My father died on Veterans Day. He had served in World War II in the Pacific, so it seemed somewhat appropriate. He had gone into that war a young man, though older than most, a husband, a father. I had been born a few months before his deployment; he didn’t return till I was three years old.
The war broke something inside of him. He died when he was 59, a cigarette in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other, the brokenness not mended.
I opposed the Vietnam War. I went to rallies, wrote articles, argued passionately. Many of the returning Vietnam vets felt betrayed, did not receive a hero’s welcome, felt the anti-war protesters were against them, were the enemy.
I can only speak for myself, but I do know that there were many among us who felt as I did. I saw what war does. I knew that the wounds of war are not always visible. I watched the news each night and cried for those returning, and those who didn’t. I cried for their families, those who lost men in their prime and those who thought they were lucky to get their sons and brothers and fathers back. I wondered how many of those returning were broken inside.
To those soldiers who still feel slighted, betrayed: I am sorry. To those who were spit at and heckled upon return: you didn’t deserve that. Know that those who did that were the minority of protesters. Others of us felt we should hate the war, but love the soldier. We failed to make that clear.
We didn’t understand till later that we only caused you more pain, and because of that some never got over it. The country as a whole let you down. Many—politicians, businessmen, and others—just wanted to forget the war. How could you?
We failed you miserably. Let me salute you now and thank you for your service.
Lynn DiGiacomo
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