The Vietnam Wall
Vietnam Vet having trouble adjusting to life back home. He travels to the Wall to remember.
Eric Beamon was walking along the path by the reflection pool. It was a typical August day in Washington DC, hot and humid. He was wearing his bush hat to keep the bright sun out of his eyes and the only memento from his days in Vietnam. He was tired because he had spent the night down by the Potomac River trying to cool off, but it was no use. But, Eric was here to see The Wall before moving on. When you are on the move, you sleep wherever and whenever you can and he had been on the move for some time.
It wasn't always this way. He had a wife once, which ended poorly. After his two tours in Vietnam, he returned to a world he didn't understand. It is 1985, 19 years since he'd first gone in country. It seemed like a lifetime ago and yet the memories were as fresh as if they happened yesterday.
Everything seemed so clear in 1966 when he joined up. They were fighting for the country and the liberties that the United States has always held so dear. The enemy was evil and misguided. Save the innocent and drive out the intruders. But, as time passed, the purpose became less clear. Who were the intruders? Who was the enemy? Friends died and hatred set in; a hatred for the Vietnamese's people who played both sides, a hatred for the politicians running the war in Washington and tying the hands of the troops that wanted to win the war, a hatred for the protestors that took out their frustrations on the troops that came home blooded and maimed. Reasons for being in the Nam became blurred and soon your only thoughts were those of going back to the world to live a normal life as you remembered it.
Eric never went home after his first tour, just re-enlisted to shorten his second tour and his enlistment by a couple of months. Looking back on it now, the validity of that move seemed stupid and dangerous. Putting your life on the line 24 hours a day for 12 months to leave the army 60 days early wasn't very smart. He survived, but the wounds were deep and severe.
It all started in August of 1967. The platoon had spent a few days of R&R in Quang Tri before moving to Fire Base Custer as a relief unit. The base got its name from General Custer of the Little Big Horn because the base could be over run at any time. It was just a no name place not listed on any map, but a location that will live in Eric forever.
The platoon was dropped into the Ba Long Valley on a recon mission. There were reports of VC movement in the area. Lieutenant Simmons was leading them in as usual with PFC Riley out on point. Riding point was dangerous, because the point man found all the booby traps, by execution. They were stretched out about a click, hacking their way through the thick brush. It was getting late when Sergeant Brokowski, they all called him Bro, told them to settle in for the night. They spread out along a perimeter, and broke out the rations that they brought with them. It sure wasn't home cooking but when you have been humping all day, anything tastes good.
The claymores didn't go off that night. The cherry, Private Williams, was on watch and fell asleep, never to see the light of day again. The VC sneaked up on them in the dead of night without a sound. It wasn't until they drove a bayonet deep into William's chest that the gurgling sound of his lungs filling with blood woke up the man next to him.
All hell broke loose in an instant. Tracer bullets were flying everywhere and the deafening sound of mortars, gun fire and the cries of men on both sides being slaughtered. Confusion and chaos reigned as blood and bodies lay everywhere. It was the most terrifying night of Eric's life. A night he relives whenever he closes his eyes.
By day break it was all over. The platoon was cut to pieces. Eric was barely recognizable covered in blood, gun powder, and dirt. Out of the 35 men on the patrol, only 10 survived. Sergeant Bro, Eric and some men from the 2nd and 3rd squad he didn't know very well. They all had wounds of some type. Eric was shot in the left leg and left arm from a spray of bullets that might have been from friendly fire. In all the confusion, you can't always tell.
The LT was one of the first to get hit. He took one in the forehead as he directed the firefight.
The platoon was outnumbered 2 to 1, but they were able to hold their ground. The brass will be happy with the body count and medals will be awarded. For What? His friends died for a patch of dirt that no one knows or cares about. Jamie Fry (Fry Baby), Howard Thurman (Hawk after the film director), Robert Shockowitz (Sparky), Fredrick Caleone (Godfather) were the best friends a guy could have. When you are in the bush, the only one you can count on is the man next to you. No moral cause or heroics, just survival. They gave their life for Eric. He would have gladly given his life for them. But it didn't turn out that way. A fact, he will have a hard time living with. Bro called in a med-evac and they sat and waited. They weren't expecting any further attacks, but you have to stay alert if you want to stay alive.
