Madam Speaker, on September 12, 2009, the Honorable Emanuel Cleaver, Congressman from Missouri's Fifth Congressional District, sponsored a remarkable event at the Truman Library. This event was in honor of those who fought in the Vietnam…
Madam Speaker, on September 12, 2009, the Honorable Emanuel Cleaver, Congressman from Missouri's Fifth Congressional District, sponsored a remarkable event at the Truman Library. This event was in honor of those who fought in the Vietnam War in the late 1960s and early 1970s. Well over 1,000 veterans attended. The Honorable Dennis Moore, Congressman from Kansas's Third Congressional District, spoke, and yours truly had an opportunity to deliver a message of gratitude to the Vietnam veterans present. The keynote speaker was Major General (Ret.) Robert H. Scales, former commandant of the U.S. Army War College. His address was very well received by the veterans in the audience. The address is as follows:
[Sept. 12, 2009]
Truman Library Speech
(By MG (Ret.) Robert H. Scales)
Mr. Skelton, Mr Cleaver, distinguished guests and, most
importantly, fellow veterans. What a great thrill it is see
my comrades in arms assembled here so many years after we
shared our experiences in war.
Let me give you the bottom line up front: I'm proud I
served in Vietnam. Like you I didn't kill innocents, I killed
the enemy; I didn't fight for big oil or for some lame
conspiracy I fought for a country I believed in and for the
buddies who kept me alive. Like you I was troubled that,
unlike my father, I didn't come back to a grateful nation. It
took a generation and another war, Desert Storm, for the
nation to come back to me.
Also like you I remember the war being 99 percent boredom
and one percent pure abject terror. But not all my memories
of Vietnam are terrible. There were times when I enjoyed my
service in combat. Such sentiment must seem strange to a
society today that has, thanks to our superb volunteer
military, been completely insulated from war. If they thought
about Vietnam at all our fellow citizens would imagine that
fifty years would have been sufficient to erase this
unpleasant war from our consciousness. Looking over this
assembly it's obvious that the memory lingers, and those of
us who fought in that war remember.
The question is why? If this war was so terrible why are we
here? It's my privilege today to try to answer that question
not only for you, brother veterans, but maybe for a wider
audience for whom, fifty years on, Vietnam is as strangely
distant as World War One was to our generation.
Vietnam is seared in our memory for the same reason that
wars have lingered in the
minds of soldiers for as long as wars have been fought.
From Marathon to Mosul young men and now women have marched
off to war to learn that the cold fear of violent death and
the prospects of killing another human being heighten the
senses and sear these experiences deeply and irrevocably into
our souls and linger in the back recesses of our minds.
After Vietnam we may have gone on to thrilling lives or
dull; we might have found love or loneliness, success or
failure. But our experiences have stayed with us in brilliant
Technicolor and with a clarity undiminished by time. For what
ever primal reason war heightens the senses. When in combat
we see sharper, hear more clearly and develop a sixth sense
about everything around us.
Remember the sights? I recall sitting in the jungle one
bright moonlit night marveling on the beauty of Vietnam. How
lush and green it was; how attractive and gentle the people,
how stoic and unmoved they were amid the chaos that
surrounded them.
Do you remember the sounds? Where else could you stand
outside a bunker and listen to the cacophonous mix of Jimi
Hendrix, Merle Haggard and Jefferson Airplane? Or how about
the sounds of incoming? Remember it wasn't a boom like in the
movies but a horrifying noise like a passing train followed
by a crack and the whistle of flying fragments. Remember the
smells? The sharpness of cordite, the choking stench of
rotting jungle and the tragic sweet smell of enemy dead . . .
I remember the touch, the wet, sticky sensation when I
touched one of my wounded soldiers one last time before the
medevac rushed him forever from our presence but not from my
memory, and the guilt I felt realizing that his pain was
caused by my inattention and my lack of experience.
