Vietnam War Veterans Day reminds us of what it means to serve our country
This is an aerial view of the Thien Ngon Special Forces camp 71 miles northwest of Saigon in Vietnam. (Courtesy of Jim Jones)
March 29 is Vietnam War Veterans Day, the day set aside to remember and honor those who served in that ill-fated war.
A phone call earlier this month brought to mind a perfect example of what dedicated service-to-country looks like. My friend, James Peterson, called to say that he would be undergoing surgery for a dangerous cancer, likely the result of his substantial exposure to Agent Orange during two tours of service with the Special Forces in Vietnam.
It hit me hard because here was a man who had dedicated his life to standing up for his country and now was faced with a hefty price.
I met James in August 2006 at the 40th reunion of the Twin Falls High School's Class of 1966 (my wife, Kelly, is a member of the class). We were at the City Park, refurbishing the memorial dedicated on Memorial Day in 1967 to those from Twin Falls County who died in the war.
Seventeen names, starting with Major James H. Allred in 1963 and ending with PFC Fred S. Smart in 1970, were eventually placed on the memorial plaque. James spent many hours over the years, helping to keep up the memorial.
In that initial conversation, we established that we'd both been stationed in Tay Ninh Province in 1968 – he at the Thien Ngon Special Forces camp 71 miles northwest of Saigon and me with a heavy artillery unit near Tay Ninh City.
The strangest thing happened when I mentioned that, as an aerial artillery spotter, I'd destroyed a river bridge south of Thien Ngon that enemy fighters used to transport weapons and supplies. James went to his car, opened the trunk, and brought back a picture of that very bridge. We bonded immediately.
It was not until years later we pieced together the fact that we had likely met at the Thien Ngon Special Forces camp on Sept. 30, 1968. He was the communications specialist at the camp; the Special Forcecs commander for the Province was flying me around to introduce me to the artillery customers I would be serving.
The Thien Ngon camp was in extremely hostile territory. Two days previously, it had been ferociously attacked by an estimated two battalions of North Vietnamese soldiers. The scars of the battle were still evident.
As Stars and Stripes described the battle, the Communists fired about 1,000 rockets, mortar rounds and grenades into the relatively small camp, then suffered 130 dead in trying but failing to overrun it. The six companies of Vietnamese defenders suffered four dead. Thirteen were wounded, including four Special Forces advisers.
James was not one of them. James described the event as just business as usual those many years later.
James' service to the country did not stop there. Although I never asked him how he used his remarkable communication skills during the next several decades and he never explained, I have the abiding feeling he kept serving the country in a clandestine capacity.
He commented in one reunion booklet that he'd had the 'opportunity to work in communications and other fields and live in so many different countries both friendly and unfriendly.' James lived in The Bahamas for 19 years on his catamaran 'Bifrost' until it was destroyed in a hurricane in 2019.
James made frequent visits to the Boise VA Medical Center for a variety of conditions related to his service. Having been a gung-ho parachute jumper in his Army days (and perhaps in his later endeavors), his lower extremities needed frequent medical care. For a while, he parked a camp trailer on one of the two camper lots at the facility. He was and is a big fan of the VA Medical Center.
We spoke after his recent surgery and he reported doing well. He has three daughters and one son, 10 grandchildren and 11 great-grandchildren. He should have plenty of time and opportunity with them in this final chapter of his life to make up for his numerous years of dedicated service to his country.
In everything James has done, he has shunned publicity and recognition by way of medals, decorations and the like. He would be rather unhappy to know that I'm paying this tribute to his life of service. However, I can't think of a better person to remember on Vietnam War Veterans Day than James Peterson, who came from tough beginnings to be a true patriot and fine example.
Thanks, Brother.
