Madam Speaker, I rise today to include in the Congressional Record the following article written by Capitol Hill correspondent David Rogers. Although a conscientious objector, he is a decorated veteran who was wounded while serving as an…
Madam Speaker, I rise today to include in the Congressional Record the following article written by Capitol Hill correspondent David Rogers. Although a conscientious objector, he is a decorated veteran who was wounded while serving as an Army medic in Vietnam.
In his article, Rogers vividly describes the devastating impact of war on children and how American service members create bonds of mutual friendship and curiosity with the children who become victims of conflict and war.
``Children in the Field''
(By David Rogers)
``The old French fort was nothing more than an open area
encircled by a berm, dirt piled into a wall. There was gaping
holes where the fortification had eroded, and when the ground
attack came, the enemy rocket grenades and automatic fire
were able to hit the sleeping positions. Some AK rounds came
from an outlying hamlet and Jose opened up with the machine
gun. In the morning there was crying from one home, for a
child had been killed.
``The women and old men would only stare sorrowfully at the
patrols, but the children, looking for food or being curious,
would come up to the soldiers. It was an uneasy truce between
them: the infantry sweating under their packs and still wary
after coming from the jungle; and the children, pulling on
the men's gear, begging for food, but resisting even a gentle
hand wanting to touch them. For the platoon medic, breaking
through this distance was easier, and the children would
finally come to him. He was the only one without a weapon and
just the name ``Doc'' was simpler to remember. They--the
medic and children--never knew each other's real names. It
didn't matter. After all the months in the field and in and
out of the villages, many would know him on sight and call
``Doc.'' One would start and then the others would join in.
He would want to go back and stay with them.
``The platoon was securing the road when the enemy hit the
third squad's position. AK fire caught Wesley in the stomach,
and a rocket grenade wounded two other men. The medic had to
go back for them and, afterwards, blood was all over his
fatigues and hands. The children were again on the road,
looking where the firing had been. They also looked at him,
standing there in the stink of the heat and burned powder and
blood. He wanted them to go away, but they had seen it all
before. It was he who was new. Later, the Vietnamese soldiers
would bring their kills out to the road. The children on the
way to market would have to pass the bodies.
``She was twelve years old but had a wiser, more reserved
way about her than the other children living in the villages
or selling sodas along the red clay road. When candy was
thrown from the convoys, she never ran, but only watched out
for her younger sister and brother. The medic always looked
for her but never brought the Cokes she teased him with. When
the infantry closed the road and no more sodas could be sold,
he saw her fishing occasionally or carrying firewood from
where the American bulldozers had cleared the jungle. They
seemed better friends then. He brought her presents at Tet,
and she gave him paper flowers when he came the next time.
After the battalion moved out, they never saw one another
again. Before returning to the United States, he went back to
the village, but she was away for the day. Instead, he sat
with her brother and sister, who invited him into their
thatched home. The village had a solemn quiet and they talked
in near whispers. He stayed an hour with them.
``The children were so light compared to the weight of the
Americans that the medics had to be careful not to turn too
quickly when they carried the stretchers from the
helicopters. The thin bodies, smaller still on the green hard
canvas, rocked back and forth with each jolt and appeared in
danger of sliding off. One night, two girls brought in with
shrapnel wounds. The youngest lay without a sound, her
stomach hard but only slightly torn. He stayed with her until
she went into the operating room, but she did not cry during
the long wait. Just the staring eyes, stunned by the pain and
unable to close in the glare of the overhead light. She had
been asleep when the shells came. In the morning she was
dead.
``The children, so young and constant, would have the
effect of confronting the soldiers with themselves. Coming
back from an operation and seeing them running out to the
road, the platoon was faced with something more alive than
itself, against which each man would account himself. The
dead in the jungle, those the platoon had lost or those it
had killed, would come back for that moment. It was an
anxious time, waiting for the smile or shout to pull them
through the memories.
``After a contact the soldiers would search the bodies
looking for souvenirs or materials which might be turned over
to some distant information officer. Equipment such as
hammocks or shell pouches were distributed according to who
had been most involved in the fighting. Once there was a
picture of the dead man's child and the medic took that
himself. It was a little girl holding a flower and on the
back was a delicate sketch of a dove.''