Tom Glenn's Blog, page 182

Why Do So Many Veterans Kill Themselves?

That’s the title of an op-ed in yesterday’s Washington Post (Thursday, April 5, 2018, page A17) by Thomas R. Hicks, a writer well known for his books on the U.S. military. Hicks notes that a veteran is about 22 percent more likely to commit suicide than a comparable non-veteran. And “the suicide rate for veterans has gone up 35 percent since 2001.” Why?

Hicks offers four reasons—people feel empty and lost as wars wind down with dismal results, repeated deployments drain a soldier’s reserve, brain injury takes its toll, and the prospect of yet another war (North Korea?) is more than soldiers can face.

Only one of these possible causes sounds credible to me. We now know that many cases of Post-Traumatic Stress result from physical damage to the brain. And it’s clear to me that veteran suicides are almost invariably connected with Post-Traumatic Stress Injury (PTSI).

As I’ve said a number of times in this blog, combat—fighting to the death on the battlefield—grievously damages the soul. The resulting psychic wound can’t be healed. The only option is to learn to cope. I suffer from PTSI myself. I know firsthand of its tortures. I learned early that to handle with this malady, I had to face my memories, bring them into consciousness, deal with them head-on.

There’s good evidence that avoiding the memories, pushing them into the unconscious mind, worsens PTSI. And the longer the memories are suppressed, the worse the damage. So many of my fellow Vietnam veterans never speak of the scenes that lurk in the back of their minds. They don’t talk about how their spiritual pain was exacerbated by the way they were greeted when they returned to the U.S., being spit upon and called “baby killer” and “butcher.” Locked into the subconscious, the memories fester. Years after combat, the symptoms of PTSI appear—nightmares, flashbacks, irrational rages, panic attacks. For some Vietnam warriors, PTSI is only now burgeoning.

I’m lucky. Shaped by my early life to be a scrapper, I’ve never been suicidal. Besides, I was a writer long before Vietnam, and I learned to write down what happened as a way of forcing myself to face my unspeakable memories. Had I believed—as so many did— that it was cowardly to cringe as I recalled the grisly deaths I witnessed, my will to live might have failed. Had I banished the gruesome scenes of battle from my consciousness, my tortured soul might have cried out for relief.

So when I hear that a fellow veteran has died by his own hand, I realize that there but for grace of luck went I.

April 1975 in Vietnam (3)

Continuing from yesterday the quote from Wikipedia on the crash of the C5A Galaxy near Saigon on 4 April 1975:

Survivors struggled to extricate themselves from the wreckage. The crash site was in a muddy rice paddy near the Saigon River, one mile (1.6 km) from the nearest road. Fire engines could not reach the site, and helicopters had to set down some distance from the wreckage. About 100 South Vietnamese soldiers deployed around the site, which was near the site of an engagement with the Viet Cong the previous night. Out of 328 people on board, the death toll included 78 children, 35 Defense Attaché Office employees and 11 U.S. Air Force personnel; there were 173 survivors. All of the surviving orphans were eventually flown to the United States. The dead orphans were cremated and were interred at the cemetery of the St. Nikolaus Catholic Church in Pattaya, Thailand. The accident would also “stand as the single largest loss of life” in the Defense Intelligence Agency’s history until the September 11 attacks because among the crash fatalities were five female DIA employees.

End of quote. I had intended to send out my secretary on that flight. At the last minute, I decided not to. I don’t know why. She was later safely evacuated and is now a happy grandmother.

As the situation grew more desperate during the early days of April 1975, I was anxious to get all my subordinates and the families out of the country. On 5 April, I took my wife out to lunch at the Officers Club on Tan Son Nhat to break the news to her that she and our four children must leave the country immediately. She was incredulous. Just that morning she’d gone to a coffee at the embassy. Officials in attendance had advised the gathering to disregard news reports; we were all safe and had nothing to fear. Unpersuaded by my urging, she finally agreed to go on three conditions: she could choose the flight date, she and the children could tour the world on the way back to the states, and she could buy a new Buick station wagon as soon as she got home.

Because the ambassador forbade evacuations, I disguised my family’s departure as a vacation. The earliest I could get airline tickets for their departure was on 9 April. I bought the tickets and crossed my fingers that things would hold together long enough for them to escape.

April 1975 in Vietnam (2)

As the month of April went on, Saigon sweltered in the pre-monsoon heat, and the North Vietnamese came closer.

4 April

I quote from Wikipedia:

On the afternoon of Friday, 4 April 1975, C-5A, AF Ser. No. 68-0218, making the first flight of OPERATION BABYLIFT, departed Tan Son Nhut . . . . At 4:15 p.m. the C-5A was over the South China Sea about 13 nautical miles (24 km) off Vũng Tàu, South Vietnam, flying a heading of 136 degrees and climbing to an altitude of 23,000 ft (7,010 m). At that moment the locks on the rear loading ramp failed, causing the cargo door to open explosively. This caused explosive decompression, temporarily filling the cabin with a whirlwind of fog and debris. The blowout severed control cables to the tail, causing two of four hydraulic systems to fail, including those for the rudder and elevator, and leaving the flight control with only the use of one aileron, spoilers, and power.

