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I am a seven year Army veteran who served with the First Cavalry Division Airmobile from October 1968 to October 1969 as a combat photographer. As such I was in a unique position to observe, participate, and record the events that occurred in Vietnam while I was

there -I served as both a combat trip and a rear echelon troop. I have experienced Vietnam from many Perspectives. What I will attempt to present is my personal interpretation of what the Vietnam experience is. 

You will note that this letter is written in the present tense. For many of us who served in Vietnam the war continues. We are no longer faced with an actual enemy force who is out to kill us, but with enemies who lurk behind every door we open. The war continues within us and continues within the minds of people who continue to despise us.

Why are the veterans of Vietnam singled out as the tainted feather in the nation's cap?

The most common answer I have heard is that we lost. We used every weapon at our disposal short of our nuclear arsenal against a nation of rice farmers and fishermen, and we lost!

 My own answer is that it is not possible to win a war of insurgency and guerrilla tactics, particularly if the guerrillas are well armed. Devotion to a cause, whether it be religious, political, economic, or philosophical, can and will defeat every obstacle placed in the way of the zealot. Hitler knew this. Ho Chi Minh knew this. The Ayatollah knew this. Would any of us be here today were it not for the devotion and perseverance of the nation's first army-the freedom fighters and minute men?

 There are no words to describe the physical and mental reflex action of combat - fear, desire to live, horror, instinct, willingness to save a friend, ability to ignore the dead, and relief when it it's over. I think of a GI who had his arm shattered, who was lying on a stretcher with a smile on his face. He knew, at least for him, that the war was over. At that moment it did not matter that his arm would probably always be useless. All that mattered to him was that he didn't have to go back into the bush, and that he would soon be leaving Vietnam. The problem for many vets is that even when they left the country, they took Vietnam home with them. In their minds, they have continued to exist in the bush. Although they are physically on United States soil, they live in Vietnam.

 The average college sophomore is about the same age as the average trooper was in Vietnam. Think about this in specific situations. The next time you go backpacking, think about the fact that we veterans went backpacking. Spend the next day you go backpacking imagining that someone is watching you, and that they have a weapon and are intent on using it against you. Imagine that you walking point, and every disturbed piece of ground may be hiding a booby trap or mine. Every turn in the trail could lead to an ambush.

Try going cross-country for a change of pace. Crawl under bushes. Cut down what is in your path. Keep track of where you are. That night, instead of sitting around a campfire, dig a hole a hundred yards from your tent and spend the night in that hole. The rules are simple. You sleep for two hours, then you wake up and listen for two hours. Repeat that cycle until daylight. This is how we went backpacking in Vietnam.

 The day I turned twenty-one I carried approximately fifty pounds of gear all day. I was with an infantry company patrolling near a swamp area so we were in and out of water all day. In addition we had to stop every twenty minutes or so to inspect for leeches from our bodies and the backs of those around us. For my party I drank a warm can of beer and shared a joint with some of the guys. That night I woke to the revelry of gunfire. Our perimeter had detected movement, and set off a couple of clamors, fired aimlessly into the night, and waited for the response. It came in the form of a mortar barrage just before daylight. Some birthday celebration!

 Other memories come to mind. I know a woman who takes at least two hot showers a day. 

 During my entire year in Vietnam I had the opportunity to take no more than six hot showers. It isn't that I didn't shower. Where showers existed the water was fed by fifty-five gallon drums, Australian water bags or similar devices, heated by the sun- light. You used only as much water as was needed to soap up and rinse off. There was always someone waiting in line, so you didn't want to be the one to use the last of the lukewarm water.

 Another thing we took for granted is the commode. You have a bowel movement, you push a little handle, and everything is gone. In Vietnam the standard-issue commode was half of a fifty-five gallon drum placed under a hole in a couple of wooden planks. Every morning someone was assigned to "shit duty." This person had to pull the drums from under the planks, pour paper and kerosene on the mess, and set it afire. After the contents were destroyed, the commode was replaced. In addition, on most landing zones and fire bases the showers and commodes were completely open. There was no privacy. To this day I can smell the burning shit.

