Written April 1969 while on leave before going to Vietnam, a strange time for me. Always in the back of my mind was the thought that I might be doing something for the last time, or seeing someone/something for the last time.
The broad Casco Bay narrows itself into one of its small coves bordered by gray, igneous cliffs, crowned with mantles of pine and moss. It is at the quiet end of this inlet, far from the surf and turbulent currents of the great ocean outside, where the sea is docile in the grip of the land, that a small brook chortles its errant way out of the dark woods, across the bucolic tranquility of an open meadow, through an island of aged pines, where, with a final chuckle, it trips over a small fall to lose its identity in the vastness which is the sea.
During that time of year when the earth renews itself, a traveler from the lonely deep returns to the place of its birth with those who came to life with him, intent on starting the cycle again. This is the smelt, who arrives in schools from the salty ocean to find a quiet fresh water stream and there to spawn.
These small green and silver fish, averaging about 8” in length, swim in with the tide during the hours of darkness, deposit their eggs and return to the depths from whence they came as the tide ebbs. To catch these fish, one requires a dip net, a flashlight and patience.
Bob and I set out on this one evening intent upon catching some of these fish, as they afford very good eating. The tide wasn’t due to be high until 11 PM, and the full moon gave promise of an extra flood. We parked our jeep in the field and hiked down into the grove of pines where the brook flows into the cove. All was quiet save for the laughter of the babbling of the brook as it flowed towards its own oblivion and the chorus of peepers.
The moonlight made the cliffs appear as pewter. By the moon we could see the cove open to the bay and the black line of the far shore. There were no lights and no human noise. No boat broke the calm of the silver glass.
Bob perched on a small overhanging rock and every few minutes the beam of his flashlight would play across the water, cutting the dark and making shiny reflections on the opposite cliff. We waited and watched for the arrival of the smelts.
At first there was nothing, only an occasional eel fingerling and the gleam of the mica on the bottom rocks. Then- one, then two and three green fish darted past the ray. We turned the light off and slowly dipped the net into the water, holding it as still as possible. The light went on again, and the water was alive with fish. I gave the net a quick scoop and hauled it dripping from the water into the harsh glare of the light. The twapping sound from the bottom of the net let us know we had caught a few, which we then emptied out into an awaiting pail. I placed the net slowly into the water again, and Bob shined the light over the spot where I had just trapped the smelt. Nothing; only a rock and some seaweed remained.
The beam of light shifted away searching for its elusive prey; the net awaited with hungry, open jaws. Bob spotted them! They had regrouped to run in again. I let the first go by and scooped the net again. A few more fish shared the fate of their ensnared companions.
And so it went on. The fish retreated, we waited, they ran again, and the hungry net struck.
The cold from the water pierced through my rubber boots and my hands were cold from the metal net handle, but I still braced excitedly each time Bob whispered, “Get ready.”
Finally the tide started to ebb, and the fish slowly disappeared. No longer do they run again after every scoop for they have returned to the deep, their task accomplished.
We gathered our equipment, a pail full of fish, which will never return, and headed off for the jeep and home, leaving the peepers to sing of the brook as it chortled away its identity into the retreating sea.
Showing posts with label vietnam. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vietnam. Show all posts
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
It Wasn't Always Protested
The popular conception of the war in Vietnam, is that it was widely opposed from the start. What is forgotten is that, at least in Northern New England, the majority of the people, and even college students either supported the effort, or were at least silent in their opposition.
I can call to mind two events, long forgotten probably by even those who were present at the time. It was during my sophomore year at the University of New Hampshire (1965-1966). At that time, some of the more hard-hearted professors would admonish the class to study harder by warning them of the consequences of failure, which meant getting drafted. During my freshman year, an acquaintance of mine from the class ahead of me, failed to heed this warning, and to avoid being drafted, enlisted in the Army to become a paratrooper. He shortly found himself serving with the 101st Airborne Division in Vietnam, where his young life was tragically cut short. The university newspaper ran a rather lengthy story about him, quoting some of his letters home, and there was a general sympathy for the sacrifice he had made, even among some of the more pacifistic students.
