Not the way you imagined it did.
There was a big age difference between WWII and Vietnam vets. A few WWII vets disdained the Vietnam vets because while they were in for the duration, the Vietnam soldier took tours of usually one year, while some took extended tours, though they were not in for the duration. When the WWII vet realized it was a different kind of war, they understood more.
When I landed at the airport in LA I was in my uniform. I was damn proud of the Blackhorse patch on my shoulder. Yes, we were a cocky bunch. We knew we had a reputation. I had absolutely no bad things happen to me and neither did hundreds of other vets I talked to or any of my tank crew.
A fellow I befriended on the plane and I walked through the airport. Three pretty girls walked by us and gave us beautiful smiles, one saying, “Hi guys.”
At a concession stand in the airport the lady behind the counter gave us free chocolate bars and a smile.
We were walking to find a coffee shop when an older fellow stopped in front of us. He looked at both of us in the eye. He had tears. He hugged both of us, pointed to his chest with his thumb and said in a strained voice, “World War Two. Infantry. God I’m glad you boys made it home from that shithole! Hell of a war.” We found out he fought in Italy.
The majority of vets who came home faced no problem at all and were even thanked and treated civilly. Yes, a few were treated not very kindly. A very few. These stories were blown up by the good old media and the Vietnam movies put out at the time showed us as psychotic maniacs. The majority of us were not psychotic maniacs. We came home, went back to school, married, had jobs, children and grandchildren.
Don’t paint our picture the way the media has painted us. We did our duty, came home and carried on with our life.
At a military show in Minneapolis, I wore my baseball cap with my regiment on it. A guy came up to me wearing a battered M65 field jacket. He starting talking of all the crap he took being called baby killer, spit on ‘everywhere he went’, beat up everywhere he went and he went on and on and on. Not one word of the jungle, the chow, his brothers. Finally when he stopped I simply said, “yeah, life can be tough,” and walked away. I knew then and there the guy was not a Vietnam vet.
I talked to a WWII vet while wearing my 11th. ACR at another military and collectables show. He fought in the jungle against the Japanese. He told me whenever one of them would go off to crap, a sniper would open up on them. He said it was rough, but then said,
“After reading about you guys, I think you had it a lot tougher than we did because of the crazy ass war you fought and the continuous combat. You guys had no front line and didn’t know who the hell your enemy really was. You boys got the shit thrown at you when you were over there, and the shit thrown at you when you got home.” We shook hands and he patted me on the shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. I thanked him back.
Usually when I meet brother vets, the talk is civil, and about memories, funny, sad, and wistful. Nobody says anything about being called baby killers and being spit on and when the coming home part comes up, not one has said he had trouble.
It’s just a very few that seemed to have had a rough homecoming. Not half as much as what the media and hearsay made it out to be
For some vets, it was not easy adapting and a few just couldn’t adapt. But what I’m saying is that MOST of us adapted and lived good lives.
We were not raving lunatics. We were not all William Calleys. We were soldiers, Marines, airmen and sailors who answered the call that’s all. No more, no less. We didn’t get a home coming parade. But you know what? We didn’t ask for one either.