Eric was never the same after that. He spent a few months in the rear recuperating from the physical wounds. But the doctors continued to poke and prod him, but in the end the answer was the same. Post Traumatic Syndrome and they packed him off to the world. A few more months in a psycho ward at the VA hospital in San Francisco before they cut him loose.
Eric never told Susan that he was even back. They hadn't been communicating for some time and he really didn't know what to say. He just showed up on her door step one day. There was a strange car in the driveway so he was hesitant. He knocked on the door and a shirtless man answered. The shock on both their faces must have been revealing to anyone that was watching. He obviously was not a delivery man and he recognized Eric from his picture right off the bat. It was an awkward moment to say the least.
As they stood there staring at each other not knowing what to say, Susan called out, "Who's there, Jim?"
"Eric," was Jim's only response. The lack of sound was deafening. Then you could hear Susan's footsteps as she ran down the stairs from the bedroom still dressed in her night-gown.
"E-Eric, W-W-When did you get in?" That was the best she could do.
"I've been here a couple of months, I guess." That was about as lame as Susan's comment. Eric was waiting for an explanation even though the situation was obvious. Nothing was forth coming so he turned slowly and started down the walk to the cab. He wasn't sure what to expect so he had the cab driver wait. Good move on his part. What did he expect? He didn't write, call, or come home on leave. He just disappeared for 2 years. Did he really expect her to wait?
"Eric,........." Susan started to stop him but then realized that it was no use. What they had been lost. The world had changed.
After the yelling and name calling at the airport, the spitting and baby killer screams from the young college girls, why should Eric expect anything different. What did he risk his life for?
Susan divorced him and he didn't even show up at the hearing. Why, it didn't matter. That part of his life was over. He packed up what little he had and started drifting. No friends or family, just bad memories. Most of his money went towards alcohol, but that didn't drown the memories. But he tried, oh how he tried. Eric had his disability checks go to a bank account at B of A so that he could draw out money when and where he needed it. Usually he would save it for winter, when he needed a place to stay out of the cold.
It has been many years. He has traveled all over the country trying to find meaning in his life. Eric didn't eat much but drank a lot. You probably saw him; long hair and dirty, at a freeway on ramp or an intersection with a cardboard sign that read, "work for food". Nobody ever gave him a job, but would slip him a few bucks that would keep me in alcohol for a day or two.
Eric was in Georgia when he heard about "The Wall" in Washington DC. He decided that even with his busy schedule, he would go see what "The Wall" had to offer. Now, here he was not a click away.
As Eric approached, his heart sank at the quantity of names on The Wall. 50,000 good men died for this country that then turned its back on them. The politicians tried to run the war from Washington and the civilians spat on them for fighting for their right to protest and complain. Why is it that no one understands? If they had let the military do its job the outcome would have been entirely different. The military fights for the common man and the right for freedom from tyranny. But as usual, the powers to be feel they know best and the civilians take it out on the messenger. The soldier dies for nothing.
The statue of the three men brought tears to his eyes. He had seen and lived that scene many times; the haunting look of despair in their eyes, the comradeship and emotional link between them that goes far deeper than the physical aspects. When you share death and survival with someone, you are changed forever.
Eric made his way down to the apex of The Wall and started at 1959 working his way up. When he got to the area of approximately 1966, he started looking closely for some names he recognized. Sure enough, there they were; Godfather, Fry Baby, Sparky, and Hawks. Tears started running down his face. 'Why me? Why did I live? I should have died with you.' These were the thoughts that kept running through Eric's head over and over.
He slowly raised my hand up to touch the names. His hand was shaking as it settled over the names of his friends. He barely noticed the burning from the heat that had absorbed into the wall from the hot sun. As he stared at the wall, he barely noticed the reflections of people walking by, the light started to dim and the traffic started to thin out. It was getting late. Eric didn't know how long he was there, but the monument lights came on and he was alone. Still holding his friends names in his hand, he looked up again and saw Sparky standing there with his hand up against his. He could hear him beckon the others as they came slowly into view.
Eric's friends were there and all put their hands up to his and Eric could hear them say, "Come on Beamer. Come and join us. We've missed you."
"I want to so badly." Eric stammered the tear streaming down his face again. "I have wanted to for so long. I should not have lived."
"It's OK. Come with us." They beckoned him insistently.