How different that time from when I was ordered overseas in 1969, when a former college friend, in responding to a letter I had written telling him of my news wrote, “If you get killed or wounded, you’re only getting what’s coming to you.”
When spring brought the UNH campus out of its winter cocoon in 1966, word spread that a group of Quakers planned to hold a peace vigil in the Memorial Room of the student union, the Memorial Union Building, commonly called the “MUB.” The Memorial Room had a wall sized plaque with the names of UNH alumni, who had died in service during our past wars. Ironically the class of 1942, my father’s class, had the largest number of names from WWII, as 1968, my class, was to have in Vietnam.
The group proposed to walk from a silent vigil they would hold at the front gate of Pease AFB in Newington, NH to the Durham Campus and do the same when they arrived at the MUB.
Word quickly spread across the campus, and soon a large crowd, mostly male as I remember, gathered in front of the MUB, a few carrying American flags, to wait the arrival of the “Peaceniks,” and deny their entry. There was a strong feeling that to hold an anti-war vigil would desecrate the purpose of the Memorial Room. Rumors would spread through the crowd like a zephyr rippling across water as to the progress of the marchers. As I remember, some of the information was being relayed along by the police, as the local law enforcement agencies appeared to be in sympathy with the crowd. Had any violence been acted towards, the protestors that day, I doubt to this day that they would have received a lot of protection.
At last word arrived that they were at the outskirts of town, and people strained to see them coming. Unlike what anyone probably expected, the group consisted of about a dozen people, dressed in black, most of them older than we. As they walked quietly up the sidewalk on Main St., not a few of them looked terrified. The crowd, shouted, jeered, and probably a few water balloons or empty beer cans may have been tossed. From where I stood, off to the side, I could not tell if they said anything, but they did appear to pray.
My own feeling at the time was I thought it inappropriate to hold a peace vigil in a room honoring war dead, but the other half of me felt it was their right to do so whether I agreed with it or not.
After a few moments, the group decided not to try to enter, walked away and everyone went to the dining hall for supper.
I went to Germany that fall to study, and when I returned in 1967, the “Ballad of the Green Berets” and “Billy, Don’t Be A Hero,” had disappeared from the radio, and the crowd on the lawn of the MUB had now forgotten what they had done, that spring day in 1966.
I can call to mind two events, long forgotten probably by even those who were present at the time. It was during my sophomore year at the University of New Hampshire (1965-1966). At that time, some of the more hard-hearted professors would admonish the class to study harder by warning them of the consequences of failure, which meant getting drafted. During my freshman year, an acquaintance of mine from the class ahead of me, failed to heed this warning, and to avoid being drafted, enlisted in the Army to become a paratrooper. He shortly found himself serving with the 101st Airborne Division in Vietnam, where his young life was tragically cut short. The university newspaper ran a rather lengthy story about him, quoting some of his letters home, and there was a general sympathy for the sacrifice he had made, even among some of the more pacifistic students.
How different that time from when I was ordered overseas in 1969, when a former college friend, in responding to a letter I had written telling him of my news wrote, “If you get killed or wounded, you’re only getting what’s coming to you.”
When spring brought the UNH campus out of its winter cocoon in 1966, word spread that a group of Quakers planned to hold a peace vigil in the Memorial Room of the student union, the Memorial Union Building, commonly called the “MUB.” The Memorial Room had a wall sized plaque with the names of UNH alumni, who had died in service during our past wars. Ironically the class of 1942, my father’s class, had the largest number of names from WWII, as 1968, my class, was to have in Vietnam.
The group proposed to walk from a silent vigil they would hold at the front gate of Pease AFB in Newington, NH to the Durham Campus and do the same when they arrived at the MUB.