The pilot, Captain Dennis “Bud” Traynor, and copilot, Captain Tilford Harp, attempted to regain control of the airplane, and to perform a 180 degree turn in order to return to Tan Son Nhut. The aircraft began to exhibit phugoid oscillations, but the crew countered them and maintained a controlled descent of about 250 to 260 knots (460 to 480 km/h). They were able to bring the plane to 4,000 ft (1,220 m) and begin the approach to Tan Son Nhut’s runway 25L. While turning on final approach, the plane’s descent rate suddenly began to increase rapidly. The crew increased power to the engines in an attempt to arrest the descent, but despite their efforts, the plane touched down at 4:45 p.m. in a rice paddy, and skidded for a quarter of a mile (400 m), became airborne again for another half-mile (800 m), crossing the Saigon River, then hit a dike and broke up into four pieces. The fuel caught fire and some of the wreckage was set ablaze.

More tomorrow.

April 1975 in Vietnam

This month is the 43rd anniversary of the fall of Saigon. April is always a tough month for me because of the memories. So as the anniversary dates of events leading up to the final collapse arrive, I’ll be recounting here what happened.

3 April

On this date in 1975, U.S. President Gerald Ford announced OPERATION BABYLIFT, a plan for to bring orphans, many of them Amerasian—fathered by American GIs with Vietnamese women—from South Vietnam to the United States to be adopted by American parents. The same day, U.S. General Frederick C. Weyand, the United States Army Chief of Staff, met with South Vietnamese President Nguyen van Thieu in Saigon. Weyand promised more American aid to South Vietnam but declined Thieu’s request for a renewal of American bombing of North Vietnamese forces. And South Vietnamese Prime Minister Tran Thien Khiem resigned and made preparations to move to Paris.

The U.S. Ambassador, Graham Martin, had refused to allow me to evacuate my 43 subordinates and their families. So I was cheating and lying to get them safely out of the country, using any ruse I could think of. I could do nothing to get out the 2700 South Vietnamese soldiers who had worked with us over the years. I had to await the evacuation order from the ambassador.

I had intended to send my secretary, Suzie, out on the first OPERATION BABYLIFT flight scheduled for the next day, 4 April. For reasons I can’t explain, I decided not to put her on that flight. An odd premonition prompted my decision.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, the additional aid promised by General Weyand never would materialize. Congress refused to appropriate the funds. The lack of Congressional action hastened the fall of the Republic of Vietnam (South Vietnam) to the communists.

Easter 1975 in Vietnam (3)

Continuing yesterday’s installment on the description of Easter mass in Saigon in 1975:

Monsignor Sullivan turned to the people and said, “The Mass is ended. Go in peace.”

The guitars struck up a joyous beat resonating with irrepressible good humor, and the group sang a rousing recessional ending with the refrain, “Oh, how great it is to be alive!” After the Monsignor and altar boys had passed down the aisle, Chuck got to his feet and milled with the rest of the crowd out of the chapel. He made his way to the rear courtyard, where he had visited Philippe. The Monsignor was already there, talking to the parishioners gathered about him. Molly stumbled in, went to Monsignor Sullivan, and blubbered apologies for breaking down during Mass. Ike came in and went to her. She leaned on him.

Chuck put his hand on her arm. “That’s no way to celebrate Easter.”

She threw her arms around him. “It’s my last Mass. I’m leaving Friday, flying out with the first contingent of orphans.”

“She decided last night,” Ike said. “She’ll take care of them en route to Travis Air Force base, south of San Francisco. President Ford’s supposed to meet the plane. But keep it under your hat. No public announcement.”

Another woman, an American, was talking to Monsignor Sullivan. She, too, was in tears.

“What’s going on?” Chuck said.

“They’re moving out American families, starting tomorrow,” Ike whispered. “On the sly, quiet-like, so’s not to stampede the Viets. And the Ambassador’s not calling it an evacuation. If anybody asks, it’s a redeployment to save dollars for aid to the Vietnamese military.”

End of quote. The plane that Molly took was the first of the Operation BABYLIFT flights. It crashed immediately after takeoff killing 138. Among them were 78 children and 35 folks from the building we worked in. Each of us knew somebody who died in the crash.

Easter 1975 in Vietnam (2)

A few days ago, I quoted from Last of the Annamese the description of Easter mass in Saigon in 1975. Continuing:

Monsignor Sullivan’s homily was about spiritual joy in the face of adversity. At communion, the group sang a ballad to the words, “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.”

Next came what Monsignor Sullivan called “the Kiss of Peace.” He descended from the altar and went into the congregation, greeting those at the front of the church. They shook hands with those near them who in turn passed the greeting on to others. The kiss of peace moved through the congregation like ripples on the face of a still lake.

Meanwhile a soloist in the folk group, unaccompanied, intoned a serene melody with the words, “My peace I leave to you, my peace I give to you.” After the first verse, one guitar played softly behind her. Then the second guitar joined, playing a different pattern. Two more voices added a counter melody, and the remainder of the group, Molly included, entered singing a third tune, all to the same words. The music, a skein of patterns, filled the chapel.

