Passages from “The Inherited War”
“My father was a Vietnam vet and a double amputee, and The Inherited War is a collection of stories from our lives together. My intention in writing about it is to tell how the Vietnam War affected my dad and how he, in turn, affected his family. It’s my father’s story, seen through my eyes; it’s also the story of my life, in which my dad is a principal character.
Dad was discharged from the army in 1971, and it would be another nine to ten years before post traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, became an official diagnosis. When he started having psychological problems, he didn’t understand what was happening to him. We, as his family didn’t either, and for many years we suffered in silence. As we grew in our awareness of PTSD and its effects, we started pushing Dad to get help.
I hope my writing will provide some insight into the world that veterans’ families live in every day. In a time when our nation has completed a war in Iraq and is winding down the war in Afghanistan, there are new generations of vets returning home from war. Many of them are disabled, and almost all of them will be touched by PTSD. When war is discussed in the media it’s most often focused on the soldiers themselves. There is a parade of statistics that mark the dead and the wounded, but the true cost of war is much more than casualty figures. The soldiers who return to families and friends bring the war home with them. These families have stories of their own to tell, because living with a vet is not easy. The transition from combat to civilian life is its own kind of war, for both the veterans and for the people who love them. No matter how well vets function when they return, they are never the same as when they left.”
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“His first days in-country have been spent humping through a vast sea of grass known as the Plain of Reeds. There are open fields where there is nothing but the green grass and the blue sky. Sometimes the stalks are taller than he is, and seem to close in around him and pluck at his clothes like grasping fingers. Always the sea is alive with the buzzing and chirping of insects. Where the grass ends, the jungle begins. The vegetation is thick, and every inch of ground must be earned with sweat, blood, and machete. Tommy can only see a few feet in front of his face. He could walk headlong into an enemy and never know until it was too late. It’s monsoon season. The rain starts in the evening and comes down all night long. There are mud holes and filthy stagnant pools—the breeding grounds for malaria.
He’s sleep deprived and exhausted. The days are scorching, and the earth itself seems to ache beneath the burning sun. The terrain is foreign and unforgiving. The pack he carries on his back seems to grow heavier as the hours pass. His fair skin is red and blistered and itches from hundreds of mosquito and ant bites. He’s dehydrated, and longs for a cold glass of water. It feels like the land itself is an enemy. He has survived basic infantry training, but even that rigorous trial of mental and physical toughness has not prepared him for the brutal climate of Vietnam. Each day is more miserable than the last.”
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“I heard Dad open the door and leave his bedroom. The wheelchair made a lot of noise, and he often bumped into the doorframe or the wall when he was leaving the room. I heard him go up the hallway. I don’t know how much time passed, but when I left my room I was startled to see Dad sitting at the opposite end of the hall. There was an expression on his face so strange that I didn’t recognize him. There was no doubt it was Dad, but something about his face—his eyes—made him a different person, a very sick person. He looked like he had been possessed by a demon. He had a rifle in his hands. I realized that I’d caught him on his way back to his bedroom. He was going to take the rifle in there. I was frozen with fear, my heart pounding.
“Hey, Dad,” I said. He didn’t respond. He only stared blankly ahead with that weird look in his eyes. He seemed to be looking through me, beyond me.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“There’s something I’ve got to do,” he said.
“What?” I asked. He shook his head.
“Something I just have to do. Now move and let me by.” I stood rooted to the spot in the hallway. I didn’t know what to do. My mind was blank. We looked at each other for a long time.
“Son, you need to get out of my way and let me by,” he repeated.
“What are you gonna do with that?” I asked, pointing at the rifle. He shook his head again.
“There is just something I need to do. I’ve waited too long, and I’m telling you to get out of my way,” he said. The entire situation felt surreal, like I was outside of my body watching what was happening. I knew what he was going to do with that rifle. He’d certainly talked about it plenty of times before, but I’d become numb to it. This is it, I thought. This is the day he’s finally going to blow his brains out.”
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