Word quickly spread across the campus, and soon a large crowd, mostly male as I remember, gathered in front of the MUB, a few carrying American flags, to wait the arrival of the “Peaceniks,” and deny their entry. There was a strong feeling that to hold an anti-war vigil would desecrate the purpose of the Memorial Room. Rumors would spread through the crowd like a zephyr rippling across water as to the progress of the marchers. As I remember, some of the information was being relayed along by the police, as the local law enforcement agencies appeared to be in sympathy with the crowd. Had any violence been acted towards, the protestors that day, I doubt to this day that they would have received a lot of protection.
At last word arrived that they were at the outskirts of town, and people strained to see them coming. Unlike what anyone probably expected, the group consisted of about a dozen people, dressed in black, most of them older than we. As they walked quietly up the sidewalk on Main St., not a few of them looked terrified. The crowd, shouted, jeered, and probably a few water balloons or empty beer cans may have been tossed. From where I stood, off to the side, I could not tell if they said anything, but they did appear to pray.
My own feeling at the time was I thought it inappropriate to hold a peace vigil in a room honoring war dead, but the other half of me felt it was their right to do so whether I agreed with it or not.
After a few moments, the group decided not to try to enter, walked away and everyone went to the dining hall for supper.
I went to Germany that fall to study, and when I returned in 1967, the “Ballad of the Green Berets” and “Billy, Don’t Be A Hero,” had disappeared from the radio, and the crowd on the lawn of the MUB had now forgotten what they had done, that spring day in 1966.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
As I sit here waiting for the Arctic chill to hit, and make me doubt the existence of global warming, I can think back to how hot it was in Vietnam. The heat was like a blanket wrapping around you, one you could not throw off. It was as if we were constantly on the verge of suffocation. I often wondered if we walked into an ambush, would we be alert enough to spot it, or in some cases even care.
When the cold arrives here, I will be able to throw another log on the fire and put on an additional layer of clothes, but with heat, there is no way to cool down. The dense foliage in Vietnam held it in, and even splashing through a swamp or fording a stream offered no relief as the water was close to body temperature.
In watching our troops in Iraq, confined to the ovens that the armored vehicles can become, with sleeves rolled down, helmets and body armor, I wonder how they can even move. If you have never suffered heat exhaustion, I do not recommend you try it. The headaches are excruciating.
I recently asked the son of a friend who has been deployed three times to Iraq and Afghanistan how they manage to function in that environment. His response was,"We drink a lot of water, and we have all been trained to administer IV's."
My heart is always with our young men and women who are over there. To be sure, the First Cavalry Division is among them. When one considers that many of our troops are on multiple tours, one has to admire their courage, even if one doesn't agree with the war.
So, to those over there, "Keep your heads down and stay safe."
When the cold arrives here, I will be able to throw another log on the fire and put on an additional layer of clothes, but with heat, there is no way to cool down. The dense foliage in Vietnam held it in, and even splashing through a swamp or fording a stream offered no relief as the water was close to body temperature.
In watching our troops in Iraq, confined to the ovens that the armored vehicles can become, with sleeves rolled down, helmets and body armor, I wonder how they can even move. If you have never suffered heat exhaustion, I do not recommend you try it. The headaches are excruciating.
I recently asked the son of a friend who has been deployed three times to Iraq and Afghanistan how they manage to function in that environment. His response was,"We drink a lot of water, and we have all been trained to administer IV's."
My heart is always with our young men and women who are over there. To be sure, the First Cavalry Division is among them. When one considers that many of our troops are on multiple tours, one has to admire their courage, even if one doesn't agree with the war.
So, to those over there, "Keep your heads down and stay safe."
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Where Is Crusader Rabbit Now That We Really Need Him?
Where is Crusader Rabbit Now That We Really Need Him? is a novel based on the author's experience as a platoon leader with the First Cavalry Division in Vietnam from 1969-70. It takes the reader on a journey through the jungles, through the eyes of very young infantrymen to the life of troops in the rear areas, where the comradeship of the field did not exist. The reader meets the young soldiers of an unpopular war, who were, in the end, as noble and courageous as American soldiers in every other war, and those who were interested only in advancing their own careers. The author draws on the journal he kept while in Vietnam and his letters home.
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