Even taste is a sense that brings back memories. Remember
the end of the day after the log bird flew away leaving mail,
C rations and warm beer? Only the first sergeant had
sufficient gravitas to be allowed to turn the C ration cases
over so that all of us could reach in and pull out a box on
the unlabeled side hoping that it wasn't going to be ham and
lima beans again.
Look, forty years on I can forgive the guy who put powder
in our ammunition so foul that it caused our M-16s to jam.
I'm OK with helicopters that arrived late. I'm over artillery
landing too close and the occasional canceled air strike. But
I will never forgive the Pentagon bureaucrat who in an
incredibly lame moment thought that a soldier would open a
can of that green, greasy, gelatinous goo called ham and lima
beans and actually eat it.
But to paraphrase that iconic war hero of our generation,
Forrest Gump, ``Life is like a case of C Rations, you never
know what you're going to get.'' Because for every box of ham
and lima beans there was that rapturous moment when you would
turn over the box and discover the bacchanalian joy of
peaches and pound cake. It's all a metaphor for the surreal
nature of that war and its small pleasures . . . those who
have never known war cannot believe that anyone can find
joy in hot beer and cold pound cake. But we can . . .
Another reason why Vietnam remains in our consciousness is
that the experience has made us better. Don't get me wrong.
I'm not arguing for war as a self improvement course. And I
realize that war's trauma has damaged many of our fellow
veterans physically, psychologically and morally. But recent
research on Post Traumatic Stress Disorder by behavioral
scientists has unearthed a phenomenon familiar to most
veterans: that the trauma of war strengthens rather than
weakens us (They call it Post Traumatic Growth). We know that
a near death experience makes us better leaders by increasing
our self reliance, resilience, self image, confidence and
ability to deal with adversity. Combat veterans tend to
approach the future wiser, more spiritual and content with an
amplified appreciation for life. We know this is true. It's
nice to see that the human scientists now agree.
I'm proud that our service left a legacy that has made
today's military better. Sadly Americans too often prefer to
fight wars with technology. Our experience in Vietnam taught
the nation the lesson that war is inherently a human not a
technological endeavor. Our experience is a distant whisper
in the ear of today's technology wizards that firepower is
not sufficient to win, that the enemy has a vote, that the
object of war should not be to kill the enemy but to win the
trust and allegiance of the people and that the ultimate
weapon in this kind or war is a superbly trained, motivated,
and equipped soldier who is tightly bonded to his buddies and
who trusts his leaders.
I've visited our young men and women in Iraq and
Afghanistan several times. On each visit I've seen first hand
the strong connection between our war and theirs. These are
worthy warriors who operate in a manner remarkably
reminiscent of the way we fought so many years ago.
The similarities are surreal. Close your eyes for a moment
and it all comes rushing back . . . In Afghanistan I watched
soldiers from my old unit, the 101st Airborne Division, as
they conducted daily patrols from firebases constructed and
manned in a manner virtually the same as those we occupied
and fought from so many years ago. Every day these sky
soldiers trudge outside the wire and climb across impossible
terrain with the purpose as one sergeant put it ``to kill the
bad guys, protect the good guys and bring home as many of my
soldiers as I can.'' Your legacy is alive and well. You
should be proud.
The timeless connection between our generation and theirs
can be seen in the unity and fighting spirit of our soldiers
in Iraq and Afghanistan. Again and again, I get asked the
same old question from folks who watch soldiers in action on
television: why is their morale so high? Don't they know the
American people are getting fed up with these wars? Don't
they know Afghanistan is going badly? Often they come to me
incredulous about what they perceive as a misspent sense of
patriotism and loyalty.
I tell them time and again what every one of you sitting
here today, those of you who have seen the face of war,
understand: it's not really about loyalty. It's not about a
belief in some abstract notion concerning war aims or
national strategy. It's not even about winning or losing. On
those lonely firebases as we dug through C ration boxes and
drank hot beer we didn't argue the righteousness of our cause
or ponder the latest pronouncements from McNamara or Nixon or
Ho Chi Minh for that matter. Some of us might have trusted
our leaders or maybe not. We might have been well informed
and passionate about the protests at home or maybe not. We
might have groused about the rich and privileged who found a
way to avoid service but we probably didn't. We might have
volunteered for the war to stop the spread of global
communism or maybe we just had a failing semester and got
swept up in the draft.
