(Editor’s note: Given it’s the 50th anniversary of the start of the Vietnam War, we thought it appropriate to republish Mikel Holt’s column from 2005, in which he shared his unique perspective of his tour during the latter part of the conflict.)
The mind can relegate painful images to the far corners of our consciousness; a storage box generally isolated to house missed opportunities, acts of temporary insanity, and those illegal exploits we regret moments after committing.
In that compartment, most Vietnam veterans keep memories of that life-altering experience– tears, fears, and nightmarish images that hopefully fade over time.
Some of us were luckier than others in blocking out those images. Veterans Administration hospitals, drug dens, and graveyards are full of vets for whom the memories were so overwhelming, they sparked a spiritual implosion.
Fortunately, God (Nyame) allowed most of us some semblance of peace, a form of amnesia, all but erased from our minds the ghastly visions of that dichotomous conflict, save for unhealed scars—invisible to casual observers but sometimes shared by spouses and family.
Vietnam was a horror movie, a cinematic docudrama that proceeded Jason Vorhees, Freddie Kruger, and Chucky the murderous ventriloquist dummy, with vanilla, brown and black extras selected by biased draft boards and economic escape clauses.
Sadly, we assumed starring roles, although the casting directors never explained whether we were cast as villains or victims. Such was our sin and our sainthood.
With Muhammad Ali’s declaration that ‘dem Vietnamese never called me nigger (n-word)’ clouding our vision, many of us have since thrown our medals away, settling instead for the reward of replacing our nightmares with generic daydreams. Most used time and rebirth to replace frightening scenes with humorous antidotes or sorted memories of temporary reprieves amid the chaos of combat.
That may sound like a strange trade-off, but it is compensation more meaningful than a congressional medal for those of us who brought home the horrific images.
Appreciatively, I replaced a reflection of a disfigured Vietnamese child with the positive image of a medic caring for an elderly woman or a soldier sharing his rations with a hungry tot.
Memories of fear-wretched patrols give way to happy memories of a group of ‘soul brothers’ chilling on the waterfront with grilled chicken and ice-cold beers.
I may never be able to totally erase from my mind the image of a charred baby left by the side of the road near our base camp. Still, I have successfully conjured up memories of my meeting with Sammy Davis, Jr, who entertained troops for nearly three hours in the sweltering heat on a Sunday afternoon.
Damn, that Jewish brother was exceptional!
One of my most frightful weeks in ‘the Nam’ was spent accompanying an officer to a base where I soon discovered the ‘other’ enemy wore uniforms with a U.S. insignia just like mine. However, they referred to our Vietnamese allies as ‘gooks, or slants eyes,’ They looked through me, noticing not the uniform but invisible chains.
I always mention that episode when I was counseled for PTSD. It created as much fear in my soul as patrolling a pitch-black riverbank in the middle of the night.
It didn’t help that I was the only ‘Hue-man’ on the small base, appropriately in the deep southern part of South Vietnam.
The stares of indifference and curiosity from White soldiers during my arrival at the base didn’t surprise me. Nor did the fact that no one sat within 20 feet of me when I sat down at the base mess hall for lunch soon after my arrival.
But, the way the cook slammed my food on my tray, was indicative of the disrespect and discrimination that was to come a few hours later when I was greeted by the Confederate flag at the makeshift enlisted men’s hut.
It was apparent that the ‘cook’ had spread the word that an ‘uppity coon’ had used his rank to chastise him, which I did (for a second), conjuring up images of the racist roach who hit me upside the head during the open housing marches a few years earlier. Even though I was but a pre-teen, those marches introduced me to the reality of White Supremacy in Milwaukee.
If there was any doubt about what I would be in store for over the next few days, it dissipated with the collective silence and callousness I received in the hut.
Silence gave way to menacing comments and awkward stares.
The only non-judgmental face was attached to a ‘northerner’ who realized that he would have to deal with his confederate colleagues after my departure.
Nonetheless, he attempted to intervene when he thought a confrontation would ensue. I intentionally wore my .45 but knew the odds were against me either way.
As it turned out, nothing happened during my time on the base, in part because I slept with the .45 under my pillow and stayed off-base as much as possible.
My saving grace was running into Terry Cunningham, a Milwaukee native I knew from high school. He was assigned to a nearby Army base, and once we tearfully embraced, I all stayed with him and his other brothers even though it was against orders.
Was I scared? I admit it, but I would not let them see past my mask and dropped hints that I would not be lynched without a fight.
However, that eye-opening experience often takes a back seat in my mind to a humorous episode that occurred a few weeks later.
I asked my mother to send me a ‘Christmas care package’ consisting of a couple boxes of cornbread mix, hot sauce, and pinto beans.
A friend was somehow able to scrounge up some pork parts, and using an open fire, we prepared a meal of beans and rice (the one food staple that was always available), cornbread, and something close to ham hocks—the making of a down home soul food dinner.
The aroma from the meal apparently provided an open invitation for every brother within a half-mile, as over a dozen previously unacquainted brothers followed their noses to the meal we shared while jamming to Motown and Philly.
It was a joyful reunion that provided us with a semblance of ‘home’– albeit vicariously.
While it may sound like a contradiction, the only time I felt ‘safe’ during my tour was when I was with the brothers.
Brotherhood took on a more encompassing meaning in Nam. In fact, had we been able to replicate those ties back in the ‘world’ (what we called America), we could easily have created a cohesive and unified nation within a nation.