The next morning, the park ranger was checking out the wall and found a bush hat on the ground. Inside the name was scrawled in indelible marker; E. Beamon. The ranger looked up on the wall and found a faint hand print across the names: Eric Beamon, Fredrick Caleone, James Fry, Robert Shockowitz, and Howard Thurman.
It wasn't always this way. He had a wife once, which ended poorly. After his two tours in Vietnam, he returned to a world he didn't understand. It is 1985, 19 years since he'd first gone in country. It seemed like a lifetime ago and yet the memories were as fresh as if they happened yesterday.
Everything seemed so clear in 1966 when he joined up. They were fighting for the country and the liberties that the United States has always held so dear. The enemy was evil and misguided. Save the innocent and drive out the intruders. But, as time passed, the purpose became less clear. Who were the intruders? Who was the enemy? Friends died and hatred set in; a hatred for the Vietnamese's people who played both sides, a hatred for the politicians running the war in Washington and tying the hands of the troops that wanted to win the war, a hatred for the protestors that took out their frustrations on the troops that came home blooded and maimed. Reasons for being in the Nam became blurred and soon your only thoughts were those of going back to the world to live a normal life as you remembered it.
Eric never went home after his first tour, just re-enlisted to shorten his second tour and his enlistment by a couple of months. Looking back on it now, the validity of that move seemed stupid and dangerous. Putting your life on the line 24 hours a day for 12 months to leave the army 60 days early wasn't very smart. He survived, but the wounds were deep and severe.
It all started in August of 1967. The platoon had spent a few days of R&R in Quang Tri before moving to Fire Base Custer as a relief unit. The base got its name from General Custer of the Little Big Horn because the base could be over run at any time. It was just a no name place not listed on any map, but a location that will live in Eric forever.
The platoon was dropped into the Ba Long Valley on a recon mission. There were reports of VC movement in the area. Lieutenant Simmons was leading them in as usual with PFC Riley out on point. Riding point was dangerous, because the point man found all the booby traps, by execution. They were stretched out about a click, hacking their way through the thick brush. It was getting late when Sergeant Brokowski, they all called him Bro, told them to settle in for the night. They spread out along a perimeter, and broke out the rations that they brought with them. It sure wasn't home cooking but when you have been humping all day, anything tastes good.
The claymores didn't go off that night. The cherry, Private Williams, was on watch and fell asleep, never to see the light of day again. The VC sneaked up on them in the dead of night without a sound. It wasn't until they drove a bayonet deep into William's chest that the gurgling sound of his lungs filling with blood woke up the man next to him.
All hell broke loose in an instant. Tracer bullets were flying everywhere and the deafening sound of mortars, gun fire and the cries of men on both sides being slaughtered. Confusion and chaos reigned as blood and bodies lay everywhere. It was the most terrifying night of Eric's life. A night he relives whenever he closes his eyes.
By day break it was all over. The platoon was cut to pieces. Eric was barely recognizable covered in blood, gun powder, and dirt. Out of the 35 men on the patrol, only 10 survived. Sergeant Bro, Eric and some men from the 2nd and 3rd squad he didn't know very well. They all had wounds of some type. Eric was shot in the left leg and left arm from a spray of bullets that might have been from friendly fire. In all the confusion, you can't always tell.
The LT was one of the first to get hit. He took one in the forehead as he directed the firefight.
The platoon was outnumbered 2 to 1, but they were able to hold their ground. The brass will be happy with the body count and medals will be awarded. For What? His friends died for a patch of dirt that no one knows or cares about. Jamie Fry (Fry Baby), Howard Thurman (Hawk after the film director), Robert Shockowitz (Sparky), Fredrick Caleone (Godfather) were the best friends a guy could have. When you are in the bush, the only one you can count on is the man next to you. No moral cause or heroics, just survival. They gave their life for Eric. He would have gladly given his life for them. But it didn't turn out that way. A fact, he will have a hard time living with. Bro called in a med-evac and they sat and waited. They weren't expecting any further attacks, but you have to stay alert if you want to stay alive.
Eric was never the same after that. He spent a few months in the rear recuperating from the physical wounds. But the doctors continued to poke and prod him, but in the end the answer was the same. Post Traumatic Syndrome and they packed him off to the world. A few more months in a psycho ward at the VA hospital in San Francisco before they cut him loose.
