Team Infidel
Forum Spin Doctor
USA Today
April 2, 2008
Pg. 11
By Peter S. Prichard
In the spring of 1967, I walked out to my mailbox in Amherst, Mass., and discovered two letters. Important letters, because they would determine my future.
I had been teaching high school English, mainly because I wanted to avoid the draft. But about that time, the Selective Service Administration decided that only draft-age men who taught math and science would continue to receive deferments. The buildup for the Vietnam War was well underway; at its peak, 550,000 U.S. troops would serve there.
The first letter was from the Peace Corps, which informed me I had been accepted to teach English in the South Pacific. Visions of young women in grass skirts crossed my consciousness.
The second letter was from Gen. Lewis B. Hershey. "Greetings: You are to report to the Induction Center at New Haven on 25 June for induction into the U.S. Army."
My daydream of a lush life in Bora Bora evaporated, replaced by visions of jungle firefights.
I telephoned Washington and managed to talk to the Peace Corps: "We're very sorry Mr. Prichard," the woman said, "but in these cases the Defense Department takes precedence."
Memories of Vietnam
So eight months later, I stepped off the plane at Tan Son Nhut Air Force Base. I was tired and frightened; the air was filled with the smells of thousands of small charcoal stoves, and the ground shook from the concussions of outgoing artillery. "155s," the vets with the thousand-yard-stares told me.
I served 13 months in Vietnam at a desk as an intelligence clerk, and although we were shot at and shelled occasionally, we were the lucky ones: Can Tho and Sadec in the Mekong were relatively quiet.
When I came "back to the world" in 1969, I jumped at loud noises and had some unaccountable bouts of bad temper, but I was generally whole and much more serious about making something of my life. Service to our country made me stronger, and today I'm an advocate of two years of mandatory national service for young people, in a civilian or military capacity.
Like many veterans, I was saddened and disappointed by the reception we got at home. Our war was very unpopular: No one said "Welcome home" or "Thank you for your service." Instead it was, "Where've you been?" If you said, "Vietnam," the general reaction was stony silence, or worse.
Moment of recognition
The first time I felt some gratitude was in 1982, when the Vietnam Veterans Memorial was dedicated. I had dragged my young family downtown to watch the ragtag parade of veterans, and when my war buddy passed by, I leapt into the street, marching with my brothers in arms. More than 58,000 names of the dead are on that black granite wall. In all, more than 2½ million men and women served in Vietnam, and, despite the Hollywood stereotype, most returned to lead constructive lives.
There is a proposal to build a Visitors' Center, almost entirely underground and using only private funds, near the memorial. Congress authorized its construction, but the project is hung up in Washington's regulatory maze. Our nation needs this center, which will educate generations about the sacrifices our veterans made, whether the cause was popular or not.
Some day the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan will end, and our soldiers will come home again. No matter what you think about these wars, every American owes those men and women a heartfelt thank-you. The proposed center would be another way to say thanks; it would be a place where visitors can learn about the responsibilities of citizenship and the value of service and sacrifice.
When these new veterans of foreign wars come marching home, let us hope that we as a people are wise enough, and generous enough, to avoid asking, "Where have you been?" and instead exclaim, "Welcome home!"
Peter S. Prichard is president of the Newseum, the interactive museum of news, which will open April 11 in Washington. He is a former editor of USA TODAY.
April 2, 2008
Pg. 11
By Peter S. Prichard
In the spring of 1967, I walked out to my mailbox in Amherst, Mass., and discovered two letters. Important letters, because they would determine my future.
I had been teaching high school English, mainly because I wanted to avoid the draft. But about that time, the Selective Service Administration decided that only draft-age men who taught math and science would continue to receive deferments. The buildup for the Vietnam War was well underway; at its peak, 550,000 U.S. troops would serve there.
The first letter was from the Peace Corps, which informed me I had been accepted to teach English in the South Pacific. Visions of young women in grass skirts crossed my consciousness.
The second letter was from Gen. Lewis B. Hershey. "Greetings: You are to report to the Induction Center at New Haven on 25 June for induction into the U.S. Army."
My daydream of a lush life in Bora Bora evaporated, replaced by visions of jungle firefights.
I telephoned Washington and managed to talk to the Peace Corps: "We're very sorry Mr. Prichard," the woman said, "but in these cases the Defense Department takes precedence."
Memories of Vietnam
So eight months later, I stepped off the plane at Tan Son Nhut Air Force Base. I was tired and frightened; the air was filled with the smells of thousands of small charcoal stoves, and the ground shook from the concussions of outgoing artillery. "155s," the vets with the thousand-yard-stares told me.
I served 13 months in Vietnam at a desk as an intelligence clerk, and although we were shot at and shelled occasionally, we were the lucky ones: Can Tho and Sadec in the Mekong were relatively quiet.
When I came "back to the world" in 1969, I jumped at loud noises and had some unaccountable bouts of bad temper, but I was generally whole and much more serious about making something of my life. Service to our country made me stronger, and today I'm an advocate of two years of mandatory national service for young people, in a civilian or military capacity.
Like many veterans, I was saddened and disappointed by the reception we got at home. Our war was very unpopular: No one said "Welcome home" or "Thank you for your service." Instead it was, "Where've you been?" If you said, "Vietnam," the general reaction was stony silence, or worse.
Moment of recognition
The first time I felt some gratitude was in 1982, when the Vietnam Veterans Memorial was dedicated. I had dragged my young family downtown to watch the ragtag parade of veterans, and when my war buddy passed by, I leapt into the street, marching with my brothers in arms. More than 58,000 names of the dead are on that black granite wall. In all, more than 2½ million men and women served in Vietnam, and, despite the Hollywood stereotype, most returned to lead constructive lives.
There is a proposal to build a Visitors' Center, almost entirely underground and using only private funds, near the memorial. Congress authorized its construction, but the project is hung up in Washington's regulatory maze. Our nation needs this center, which will educate generations about the sacrifices our veterans made, whether the cause was popular or not.
Some day the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan will end, and our soldiers will come home again. No matter what you think about these wars, every American owes those men and women a heartfelt thank-you. The proposed center would be another way to say thanks; it would be a place where visitors can learn about the responsibilities of citizenship and the value of service and sacrifice.
When these new veterans of foreign wars come marching home, let us hope that we as a people are wise enough, and generous enough, to avoid asking, "Where have you been?" and instead exclaim, "Welcome home!"
Peter S. Prichard is president of the Newseum, the interactive museum of news, which will open April 11 in Washington. He is a former editor of USA TODAY.