Coming Home

For me, the tension rose higher the closer I was to leaving. Saying goodbye to American friends and colleagues was difficult. I felt almost guilty for leaving them with a war, as yet, not over. Not guilty enough to refuse to leave, however. There was always the chance we would meet again in some future assignment.

This was not the case with my many Vietnamese friends. The chances of a reunion this side of heaven were remote. They varied from Sammy, the custodian for the Provost Marshal Office, to Colonel Loan, the National Police Commander who gave me first aid when I was wounded in the terrorist bombing of the National Police Station. I also had many Vietnamese friends about whose fate I do not conjecture. It is uncomfortable to realize that some people considered that, for a Vietnamese, just being my friend was a crime worthy of execution. Fear not my old friends, I still think of you and remember all of your kindnesses and ask God to watch over you.

I changed into a fresh uniform and ventured out. Tales of welcome home for veterans of WWII had me all prepared. My money would not be good in any bar or café, if I was in uniform. I would be receiving envious glances from admiring young boys and flirtatious smiles from pretty girls. Man! I was home and I was, oh, so wrong!

Stepping up to the bar I ordered a beer. Strangely enough, the bartender took my money without comment. Obviously, he was someone who just wasn't able to recognize a returning war veteran. He must have thought I never left stateside. Finally, someone approached and asked if I was in the Army. "Yes, I am." Was I ever in Vietnam? "Yes, I just got back today." I wasn't prepared to hear him mumble something that sounded almost like, "Chump."

The flight to Grand Forks was punctuated by my shedding a few ounces while filling two of those plastic lined paper sacks. The airplane kept hitting the potholes in the sky known as mid-air turbulence.

Their loving touches assured me that this was reality. I was home. I was loved. I was safe. 

We slipped into the home I had left a year ago. Some of the toys were different. The furniture was the same. When the telephone rang, I answered with my usual, "Harvey residence."

It was Mom calling, "Michael, where, what, when? Thank God." And I do, every day. Mom lived only two doors away and was soon in our home hugging, kissing and checking me for scars, I had but a few, that showed.

While the war continued, I was first stationed in Texas. On a street corner in San Antonio in 1967, two young men stood beside me at a stop light. They noticed my uniform and the bits of colored cloth on my chest. This prompted them to start a loud conversation about the war. Then one said, "The only bastards that went to Vietnam are the ones who were too dumb to avoid the draft." No, dear friends, I did not say anything. Nor did I lift so much as a finger in admonition. I happened to catch their eyes. Immediately, they apologized, profusely and with heartfelt regret.

Eventually, Americans came to recognize that regardless of their own attitudes about the war, we who served were also Americans. In the summer of 1983, seventeen years after my return from the war, Samantha, a co-worker, learned that I had served in Vietnam, reached across the table, shook my hand and was the first person to thank me for my service to our country.

My country called, I went, I served and now I am home. You were right Mom, "Thank God!"