In war young soldiers think about their buddies. They talk
about families, wives and girlfriends and relate to each
other through very personal confessions. For the most part
the military we served with in Vietnam did not come from the
social elite. We didn't have Harvard degrees or the pedigree
of political bluebloods. We were in large measure volunteers
and draftees from middle and lower class America. Just as in
Iraq today we came from every corner of our country to meet
in a beautiful yet harsh and forbidding place, a place that
we've seen and experienced but can never explain adequately
to those who were never there.
Soldiers suffer, fight and occasionally die for each other.
It's as simple as that. What brought us to fight in the
jungle was no different than the motive force that compels
young soldiers today to kick open a door in Ramadi with the
expectation that what lies on the other side is either an
innocent huddling with a child in her arms or a fanatic
insurgent yearning to buy his ticket to eternity by killing
the infidel. No difference. Patriotism and a paycheck may get
a soldier into the military but fear of letting his buddies
down gets a soldier to do something that might just as well
get him killed.
What makes a person successful in America today is a far
cry from what would have made him a success in the minds of
those assembled here today. Big bucks gained in law or real
estate, or big deals closed on the stock market made some of
our countrymen rich. But as they have grown older they now
realize that they have no buddies. There is no one who they
are willing to die for or who is willing to die for them.
William Manchester served as a Marine in the Pacific during
World War II and put the sentiment precisely right when he
wrote: ``Any man in combat who lacks comrades who will die
for him, or for whom he is willing to die is not a man at
all. He is truly damned.''
The Anglo Saxon heritage of buddy loyalty is long and
frightfully won. Almost six hundred years ago the English
king, Henry V, waited on a cold and muddy battlefield to face
a French army many times his size. Shakespeare captured the
ethos of that moment in his play Henry V. To be sure
Shakespeare wasn't there but he was there in spirit because
he understood the emotions that gripped and the bonds that
brought together both king and soldier. Henry didn't talk
about national strategy. He didn't try to justify faulty
intelligence or ill formed command decisions that put his
soldiers at such a terrible disadvantage. Instead, he talked
about what made English soldiers fight and what in all
probably would allow them to prevail the next day against
terrible odds. Remember this is a monarch talking to his men:
This story shall the good man teach his son;
From this day ending to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that
sheds his blood with me shall be my brother;
And gentlemen in England (or America) now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhood's cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
You all here assembled inherit the spirit of St. Crispin's
day. You know and understand the strength of comfort that
those whom you protect, those in America now abed, will never
know. You have lived a life of self awareness and personal
satisfaction that those who watched you from afar in this
country who ``hold their manhood cheap'' can only envy.
I don't care whether America honors or even remembers the
good service we performed in Vietnam. It doesn't bother me
that war is an image that America would rather ignore. It's
enough for me to have the privilege to be among you. It's
sufficient to
talk to each of you about things we have seen and kinships we
have shared in the tough and heartless crucible of war.
Some day we will all join those who are serving so
gallantly now and have preceded us on battlefields from
Gettysburg to Wanat. We will gather inside a firebase to open
a case of C rations with every box peaches and pound cake. We
will join with a band of brothers to recount the experience
of serving something greater than ourselves. I believe in my
very soul that the almightily reserves a corner of heaven,
probably around a perpetual lager where some day we can meet
and embrace . . . all of the band of brothers throughout the
ages to tell our stories while envious standers-by watch and
wonder how horrific and incendiary the crucible of violence
must have been to bring such a disparate assemblage so close
to the hand of God.
Until we meet there thank you for your service, thank you
for your sacrifice, God bless you all and God bless this
great nation. . . .