In 1968 I enlisted in the U.S.Navy, It was one of those delayed entry programs that allowed me to finish an Associate’s Degree from Luzerne County Community College. After being stationed in Norfolk, Va and then Philadelphia, Pa I was given orders to Vietnam.
I served with the “Riverine” forces on the Mekong River in Vietnam and Cambodia. That in itself cause me problems later in life when I asked for college benefits from the Veterans Administration. They had me listed as “Black Operations” because President Nixon was telling everyone that we weren’t in Cambodia.
Anyway, it had taken me 35 years to secure any form of benefits for my service in Vietnam because my official records had been whitewashed.
I sailed an old WWII vintage LST back from that country. It was a trip across the Pacific Ocean that had taken 56 days at sea. We landed in Long Beach, CA.
While serving in combat I was injured, but because personnel were scarce at the time ( it was called critical rate ). They patched me up and sent me back into the fray. But, when we got back to “the World” as they used to say, the Navy sent me to the Oakland Naval Hospital for more substantial repairs. After two weeks, I was discharged and ordered to Treasure Island to await discharge from the Navy itself.
Allow me to tell you this little tidbit about my Oakland Hospital experience. Everyday I was served three meals a day in the main cafeteria. I sat there eating with mainly Marines. These men had various pieces of their anatomy missing. Some only had half a face, others were without arms and legs, some had metal plates where their skull’s used to be. But! The most difficult thing was looking at the face’s of the mothers, wives and girlfriends, the look on their faces was devastating while they spoon fed the more severe cases who used to be their son or husband. I am convinced that if I had my service weapon and a box of shells, 95% of these men would ask me, maybe even beg me, to end their existence.
Well, that is my nightmare not your’s. After I was discharged, I walked down to the corner to wait for a bus. While standing there in my dress blue uniform with all of my ribbons on display, a woman walked up and spit on my chest, called me a “baby burner and murderer” then ran down the hill. I stood there watching this goo run down my chest and said to myself, “Welcome home, Jason.”
So, today when someone says to me, “Thank you for your service,” I become conflicted, one part of me harks back to San Francisco and I relive that entire experience anew. I get uncomfortable, stare at my shoes and mumble things. I guess what I am trying to say is this, don’t thank me, I enlisted and did my service to my country. Thank those guys in Oakland Naval Hospital, or Walter Reed, or any other military facility. Thank the ones without a future, or legs and arms or even a face. Thank them because I surely do every time you say to me, “Thank you for your service.”