SUBSCRIBE: GET THE MORNING HEADLINES DELIVERED TO YOUR INBOX
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
New York Post
8 hours ago
- New York Post
Story of Vietnamese orphans who resettled here 50 years ago proves there are greater things than politics
Fifty years ago, near the end of the Vietnam War, as North Vietnamese troops headed south, the director of the Cam Ranh Christian Orphanage, Pastor Nguyen Xuan Ha — known to everyone as Mr. Ha —decided it was time to escape to somewhere safe. Mr. Ha put 85 children and staff on two buses and headed for Saigon where he hoped they could flee to safety. One of the buses was shot at by a North Vietnamese soldier and the buses separated. Somehow they re-united in Saigon. After renting a boat and getting some distance from shore, the engine quit. For five days they drifted before a Thailand tanker approached. The captain refused to help, but later changed his mind, turned around and towed them for a while. After cutting the tow line, a group of fishermen towed them toward Singapore. Soldiers refused to let them ashore. Mr. Ha wrote a name on a piece of paper and asked a soldier if he could locate a missionary named Ralph Neighbour to help. Dr. Neighbour (now 96), newly arrived in Singapore, was miraculously found. He picks up the story from there in an email to me: 'Singapore government kept them out on St. John's Island. Our missionary team took clothes and food out. USA embassy contacted Swiss United Nations Refugee Center. Special flight arrived. Children whisked thru Singapore on bus with windows covered. Government feared losing neutrality during war. No official record they were there.' I knew Dr. Neighbour from when he was a pastor in Houston where I worked at a local TV station. He called and asked if I could help get the orphans and staff to the United States and find temporary housing for them. I contacted some Washington officials I knew and permission for them to enter the country was granted. When they arrived in Houston, a church couple with a large ranch offered them shelter and food until the Buckner Children and Family Services in Dallas could assist with processing and adoptions. I interviewed the youngest, oldest and one in between who made the anniversary trip. Sam Schrade, who was a baby when he was rescued from the streets of Saigon, is 51 and owns a successful media business in Houston. How would his life have been different had he stayed in Vietnam? He says the fact that he is of 'mixed race' (American-Asian) would make it 'doubly hard' because native Vietnamese 'look down upon such people. I have been told by many people I would not have had a good life here because of the race issue and a government that didn't want me.' Kelli St. German, now 56, thinks she might have been growing coffee beans and doing hard labor had she not come to America. She also believes she would not have developed a strong faith because of the state's antipathy toward religion. 'I became a teacher for 30 years.' Thomas Ho, the oldest orphan, now 76, was 25 when he left Vietnam. He helped organize the evacuation and prepared small amounts of food for the children. In America he became a chef and then studied to become an engineer. He says if he had stayed in Vietnam, 'I might not have survived, especially at my age now. Life here is very difficult. A lot of the food is not very healthy.' Reuniting with these adults, many of whom I met when they were children, is a reminder that there are things far greater than politics, celebrities and the petty jealousies that are the focus of too many of us. There are few greater blessings than to have had a role in changing these lives for the better. These former orphans are blessed. So am I. Cal Thomas is a veteran political commentator, columnist and author.
Yahoo
15 hours ago
- Yahoo
When is Juneteenth 2025? Is there mail? Are banks closed? All about the federal holiday
It's known as America's Second Independence Day, and it's coming soon. Juneteenth celebrates the end of slavery in the United States. It's the longest-running African American holiday, and it became a federal holiday a few years ago. Here's what to know about the holiday. Yes, Juneteenth is a federal holiday in 2025, according to the U.S. Office of Personnel Management. It is one of 11 federal holidays observed every year. The others are: New Year's Day Martin Luther King Jr. Birthday Washington's Birthday/Presidents Day Memorial Day July 4 Labor Day Columbus Day Veterans Day Thanksgiving Christmas Day Juneteenth will be marked on Thursday, June 19, 2025. Unlike other federal holidays, such as Memorial Day, Labor Day and Thanksgiving, which are observed on a specific day of the week, Juneteenth is celebrated on the actual day. Juneteenth commemorates the day — June 19, 1865 — when federal soldiers arrived in Galveston to take control of Texas and ensure the slaves were freed per the Emancipation Proclamation, according to the History Channel. Juneteenth — short for June nineteenth — marks the end of slavery in the United States and is considered the longest-running African American holiday. Juneteenth is a portmanteau of June 19, the day Union troops arrived in Galveston. It became known as "Juneteenth" by the newly freed slaves of Texas, according to the National Museum of African American History & Culture at the Smithsonian. President Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation on Jan. 1, 1863. But its effect was limited, according to the National Archives. It only applied to states that seceded during the Civil War, leaving slavery intact for slave states that stayed with the Union. It also could not be enforced until Confederate states were under Union control, according to the National Museum of African American History and Culture. Therefore, it took until June 19, 1865, for slaves in Texas to be freed. Slavery in America was formally abolished with the 13th Amendment, which was ratified Dec. 6, 1865. Juneteenth became a federal holiday in 2021. President Joe Biden signed legislation on June 17, 2021, according to USA TODAY, after Congress passed The Juneteenth National Independence Day Act that same month. Juneteenth began rising to prominence in 2020 after the murder of George Floyd, a Black man, sparked protests across the country against police brutality, USA