As Chuck received a handshake from the man beside him, Molly’s voice vanished from the musical tapestry. He turned to look at the altar. There she was, where she was supposed to be. She raised her eyes above the heads of the congregation. Her voice reappeared, rasping, unsteady, but determined.

End of quote. More tomorrow.

Vietnam War Veterans Day

Thursday and Friday, I attended gatherings to celebrate Vietnam War Veterans Day. I was with my brothers who had fought for their country in Vietnam. I was moved to tears again and again, most often by the words, “Thank you. And welcome home.”

Those were the words I so yearned to hear when I first got back to the states in May 1975, after the fall of Saigon. I was physically ill with amoebic dysentery and pneumonia and emotionally damaged from the unspeakable events I’d lived through. I needed comfort and care. I found none.

For decades I didn’t speak of my thirteen years on and off in Vietnam. It was a subject of shame. The attitude of the American public started to change three or four years ago. People born after the war ended wanted to know what happened and why. The first welcome home celebration for Vietnam veterans was four years ago.

I saw so many guys I knew at the two celebrations this week. The speakers talked openly about how we were greeted when we came home from the war—the crowds screaming “butcher’ and “baby killer” at us, spitting on us. They apologized to us for the way we were treated. And they used those sacred words that still make me cry: “Thank you. And welcome home.”

Easter 1975 in Vietnam

The approach of Easter reminds me of the celebration in Saigon in 1975. I attended mass with my family—I was the folk group director. The occasion was anything but happy. Here’s my description from Last of the Annamese:

Chuck climbed out of the blue-and-white [taxi] by the wrought iron gate to Cité Paul-Marie just before 1000 hours. The crowd floating into the compound for Mass was mostly Americans. They were quieter than usual, less gracious, more fidgety. He blended with them and sat in a pew toward the middle of the church. He spotted Ike several rows in front of him. Molly was at the side of the altar, in a full-length spring yellow frock, dominating the group by sheer girth. The guitars thumped and the group sang, “I am the resurrection and the life—he who believes in me shall never die,” to a lively bossa nova beat. Molly’s voice, not always on pitch, was louder than the rest. Monsignor Sullivan, preceded by eight altar boys, promenaded up the aisle. The Mass had begun.

End of quote. So striking to me throughout the service was the contrast between the joyous tone of the liturgy, celebrating the resurrection, and the somber mood of the congregation. We all knew that the North Vietnamese were getting closer and soon would attack us.

More next time.

Vietnam War Veterans Day (3)

Today is Vietnam Veterans Day. Tonight I’ll be attending one celebration; I’ll be at another tomorrow morning. I’ll hear again words that have become sacred to me: “Thank you. And welcome home.” I know I’ll tear up when I hear them.

When we came home from fighting the war in Vietnam, back to what we called “the world,” our fellow citizens, the people we fought for, spat on us, called us “baby killer” and “butchers.” Our shame was profound. Many of us did not speak of our service for many years.

Then about three years ago, things began to change. For the first time in almost forty years, I heard those longed-for words, “Thank you. And welcome home.”

If you know a Vietnam veteran, go out of your way today thank him. Let him know that you are grateful for his service. Welcome him home.

March 1975 in Vietnam (2)

Continuing from yesterday the events of March 1975 in Vietnam, quoted from my article, “Bitter Memories: The Fall of Saigon”: Yesterday, I told of my trip with my counterpart, a South Vietnamese general, to the far north of South Vietnam and our stop in Pleiku in the highlands. After our meeting with Major General Pham van Phu, the commander of II Corps, the general I was travelling with cancelled the rest of our itinerary and we flew immediately to Ban Me Thuot. Quoting from my article:

The first barrages against Ban Me Thuot had been launched that morning. Not long after we landed, while the general was inspecting his troops, I watched a battle erupt in the valley to the west of the ridge where the airstrip was located. We took off for Saigon just as the runway came under fire.

Ban Me Thuot fell within days, and South Vietnamese President Nguyen van Thieu ordered the evacuation of the highlands, starting on 15 March. The result was mass chaos as the military and the civilian population panicked and fled. All major roads to the coast were by then under the control of the North Vietnamese; fleeing military and civilians clogged the only open road, Route 7B, a secondary bypass, barely more than a trail in places, while the North Vietnamese repeatedly attacked them.

Route 7B came to be called “The Trail of Blood and Tears.” Something like eighteen thousand South Vietnamese troops were killed or captured; losses among civilians were over a hundred thousand. The highlands fell within the week.

Almost at once, I Corps, the northern five provinces of South Vietnam, crumbled. Eighty thousand refugees jammed the roads and ports, vainly trying to escape the Communists.

With the northern half of the country now captured, Communist forces moved south toward Saigon. I knew capitulation was weeks away.

End of quote. General Phu, the II Corps commander, escaped to Saigon where he committed suicide the day the city fell to the North Vietnamese.