My Father

My father fought in the Vietnam War from 1968 to 1969. Stationed in Vung Tau and Phuoc Vighn, he completed one tour of duty. Every war is inherently cruel, but this one I remember the most because of the stories he shared from time to time. He rarely talks about what he endured, but the scars of his experience run deep. Those are the parts he chose not to share with us. My father has tinnitus from the direct contact of rocket detonations and loud explosions from mortars. He is a disabled veteran, and I truly respect his strength and what he endured over there. Surviving the war, or any war, is a formidable ordeal.
As I aged and viewed movies and documentaries about the Vietnam War, I could only imagine in my worst nightmares what he witnessed and why he chose not to share those parts of the stories. Recalling a time when my father and I attempted viewing the movie “Saving Private Ryan”, and within less than a minute of the D-Day scene, he told me to turn the TV off. It was apparent that it opened a door to dreadful recollections of his time in Vietnam.
One story he shared with me was when he and some of the other soldiers left the US military base to go out on the economy-which was military jargon and meant to leave the base to explore the area that surrounds it. Despite being advised not to leave base, the GIs left to go to a local bar. A bunch of Viet Cong came in and sat at the bar. Thinking to himself, from the look in their eyes when they looked over and observed the American GIs, that he was sure enough a dead man. He said one of the Viet Cong soldiers walked right over to him, looked him straight in the eye, and said, “You are lucky we like the soul brothers,” and laughed the scariest, loudest laugh you can hear. The Viet Cong bought them a round of drinks, and my dad told me that was one of the few times the color of a black man’s skin saved his life. They all were sweating bullets, and when that drink was over, the Viet Cong left. Soon after, the GIs gathered their belongings and jetted so fast back to the base. After his time served in Vietnam, my dad was relieved to leave that war and travel to Germany.
Reminiscing on his first day in a European country was the aroma of freshly baked goods and tasting a sizzling bratwurst resting in a warm pretzel bun. He witnessed its lively streets with crowds of people laughing, vibrant storefronts, and heard the rhythmic clunking sound of a clock tower echoing over the city of Munich. Soon after, he met my mother, and she introduced him to the warmth of her native country. They fell in love, and so a new story entered my father’s life.