TODAY reports. Sen. Ed Markey, D-Mass., first introduced the Juneteenth bill in 2020 following the killings of Floyd and Breonna Taylor of Louisville, Kentucky. His initial attempt to pass the bill was unsuccessful. No. As a federal holiday, the U.S. Postal Service is closed that day, and there will be no mail delivered. FedEx pickup and delivery services will be available on June 19, according to the company's website. FedEx Office locations will also be open, USA TODAY reports. Juneteenth is a Federal Reserve bank holiday, meaning the organization that regulates the nation's banking system is closed, according to Banks aren't required to close for Federal Reserve holidays, but they often do. Transactions made during these holidays won't be posted until the next business day. Branches of Capital One, Bank of America, PNC, Truist, CitiBank and JPMorgan Chase will be closed on Juneteenth, USA TODAY is reporting. Capital One Cafes will remain open. The New York Stock Exchange is closed on federal holidays and will be closed on Juneteenth, according to its website. Trash pickup may be delayed because of Juneteenth, depending on the hauler. Contact your municipality or private provider to learn more. This article originally appeared on The Columbus Dispatch: When is Juneteenth 2025? Is there mail? Will banks be open? What to know
Buzz Feed
a day ago
- Buzz Feed
Why I Don't Always Thank Veterans For Their Service
James shifts nervously from one foot to the other, sweat glistening on his forehead and his muscles tense. A smiling intern approaches with a flag pin intent on thanking him for his military service whether he likes it or not. That's when he bolts for the door. I take off after him; there's no way I'm letting him tear onto the highway with his nervous system flashing red. Visions of a high-speed collision flash in my mind as I jog through the parking lot trying to catch him. Earlier that morning, I noticed James standing apart from the milling crowd gathered for a workshop on terminally ill veterans who have 'combat-related psychological challenges' like post-traumatic stress disorder, moral injury and complicated bereavement. With his straight back and hair cut in the style of a Marine, James was a stark contrast to the business card-exchanging group of social workers and psychologists with whom I'd been chatting. I had gone over and struck up a conversation. He'd told me he worked for a 'street program' focused on helping veterans struggling with drugs, homelessness and issues like depression, suicidal thoughts and PTSD. He'd recently applied to graduate schools with a vision of becoming a psychologist. 'I want to be there for my Iraq War brothers and sisters,' he'd said. 'We were all betrayed, every one of us. Moral injury and PTSD, that's just the tip of the iceberg.' 'Betrayed by who?' I'd asked. 'Politicians, military brass, the majority of people in this country who don't give a shit what really happened to me and my buddies and who don't want to hear about it.' He'd stared into my eyes as though expecting me to be uncomfortable with his candor. 'I've heard that from lots of vets,' I'd said, nodding. 'Not just the ones who fought in Iraq; going way back.' 'That's the dirty little secret about war,' he'd said, extending his hand. 'It's always an act of betrayal.' Later, we'd grabbed seats together at a table with three others. The trainer started with moral injury ― what it is, what it looks like, why it matters. He played poignant excerpts from recorded interviews of veterans talking about the psychologically and spiritually painful impact of witnessing or committing actions that violated their sense of morality or that had shattered their trust in those they'd relied on to act in their best interest. The trouble had started after lunch when the trainer asked attendees who were veterans to raise their hands. A half-dozen or so complied, but James hesitated. I'd given him a nod and whispered, 'You don't have to do this if you don't want to.' He gave a forced smile and raised his hand. Then the trainer asked the veterans to stand and announced that an intern would be making rounds with a box of flag pins. James had quickly sized up the well-intentioned ritual coming his way. The trainer would speak directly to each veteran, asking them what branch they'd been in and where they had been stationed. Then he would thank each of them for their 'service' while the intern pinned a flag to their shirt and the audience clapped. Sweating profusely, James had scanned the room looking for the nearest exit and anything or anyone that might get in his way. That's when he'd bolted. 'James,' I call out as he unlocks a beat-up Ford Mustang. He doesn't respond as he flings the door open and fumbles with the seatbelt, his hands shaking. I step between the open door and the car's frame. I know it's tricky, maybe even dangerous, getting in his space when he's feeling threatened, but I'm determined to help him settle before he revs the engine. 'Five minutes,' I say holding up five fingers. 'Just give me five, James. After that you can forget you ever met me.' His respirations are rapid. I take a deep breath, trying to cue him to do the same. He taps the steering wheel rapidly with one of his fists as though thinking, then motions to the passenger seat. 'Clock's ticking,' he says. I sit in the passenger seat, leaving the door open. We stare ahead avoiding eye contact. I wait for him to speak. 'Service,' he finally says. 'They have no idea.' He lowers his head. 'They call what happened over there service? Do they think we were serving fucking French fries? What I saw, what I did. What my buddies did. What we had done to us. It wasn't any kind of service. It was pure hell and I'm still living it. Now they want to pat me on the head and jab me with a cheap flag pin?' 'You're right,' I respond. 'They have no idea.' 'They don't want to know,' he shoots back. 'They want us all to shut the hell up and go along so they don't have to take any responsibility themselves. Didn't I tell you we were all betrayed? It never stops.' He gives me a sad look. 'I watched friends get their guts blown out. You ever seen bodies of women and kids splattered across the ground knowing you and your buddies are the ones who did it?' I shake my head silently. He grips his steering wheel so tightly the sinews in his forearms look like tightened cables. 