 And yet, in Saigon there was a branch of the Bank of America. There were television and radio stations, and some of the most modern mechanisms of warfare, just a few miles from tribes whose hunters used weapons no more advanced than the crossbow.

 Vietnam was not knowing who your friend and enemy was. I never trusted a Vietnamese person while I was there. I wasn't sure that the interpreter or the others I worked with wouldn't shoot me in the back. To this day I have prejudice.

Vietnam was "beware of everything." Don't drink Vietnamese- bottled-coke; it could contain slivers of glass. Beware of the prostitutes. They either had venereal disease, had razor blades implanted in their vaginas, or they might attack you in your sleep. Beware of the children; many were thieves. Every GI was aware of watches being snatched from wrists, pockets being sliced with razor blades, and wallets being stolen. Beware of the black market; you will get burned. Beware of everything except your own sanity, which, by now, didn't exist.

The tension that Vietnam caused for the average human being prompted some to react in unpredictable and sometimes violent ways. I once watched two engineers get into a fight one night and pull their weapons on each other. They sat for about four hours with their fingers on the triggers, prepared to shoot, before being talked out of this by observers. I also witnessed an officer pull his pistol and threaten to kill a chaplain who had invited the officer to attend religious services.

From my perspective, life in the United States has been only slightly better than my life was in Vietnam.

The day I arrived home a woman of my own age walked up to me with several of her friends, while I was waiting for a bus, at the Newark, New Jersey Airport and asked me if I had been to Vietnam. When I responded that this was my first day home she spat in my face and the group let loose with a barrage of insults. I didn't know how to react or respond. The Airport Police ushered her and her friends away. I don't think that she knew then that her spit would forever stain my face. It is not possible to wipe that spittle clean. It is on my face today. I have been able to partially clean it off, but it will be a long time before I am able to clean all of it off.

Welcome home.

I understand the conviction and feelings which the woman who assaulted me had. She was only doing what she felt was morally right. The problem is that she, and tens of thousands like her, misdirected their actions to the veterans themselves. We were mere pawns in a political and economic venture. The spit, the insults, and the permanent injury should have been directed towards corporate America and the government. Sure there were marches and demonstrations against the government. The problem is that for every organized demonstration there were hundreds of assaults on individual veterans. Airports and bus stations were the favorite targets for assaults on veterans. For many veterans those incidents were the first and last time they were welcomed home.

Welcome home

Those two words were never stated to me for fifteen years. A couple of simple words, but to the Vietnam Veteran they mean the difference between acceptance and rejection. The first time someone who was not a family member welcomed me home fromVietnam was on October 11, 1984 when the veterans I marched with welcomed each other home. It took fifteen years and ten days for someone to acknowledge that I was home, and as has been the case with all other actions which have been undertaken to acknowledge the service of Vietnam Veterans, the action was initiated by Vietnam Veterans.

That is the legacy of the Vietnam Vet. The government and the citizens of this nation have done everything in their power to ignore the service of Vietnam Veterans. The memorials in Washington and Sacramento were constructed with funds donated by Vietnam Vets. Activities to welcome home and honor Vietnam Vets have tradition- ally been sponsored by Vietnam Vets. The best counseling services for Vietnam Vets are provided by other vets. In short, Vietnam Vets have had to take care of themselves. We took care of ourselves in the bush, we continue to take care of ourselves today.

The aspect of postwar life that haunts me most is my inability to get close to people. This is a direct consequence of the mechanisms I cultivated to deal with the deaths of others. After my best friend died, I was never able to develop a close friendship again. This is not to say that I have no friends. I do. The difference is that I am now able to walk away from friendships and feel nothing. Until just a few months ago, I had not written or attempted to contact anyone I have known for the past fifteen years unless that person tried to get in contact with me. I find it easier to get close to total strangers than to the ones I love. If you get close you run the risk of getting burned. There is no need to cry if someone dies or leaves if you haven't allowed yourself to get close to this person. I have former wives and children who know whereof I speak.

I also find myself being excessively ritualistic.

