The rapidly
disappearing cohort of Americans that endured the Great Depression and then fought World
War II is receiving quite a send-off from the leading lights of the so-called 60s
generation. Tom Brokaw has published two oral histories of "The Greatest
Generation" that feature ordinary people doing their duty and suggests that such
conduct was historically unique.
Chris Matthews of
"Hardball" is fond of writing columns praising the Navy service of his father
while castigating his own baby boomer generation for its alleged softness and lack of
struggle. William Bennett gave a startlingly condescending speech at the Naval Academy a
few years ago comparing the heroism of the "D-Day Generation" to the
drugs-and-sex nihilism of the "Woodstock Generation." And Steven Spielberg, in
promoting his film Saving Private Ryan, was careful to justify his portrayals of soldiers
in action based on the supposedly unique nature of World War II.
An irony is at work here. Lest we
forget, the World War II generation now being lionized also brought us the Vietnam War, a
conflict which todays most conspicuous voices by and large opposed, and in which few
of them served. The "best and brightest" of the Vietnam age group once made
headlines by castigating their parents for bringing about the war in which they would not
fight, which has become the war they refuse to remember.
Pundits back then invented a term
for this animus: the "generation gap." Long, plaintive articles and even books
were written examining its manifestations. Campus leaders, who claimed precocious wisdom
through the magical process of reading a few controversial books, urged fellow baby
boomers not to trust anyone over 30. Their elders who had survived the Depression and
fought the largest war in history were looked down upon as shallow, materialistic, and out
of touch.
Those of us who grew up on the
other side of the picket line from that eras counter-culture cant help but
feel a little leery of this sudden gush of appreciation for our elders from the leading
lights of the old counter-culture. Then and now, the national conversation has proceeded
from the dubious assumption that those who came of age during Vietnam are a unified
generation in the same sense as their parents were, and thus are capable of being spoken
for through these fickle elites.
In truth, the "Vietnam
generation" is a misnomer. Those who came of age during that war are permanently
divided by different reactions to a whole range of counter-cultural agendas, and nothing
divides them more deeply than the personal ramifications of the war itself. The sizable
portion of the Vietnam age group who declined to support the counter-cultural agenda, and
especially the men and women who opted to serve in the military during the Vietnam War,
are quite different from their peers who for decades have claimed to speak for them. In
fact, they are much like the World War II generation itself. For them, Woodstock was a
side show, college protestors were spoiled brats who would have benefited from having to
work a few jobs in order to pay their tuition, and Vietnam represented not an intellectual
exercise in draft avoidance or protest marches but a battlefield that was just as brutal
as those their fathers faced in World War II and Korea.
Few who served during Vietnam
ever complained of a generation gap. The men who fought World War II were their heroes and
role models. They honored their fathers service by emulating it, and largely agreed
with their fathers wisdom in attempting to stop Communisms reach in Southeast
Asia. The most accurate poll of their attitudes (Harris, 1980) showed that 91 percent were
glad theyd served their country, 74 percent enjoyed their time in the service, and
89 percent agreed with the statement that "our troops were asked to fight in a war
which our political leaders in Washington would not let them win." And most
importantly, the castigation they received upon returning home was not from the World War
II generation, but from the very elites in their age group who supposedly spoke for them.
Nine million men served in the
military during the Vietnam war, three million of whom went to the Vietnam theater.
Contrary to popular mythology, two-thirds of these were volunteers, and 73 percent of
those who died were volunteers. While some attention has been paid recently to the plight
of our prisoners of war, most of whom were pilots, there has been little recognition of
how brutal the war was for those who fought it on the ground. Dropped onto the
enemys terrain 12,000 miles away from home, Americas citizen-soldiers
performed with a tenacity and quality that may never be truly understood. Those who
believe the war was fought incompetently on a tactical level should consider Hanois
recent admission that 1.4 million of its soldiers died on the battlefield, compared to
58,000 total U.S. dead. Those who believe that it was a "dirty little war" where
the bombs did all the work might contemplate that it was the most costly war the U.S.
Marine Corps has ever foughtfive times as many dead as World War I, three times as
many dead as in Korea, and more total killed and wounded than in all of World War II.
Significantly, these sacrifices
were being made at a time the United States was deeply divided over our effort in Vietnam.
The baby-boom generation had cracked apart along class lines as Americas young men
were making difficult, life-or-death choices about serving. The better academic
institutions became focal points for vitriolic protest against the war, with few of their
graduates going into the military. Harvard College, which had lost 691 alumni in World War
II, lost a total of 12 men in Vietnam from the classes of 1962 through 1972 combined.
Those classes at Princeton lost six, at MIT two. The media turned ever-more hostile. And
frequently the reward for a young mans having gone through the trauma of combat was
to be greeted by his peers with studied indifference or outright hostility.
What is a hero? My heroes are the
young men who faced the issues of war and possible death, and then weighed those concerns
against obligations to their country. Citizen-soldiers who interrupted their personal and
professional lives at their most formative stage, in the timeless phrase of the
Confederate Memorial in Arlington National Cemetery, "not for fame or reward, not for
place or for rank, but in simple obedience to duty, as they understood it." Who
suffered loneliness, disease, and wounds with an often contagious 鬡n. And who deserve a
far better place in history than that now offered them by the so-called spokesmen of our
so-called generation.
Mr. Brokaw, Mr. Matthews, Mr.
