Transformation in Green

Veterans Day was originally called Armistice Day to commemorate the end of World War I, mistakenly labeled “the war that will end war” by novelist H.G. Wells. Now more than a century later, November 11 provides an appropriate pause to thank and remember those men and women who served their nation(s) with honor and self-sacrifice all over the globe.

In this spirit, permit me a sojourn into memories this Veterans Day, a personal recollection of a fragile moment in the summer of 1971 when disgruntled, war-weary, green-clad GIs transformed into angels of light.

Vietnam

I am a Vietnam veteran. We are your fathers and mothers. Well, maybe grandparents. Few of us were older than our early 20s when the U.S. military sent half a million service members a year to fight that awful war in Southeast Asia. Plenty of soldiers, sailors, and airmen came back with wounded bodies and scarred minds, and too many came home baggage class.

It was a brutal, senseless, ongoing conflict that mauled a generation, and the Vietnamese people suffered far worse than we did.

By and large, U.S. soldiers serving in Vietnam had not volunteered for the combat zone. Plenty of us were drafted. Others, like me, enlisted but did not request Vietnam duty. The military sent us and, like good soldiers, off we went.

Ironically, many GIs developed a sense of hostility toward the very people whose freedom we came to protect. The phenomenon has been common in warfare since ancient times. Perhaps the bristling hostility toward the Vietnamese locals produced a general American discontent with the whole Vietnam War, then in its second decade.

That sunny afternoon, I was traveling in an open-top jeep with four other soldiers—my driver plus three passengers who had hitched a ride to Camp Evans, our destination. The two-lane paved road followed coastal flats and snaked through villages crowded with peasants and small shop vendors.

We left a little hamlet and headed up the highway along an embanked section with flat fields stretching beyond both shoulders. The day was mild, no rain yet, with a light breeze off the South China Sea to the east. The soldiers were mostly quiet with the occasional quip about cold beer awaiting them at their Camp Evans unit locations. The road was highly secure and none of us carried anything more than a sidearm for protection.

We Need to Render Assistance

Suddenly, I spied a little crowd of villagers in peasant white, a few in traditional “black pajamas” with conical hats. They waved frantically at passing cars and small trucks ahead of us, but no vehicles slowed to look. Because this stretch of the road was safe territory, except maybe at night, I felt no threat. Just curiosity.

Our speed was fairly sluggish by U.S. standards, but my driver slowed down even more. As we passed the little throng, an older man, perhaps a village elder, raised his hands in apparent exasperation.

That’s when I saw the reason. A young man in black lay in the ditch just beyond the roadway. He was in obvious distress, likely the victim of a traffic accident. We continued along the road just like the other vehicles.

“That guy was hurt,” I said to my driver. “Looks like hit-and-run.”

He shrugged. “We didn’t hit him.”

“Not the point, soldier. He’s hurt.”

My driver snorted. “It was a Dink, sir. Not a GI.”

I am embarrassed to admit, we soldiers often created derogatory names for the locals. The phenomenon of dehumanizing people who are different—especially if they’re shooting at you—is a longstanding side effect of armed conflict.

“He was hurt. We need to render assistance,” I said.

The driver whined, “Aw, sir—”

“This is an order. Stop, turn the vehicle around. Now.” Okay, I seldom leaned on my rank, but I was the senior officer here. Not a democracy.

“Yes, sir.” He hit the brakes and we sped back to the guy in distress.

An Amazing Transformation

Now an amazing transformation began. We pulled onto the shoulder of the road and without another word from me the soldiers jumped out and began to render assistance. It was as if I’d given them permission to remember what their mothers and fathers taught them about helping neighbors in need.

All of them had first aid training, and they became first responders. They carried the injured man to the jeep and made room for him. One GI actually stripped off his fatigue shirt, rolled it up, and made a makeshift pillow for this stranger in black.

I turned in my seat and watched the young troops extending hands to steady this unknown victim. Blood had seeped through his black clothing from the spot where his thigh joined the hip, but the flow seemed to have stopped. He might have suffered a shattered pelvis, but I wasn’t a doctor.

A Fellow Human

It suddenly occurred to me this guy could be Vietcong, wounded while sneaking around the flatlands the night before. Although we were at war, it didn’t matter at that moment. He was a fellow human who needed assistance, and the shared, universal spirit arose in these soldiers to meet the need.

We dropped him off at a South Vietnamese Army compound a few miles up the road. Medics came out to get him, and he left our lives as quickly as he appeared. Our trip resumed, but the incident had taught me a profound lesson in human behavior.

Sometimes, people need an excuse to let their nurturing side emerge. As soon as we turned that jeep around, the apathy of those soldiers—who hated this war and desperately wanted to survive and go home—morphed into genuine care for another human being, whatever his race, politics, or status in life. If war dehumanizes, acts of compassion bring forth what Abraham Lincoln called “the better angels of our nature.”

This Veterans Day might be a good time to set those angels loose anew, as we remember those who gave their last full measure of devotion for the land they loved. Maybe all we need is permission to do what we know is right.

Read more of Dr. Tom's work here.