Each night I "check the perimeter." That is, I inspect all doors and windows. I insure that all passageways are clear of any obstacles. I make certain that I know the exact location of everything near my bed. I rehearse what I will need in case of an emergency. I do this each night knowing that it will help me survive.

Once I do get to bed the fun begins. For the first seven years after the war I had nightmares. Sometimes I would wake up yelling. Sometimes I would wake up crying. The nightmares faded slowly, or I thought they had. My last wife tells me that right up through the past few years she would come to bed late and recognize that I was experiencing another nightmare.

I don't sleep well. I wake up at least once a night, and usually more frequently. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and simply stay awake until morning. Often when I start off for work in the mornings, I am already exhausted.

 I have not touched a rifle or pistol since my discharge. In the Army I had qualified as an expert on the rifle range. I had always been around guns. I was an avid hunter. My father and I went hunting each deer season. But now I'm mightily afraid of guns.

 Loud noises bother me. This is especially true of anything that sounds like a gun. I don't hit the floor anymore. There was a time when a car's backfire would push me to the floor, or to the street, within the blinking of an eye. I don't like loud noises, including music. Loud noises distract me, and hamper my ability to distinguish all the sounds around me. Leaves rustling in the wind in my backyard is enough to get me out of bed to investigate.

 Restlessness.

When I first got out of the service, and my wife and I separated, I crossed the country five times, three times by hitchhiking. I have walked along the Appalachian trail numerous times. When I moved to this city, I had eleven different residences in the first three years, and held three different jobs the first seven months.

 Alcohol became my best friend. I have survived by drinking. I drank from ten to twelve cans of beer per day in addition to whatever else I had. I did this for nearly fifteen years. I think the drinking has caused some brain damage

 I break down and begin crying for no apparent reason. An article in the paper or a movie on television can start the tears, but only if I am alone.

 I don't like sitting with my back to windows or exposed to the public. I keep the shades down in my house. I don't like thinking that someone out there may be looking in on me.

There are times when I feel extremely volatile. For a while I could get into a fight at the drop of a name. I'm not as volatile as I once was; at least I don't get into as many fights. But, being a powder keg ready to go off at any time, I am trying to develop escape valves.

 I have discovered that Vietnam Vets did not tell other people that they were Vietnam Vets .

 I lived thirty feet away from another Vietnam Vet, and for years neither of us would exchange this dark secret. It was six or seven years before we confessed it to each other.

 It was my wife who recognized what was wrong with me. She knew I had delayed stress, and searched out a counseling program for me. I wasn't delighted with the idea, but marched off to the VA clinic for professional help. I spent two hours with a psychologist on my initial visit. The episode felt more like police interrogation than a counseling session. I thought he displayed a total lack of sensitivity. Eventually I began seeing a psychiatrist on my own, who, after fifteen minutes, diagnosed me as suffering from depression.

Now I recognize that my wife saw it all clearly. But it was already too late for me. After ten years together we separated. I apologize to her because she was absolutely right: the Vietnam War had done something to me. The day they buried the unknown soldier from the Vietnam War, I cried uncontrollably for hours. Now I want to go to the wall, to see the names of those I know. I need to know that they have been remembered.

But aren't all of us Vietnam Vets, regardless of whether we participated in the war or not? It will be up to the next generation to see that this nation gets its act together. My only request is that non-vets remember that there is a lot going on in our heads. Please do not pity us. Please do not condemn us. And please do not categorize and classify us. All of us, whether we served or not, did what we felt was best for ourselves and for our nation

Welcome Home, Paul

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_{Paul Sgroi served seven years in the United States Army, and was stationed in Vietnam as a combat photographer with the First Cavalry Division Airmobile unit from October 1968 to October 1969. In 1985, he was an auditor in the University of California, Santa Barbara class on the impact of the Vietnam War, in which capacity he wrote this essay as, he said, "an open letter to myself, to those who know me, and to the students' in the class. Later the same year he accompanied the students on their annual pilgrimage to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C. He spoke at the ceremony, paying tribute to the many persons he knew who did not return from the war. In 1987, Mr. Sgroi died at his own hands in the Paradise area of the Santa Ynez River Valley.}

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