Bennett, Mr. Spielberg, meet my Marines.
1969 was an
odd year to be in Vietnam. Second only to 1968 in terms of American casualties, it was the
year made famous by Hamburger Hill, as well as the gut-wrenching Life cover story showing
the pictures of 242 Americans who had been killed in one average week of fighting. Back
home, it was the year of Woodstock, and of numerous anti-war rallies that culminated in
the Moratorium march on Washington. The My Lai massacre hit the papers and was seized upon
by the anti-war movement as the emblematic moment of the war. Lyndon Johnson left
Washington in utter humiliation. Richard Nixon entered the scene, destined for an even
worse fate.
In the An Hoa Basin southwest of
DaNang, the Fifth Marine Regiment was in its third year of continuous combat operations.
Combat is an unpredictable and inexact environment, but we were well-led. As a rifle
platoon and company commander, I served under a succession of three regimental commanders
who had cut their teeth in World War II, and four different battalion commanders, three of
whom had seen combat in Korea. The company commanders were typically captains on their
second combat tour in Vietnam, or young first lieutenants like myself who were given
companies after many months of "bush time" as platoon commanders in the
Basins tough and unforgiving environs.
The Basin was one of the most
heavily contested areas in Vietnam, its torn, cratered earth offering every sort of
wartime possibility. In the mountains just to the west, not far from the Ho Chi Minh
Trail, the North Vietnamese Army operated an infantry division from an area called Base
Area 112. In the valleys of the Basin, main-force Viet Cong battalions whose ranks were 80
percent North Vietnamese Army regulars moved against the Americans every day. Local Viet
Cong units sniped and harassed. Ridge lines and paddy dikes were laced with sophisticated
booby traps of every size, from a hand grenade to a 250-pound bomb. The villages sat in
the rice paddies and tree lines like individual fortresses, criss-crossed with trenches
and spider holes, their homes sporting bunkers capable of surviving direct hits from
large-caliber artillery shells. The Viet Cong infrastructure was intricate and permeating.
Except for the old and the very young, villagers who did not side with the Communists had
either been killed or driven out to the government-controlled enclaves near DaNang.
In the rifle companies we spent
the endless months patrolling ridge lines and villages and mountains, far away from any
notion of tents, barbed wire, hot food, or electricity. Luxuries were limited to what
would fit inside ones pack, which after a few "humps" usually boiled down
to letter-writing material, towel, soap, toothbrush, poncho liner, and a small transistor
radio.
We moved through the boiling heat
with 60 pounds of weapons and gear, causing a typical Marine to drop 20 percent of his
body weight while in the bush. When we stopped we dug chest-deep fighting holes and slit
trenches for toilets. We slept on the ground under makeshift poncho hootches, and when it
rained we usually took our hootches down because wet ponchos shined under illumination
flares, making great targets. Sleep itself was fitful, never more than an hour or two at a
stretch for months at a time as we mixed daytime patrolling with night-time ambushes,
listening posts, foxhole duty, and radio watches. Ringworm, hookworm, malaria, and
dysentery were common, as was trench foot when the monsoons came. Respite was rotating
back to the mud-filled regimental combat base at An Hoa for four or five days, where
rocket and mortar attacks were frequent and our troops manned defensive bunkers at night.
Which makes it kind of hard to get
excited about tales of Woodstock, or camping at the Vineyard during summer break.
We had been told while in
training that Marine officers in the rifle companies had an 85 percent probability of
being killed or wounded, and the experience of "Dying Delta," as our company was
known, bore that out. Of the officers in the bush when I arrived, our company commander
was wounded, the weapons platoon commander was wounded, the first platoon commander was
killed, the second platoon commander was wounded twice, and I, commanding the third
platoon, was wounded twice. The enlisted troops in the rifle platoons fared no better. Two
of my original three squad leaders were killed, the third shot in the stomach. My platoon
sergeant was severely wounded, as was my right guide. By the time I left my platoon I had
gone through six radio operators, five of them casualties.
These figures were hardly unique;
in fact, they were typical. Many other unitsfor instance, those who fought the hill
battles around Khe Sanh, or were with the famed Walking Dead of the Ninth Marine Regiment,
or were in the battle for Hue City or at Dai Dohad it far worse.
When I remember those days and
the very young men who spent them with me, I am continually amazed, for these were mostly
recent civilians barely out of high school, called up from the cities and the farms to do
their year in Hell and then return. Visions haunt me every day, not of the nightmares of
war but of the steady consistency with which my Marines faced their responsibilities, and
of how uncomplaining most of them were in the face of constant danger. The salty,
battle-hardened 20-year-olds teaching green 19-year-olds the intricate lessons of that
hostile battlefield. The unerring skill of the young squad leaders as we moved through
unfamiliar villages and weed-choked trails in the black of night. The quick certainty with
which they moved when coming under enemy fire. Their sudden tenderness when a fellow
Marine was wounded and needed help. Their willingness to risk their lives to save other
Marines in peril. To this day it stuns me that their own countrymen have so completely
missed the story of their service, lost in the bitter confusion of the war itself.
Like every military unit
throughout history we had occasional laggards, cowards, and complainers. But in the
aggregate these Marines were the finest people I have ever been around. It has been my
privilege to keep up with many of them over the years since we all came home. One finds in
them very little bitterness about the war in which they fought. The most common regret,
almost to a man, is that they were not able to do morefor each other and for the
people they came to help.