field efficiency."
They
fought into 1966 through some returned early with injuries.
And some never returned at all.
The
names came up as the stories came out, 30-plus veterans of
the 327th telling and retelling their tales seated at picnic
tables outside the home of county resident Ken Ihle. There
were tents and coolers filled with beer - frequently visited
on this hottest day of 1995.
The
air, thick with humidity, was also charged with emotion. A
listener is uncertain whether a story will end with guffaws
or quiet sobs.
"I
remember betting Fred Johnson twenty bucks on the seventh
game of the (1965) World Series," remembered Jack Lockner,
a platoon leader from Minnesota whose money was on the Twins.
"Drysdale beat them and Johnson called us in off patrol.
He said, "Give me the $20 now. You might not make it
back and I don't want to get tied up in any estate dealings."
A
handful of vets roared with laughter.
Some
names seemed to come up over and over in the reminiscences,
like Sgt. Davidson. A platoon leader uniformly described as
one of the most popular and respected men in the 327th. Davidson
was killed in action on March 9, 1966.
"He
was probably the finest human being I'd ever known,"
said Robert Morton, a 53-year old school superintendent from
Henin, Ala., with a shake of his head.
"Everybody
kind of leaned on Sgt. Dave. It was a real shock to everyone
when he was killed," recalled Cook.
What
was remembered only with a little prodding were not the stories
of field maneuvers nor the occasional light moments amid the
heavy task of war, but the scarring struggles that began upon
their return stateside.
It
stands as one of the worst blemishes in American history,
the self-righteous scorn and indifference heaped upon the
wounded and confused soldiers returning from Vietnam. Their
country had asked - and later ordered - them to serve. They
answered the call, enduring often unspeakable agonies while
retaining all the while their pride in their uniforms, their
mission and their nation.
And
when they made it home they encountered the further trauma
of fellow Americans dismissing their service as ignoble and
- particularly in the early phases - as trivial.
"I
was treated mostly like I'd been on a Boy Scout camping trip,"
said Cook. "No one understood where you went or what
you'd been through. I didn't expect a parade but I didn't
expect total neglect. We just felt so used and abused, like
we were dropped off at the end of a brutal ride, like, OK,
that's it."
Cook
found the Army to be of little solace, and veterans' groups
to be of none at all. He did not join the American Legion,
he said, and never will.
"I just felt that when we needed the support of them
the most, they didn't want us to join - or even made fun of
us. I felt my military experience was valid, and to be put
down by some guy who folded blankets during World War II in
some place like South Carolina?
"I
suppose," he said, cracking a thin smile, "that's
one of the bitter things I let myself hold on to.
"In
search of support, many tried to track down their buddies,
which proved a more difficult task than they expected. Addresses
were hard to find, as was cooperation from the military establishment.
But
for the 327th, a "critical mass" of eight to 10
men persevered. They tapped whatever channels they could,
relying on a military database here and word of mouth there.
The result was the first reunion in 1983, and they have grown
in size every year since.
"It's
a healing process, another layer of scar tissue over the wound,"
said Cook. "It's a big catharsis - we spent 20 years
butting out heads against things trying to get through. I
think there are some guys who don't want to come, who don't
want to stir it up, but they'd be a whole lot better off if
they did.
"When
you leave here you feel like some load has been lifted, like
you have some peace. All we left Vietnam with was our friendships.
It's bad enough losing the war, but you don't want to lose
that.
"If
you want to get touchyfeely," he said, "we are our
own support group."
Morton,
the Alabama school superintendent, remembered being contacted
for the first time three years ago.
"They
called me on Christmas Eve," he said softly, looking
down at the ground. "I just went out on the back porch
and cried and cried and cried. My wife came out and said,
'What's wrong?' And I told her , 'Honey, I just got the best
gift a person could ever ask for.' "
Attending
his first reunion, Morton admitted to having felt some ambivalence.
"You have mixed emotions. You want to see them so bad
but it's kind of painful," he said. By Saturday, though,
the uncertainty had evaporated.
"It
was worth every mile I drove," said Morton, smiling.
First
Sgt. John "Russ" McDonald, a 26-year veteran who
served in the Korean and Vietnam wars, was one of the 327th's
company commanders, a man who molded warriors out of enthusiastic,
but inexperienced young men. He knows how some have tried
to de-legitimize their service - "I've never been in
a war, just police actions and conflicts," he said with
a wry grin.
And
he knows how war memories can force themselves to the surface
unexpectedly, like when he walked out of "Forrest Gump"
as the Vietnam scenes began.
"It
was just something I didn't want to see," he said.
He
will also tell you how much it means to him to see the grown
men whom he still considers his kids.
"I
felt better about it all when I left here last year,"
McDonald said.
His
wife, Faye, estimated that their phone bill runs as high as
$300 per month due to Russ' attempts to track down his kids
- and from the conversations that ensue when he does.
"It
still bothers him because he lost so many troops. But he's
not one who believes in flashbacks, because he believes that
you have to make peace with what you've seen and what you've
done," said Faye, whose Job it was during the war to
visit the wives of men who'd been killed. "It's very
important for him to be here. There's a closeness and a camaraderie
that you won't see in many outfits."
For
some, helping vets come to grips with their Vietnam experiences
is a part-time job. Cook writes a column for a paratroopers
' newsletter in which he attempts to reunite long-Iost soldiers.
"I've been pretty happy that I've been able to hook people
up," he said. "I've had guys call me in tears. As
I see it, it's the least I can do."
For
others, it is a full-time job. Mike Bishop, who served in
the 327th's sister battalion, takes vets on tours of Vietnam,
revisiting the actual scenes of battles in the hopes of putting
perspective on the memories that haunt so many minds.
"The
war's been built up in our whole culture," he said, "but
you get there and it's not this mythical thing. It's just
this country, and the people are so friendly and so much hasn't
changed. It kind of dissipates the whole thing. It's a real
catharsis."
There
are, of course, others who did not fight in the war but had
their lives deeply affected by the outcome of its battles.
Ken IhIe ' s reunion offered support for them, too - people
like Charlie Davidson Jr., the son of the popular company
commander whose death stunned the kids of the 327th.
Davidson
had been only 14 at the time of his father's death. He thought
he knew his Dad well, he said, but he learned much more about
him by the end of the weekend.
"This
gives me some kind of closure to it all," said Davidson.
"And it feels very good to hear all these kinds of things
said about him."
In
a brief but poignant memorial service during the reunion,
Davidson stepped to the stage to say a few words to the men
who had tracked him down and invited him to Bristersburg.
With soldiers holding their hats in their hands, their wives
listening intently, Davidson recalled how he made his way
to the Vietnam Memorial in Washington, D.C., found his father's
name, and traced it onto a piece of paper.
"I
thought at the time that for a man who had given his country
so much, and loved his country so much, that he deserved more
than this," said Davidson, his voice strained.
"I
know having met many of you and talked to you, and shared
this weekend with you, that he did have much more," he
said. "Thank you."
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