Eric never told Susan that he was even back. They hadn't been communicating for some time and he really didn't know what to say. He just showed up on her door step one day. There was a strange car in the driveway so he was hesitant. He knocked on the door and a shirtless man answered. The shock on both their faces must have been revealing to anyone that was watching. He obviously was not a delivery man and he recognized Eric from his picture right off the bat. It was an awkward moment to say the least.
As they stood there staring at each other not knowing what to say, Susan called out, "Who's there, Jim?"
"Eric," was Jim's only response. The lack of sound was deafening. Then you could hear Susan's footsteps as she ran down the stairs from the bedroom still dressed in her night-gown.
"E-Eric, W-W-When did you get in?" That was the best she could do.
"I've been here a couple of months, I guess." That was about as lame as Susan's comment. Eric was waiting for an explanation even though the situation was obvious. Nothing was forth coming so he turned slowly and started down the walk to the cab. He wasn't sure what to expect so he had the cab driver wait. Good move on his part. What did he expect? He didn't write, call, or come home on leave. He just disappeared for 2 years. Did he really expect her to wait?
"Eric,........." Susan started to stop him but then realized that it was no use. What they had been lost. The world had changed.
After the yelling and name calling at the airport, the spitting and baby killer screams from the young college girls, why should Eric expect anything different. What did he risk his life for?
Susan divorced him and he didn't even show up at the hearing. Why, it didn't matter. That part of his life was over. He packed up what little he had and started drifting. No friends or family, just bad memories. Most of his money went towards alcohol, but that didn't drown the memories. But he tried, oh how he tried. Eric had his disability checks go to a bank account at B of A so that he could draw out money when and where he needed it. Usually he would save it for winter, when he needed a place to stay out of the cold.
It has been many years. He has traveled all over the country trying to find meaning in his life. Eric didn't eat much but drank a lot. You probably saw him; long hair and dirty, at a freeway on ramp or an intersection with a cardboard sign that read, "work for food". Nobody ever gave him a job, but would slip him a few bucks that would keep me in alcohol for a day or two.
Eric was in Georgia when he heard about "The Wall" in Washington DC. He decided that even with his busy schedule, he would go see what "The Wall" had to offer. Now, here he was not a click away.
As Eric approached, his heart sank at the quantity of names on The Wall. 50,000 good men died for this country that then turned its back on them. The politicians tried to run the war from Washington and the civilians spat on them for fighting for their right to protest and complain. Why is it that no one understands? If they had let the military do its job the outcome would have been entirely different. The military fights for the common man and the right for freedom from tyranny. But as usual, the powers to be feel they know best and the civilians take it out on the messenger. The soldier dies for nothing.
The statue of the three men brought tears to his eyes. He had seen and lived that scene many times; the haunting look of despair in their eyes, the comradeship and emotional link between them that goes far deeper than the physical aspects. When you share death and survival with someone, you are changed forever.
Eric made his way down to the apex of The Wall and started at 1959 working his way up. When he got to the area of approximately 1966, he started looking closely for some names he recognized. Sure enough, there they were; Godfather, Fry Baby, Sparky, and Hawks. Tears started running down his face. 'Why me? Why did I live? I should have died with you.' These were the thoughts that kept running through Eric's head over and over.
He slowly raised my hand up to touch the names. His hand was shaking as it settled over the names of his friends. He barely noticed the burning from the heat that had absorbed into the wall from the hot sun. As he stared at the wall, he barely noticed the reflections of people walking by, the light started to dim and the traffic started to thin out. It was getting late. Eric didn't know how long he was there, but the monument lights came on and he was alone. Still holding his friends names in his hand, he looked up again and saw Sparky standing there with his hand up against his. He could hear him beckon the others as they came slowly into view.
Eric's friends were there and all put their hands up to his and Eric could hear them say, "Come on Beamer. Come and join us. We've missed you."
"I want to so badly." Eric stammered the tear streaming down his face again. "I have wanted to for so long. I should not have lived."
"It's OK. Come with us." They beckoned him insistently.
The next morning, the park ranger was checking out the wall and found a bush hat on the ground. Inside the name was scrawled in indelible marker; E. Beamon. The ranger looked up on the wall and found a faint hand print across the names: Eric Beamon, Fredrick Caleone, James Fry, Robert Shockowitz, and Howard Thurman.
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