You never met a brother in Nam without acknowledging your amity and camaraderie. We were family—before the song came out. We expressed a love for each other and our village. We had each other’s backs.
In retrospect, the only time I shared a similar feeling of unity and brotherhood was during the One Million Man March. Our harmony and goodwill toward each other transcended religion, politics, and culture.
I spent my first week in ‘Nam loading transport, including body bags. Those images are forever ingrained in my mind, particularly the sight of a legless soldier who, for an unexplained reason, was allowed to linger around the base, his mind no longer able to focus on reality as he begged for limbs to replace his missing appendages.
I alternately served on a river patrol boat, as a bodyguard/aide for one of several officers; and on a field intelligence team during my tour, exposed to varying atrocities and forced to transition from manchild to man while witnessing horrors that no one barely old enough to vote should be forced to observe.
There was nowhere to hide from the cruelty of war, children handicapped by the holocaust, starving children fighting over a rat (their only ‘meat’), parents scavenging through mess hall garbage for food, or women selling their bodies for the price of a pack of cigarettes.
During one short period of insanity, I literally rented a woman, paid to have her checked by the medics, and provided her with a family-supporting income–which was a few dollars a week. I know that sounds strange and maybe callous, but it was how things went.
It was cheaper and safer than a prostitute and provided the woman with temporary hope.
Two days into the relationship, I released her from her ‘contract’ (I provided her with a month’s wages) as I couldn’t handle her constant requests for marriage in the hope that I would bring her back to America. I’ve long since forgotten her name and looks; I have yet to forget her tears.
Speaking of innocent victims, I cannot forget the stares of the Amerasian children you realize would be killed and their mothers when the American troops were no longer around to protect them.
They were all considered traitors for having associated with the evil Americans. Many Vietnamese women would give their children to orphanages generally managed by Catholic outreach services.
How many survived or were allowed to vacate at the war’s conclusion is conjecture. Most, however, were abandoned and forgotten.
I once wrote that Vietnam produced one million American casualties—versus the 70,000 reported. Indeed, I contend that everyone who served in ‘the ‘Nam’ died a little. We all left part of our souls on that blood-stained ground. And thousands came home to the lingering and slow death of Agent Orange (which they told us didn’t exist).
The fact that Vietnam veterans comprise the highest suicide rates in America and that a disproportionate percentage are listed among the homeless and emotionally handicapped speaks more to what was endured than any other oral testimony or history book.
I would also guess that more drug addicts and alcoholics were conceived in ‘Nam than in any other conflict in American history. Weed and narcotics were readily available. In fact, there was a form of heroin sold in sealed capsules, marked one, two, or three, based on potency. Shooting up meant an overdose. Take heed of the vets with rotten teeth as the drug ate away at the enamel.
Part of the reason for those damning statistics- drug addiction and mental health problems—can be traced to the atrocities we observed and engaged in and the senselessness and irrelevancy of the conflict itself.
The most lasting lesson I learned was when a South Vietnamese peasant who I had befriended to the point of sneaking food regularly explained that he had one son fighting for the North and another for the South.
It was a family decision, knowing that he would be connected to the winning side whatever the outcome.
But most importantly, he explained that it really didn’t make a difference in which side won.
He explained he was a poor farmer before the war, sustaining his family on rice and weeds and, on rare, rare occasions, a little meat.
No matter which side won, he revealed, he would still be a poor farmer, sustaining his family on rice and weeds and, on rare, rare occasions, a little meat.
I’ve used his ‘lesson’ over the decades for the partisan political and cultural battles we have faced as African Americans over the last few decades.
No matter who is in power, we are essentially in the same state of stagnation. We are told to walk down the Yellow Brick Road of partisan politics, that equality, justice, and economic stability are at the end of the rainbow if we vote for a donkey or an elephant.
But the truth of the matter is Oz is merely a pipe dream, and the Wizard is a powerless Richard Pryor.
For those at the bottom of American society, little ever changes. Before Reconstruction, we were poor share choppers, sustaining our families on grits, greens, and occasionally throw-away pork. After the civil rights movement, we are still poor share choppers, sustaining our families on grits, greens, and throw-away pork.
How ironic is it that four decades after the fall of Saigon, which officially signaled the end of the war and the official beginning of Communist rule, Vietnam today is but a stone’s throw away from being a representation of what millions died to avoid.
Saigon (now called Ho Chi Min City) is today painted with ads, fast food stores, and small factories creating junk for export. Tourists abound, and the country is one of America’s budding ‘trade partners.’
We didn’t stop the spread of Communism, and the world is pretty much the same as it was when I exited a plane in the dead of night to be greeted by oppressive heat and controlled fear.
The real victims of the Vietnam conflict are those for whom life never changes, no matter who is in power. The poor farmers.
For them, Communism and democracy are but nonsensical adjectives, concepts that don’t’ put food on the table, although they reduce the number of people who must be fed.
The other irony is that we haven’t learned from history. Three decades after Vietnam, a new generation of Hue-man soldiers are fighting again in a foreign land for reasons they don’t fully comprehend. They will kill the ‘enemy’ and vastly more innocent civilians who had no choice where they were born and when.
The soldiers will bring home the horrific images of war and the emotional conflict and anguish that only villains and victims can identify with.
And, like us, they won’t know which category they belong to.
Hotep.