'Service,' he says with acid sarcasm. His face softens and tears well in his eyes. 'How can they start in with the flag pins without even asking me what my experience was? It's like they're trying to push a lie down my throat.' 'What lie?' I ask. He looks up as though searching for words. 'That whatever we do is some kind of service to humanity. That we never commit atrocities and cover them up; that we're always helping the weak and protecting democracy. I found out fast we were killing and getting killed for money and power.' 'What's it like having people thanking you for your service everywhere you go, James?' He shakes his head as though I wouldn't understand. I remain silent, giving him time to either respond or switch the subject. 'You know what it's like?' he finally says. 'You might think this is an exaggeration but you asked. It's an act of violence.' 'Help me understand that one,' I say. 'Imagine you're hurting like hell and all you want to do is tell your friends and family what happened, hoping they'll understand, hoping maybe they'll tell you they're sorry about what you had to go through and reassure you that you're not some kind of monster. But all they do is pretend what you did was great and parrot a bunch of lame horse shit about being a hero. It's like you're being choked to death from the inside and you look to others for help and they just smile and look away.' 'Psychological and emotional violence,' I say. He nods. I look at the clock and mention that it's been five minutes. 'You kept your part of the deal, James. I've got time if you want to talk more but I want to keep my end. It's your call.' His hands are steady now and his breathing is normal. 'Thanks for coming after me. I'm good now.' He reaches out his hand. He squeezes mine tight and says, 'Thanks for not thanking me for my service when we met.' I nod. As he drives off I think about the hundreds of terminally ill combat veterans I've worked with as their hospice social worker. Most were, as combat veteran Tim O'Brien puts it, 'carrying stuff.' Stuff many ― maybe most ― civilians wouldn't understand. That's probably why so many of these veterans had locked it up inside and hidden it from view. Long days in a hospital bed, though, have ways of dredging stuff up. It's normal for patients approaching death to look back on their lives and take stock. When you're looking back on a life that includes the cataclysmic violence and horrific loss and grief of war, this life review process can be psychologically and spiritually complex ― even painful. Many of the combat veterans I've known had spent decades trying not to think or talk (at least not with civilians) about what they'd seen and done. Many suppressed undigested grief for friends who'd been killed or struggled silently with survival guilt, anger or feeling unsafe in the world. Some struggled with explosive tempers, anxiety or depression related to the scars of war; others with emotional numbness, alcohol and/or drug addictions, or feeling disconnected from others. Some had polished up a handful of well-rehearsed war stories sanitized of blood, gore or moral ambiguity, which they'd offered family and friends so as not to upset them. Others simply kept quiet. But as death approaches, it can claw up stories and memories that have been suppressed. These memories can be fragmented and poignant with details of war's horror ― the smell of burning bodies, the eyes of a dead buddy gazing up at the sky, the numb immersion day after day after day in violence, killing and death. Sometimes they are laced with moral pain and shame ― the killing of civilians, lifeless bodies of 'the enemy' being desecrated in the rage of a battle's aftermath. As I walk back to the training, I think about a B-17 pilot who participated in bombing raids during World War II intended to incinerate German cities. The point had been to kill every man, woman and child ― every dog and flea unlucky enough to be on the ground. He'd done his duty and returned from war assured that he'd helped save the world from fascism. But humans, despite misguided notions about war being part of the 'human condition,' are not wired to kill each other however just the cause may seem. As an old man, he was haunted by the belief that he was a mass murderer. He was convinced he was going to go to hell after he died and there he'd feel the kind of fiery torture he believed he'd inflicted on others. Like James, he had winced at reflexive expressions of thanks for his 'service.' The message he heard was: W e believe that you were performing a service, standing up for freedom, protecting the weak, saving democracy. You're a hero. That's our story and we don't want to hear your story if it makes us uncomfortable or challenges us in any way. He didn't want someone else's story shoved down his throat; he wanted someone with whom it was safe to tell his own without being judged or rejected. He wanted to unpack some of what he'd been carrying and find compassion for the 20-year-old young man he'd been when thrust into the bloody savagery of war. He wanted to begin to heal before he died. As someone who works with dying veterans, I've learned to never automatically thank them for their service. I realize many are justifiably proud of their time in the military, of friendships forged, courage shown and service given. I know that most appreciate expressions of thanks and that these expressions are often genuine and heartfelt on the part of those offering them. But I would rather disappoint those who expect me to join the chorus of thanks than close the door on a single veteran like James who needs someone who won't flinch or look away if they choose to share what they have been carrying. Refusing to lead with the culturally sanctioned chant 'Thank you for your service' sends the message to veterans like James that I'm not pushing a story that denies their experience. It's safe to talk. I can be trusted to listen without judging. Those veterans who have noticed and asked about my lack of obedience to the social custom of using the euphemism 'service' have generally understood and appreciated my reasons once we discussed them. Several shared things with me during those conversations they would not otherwise have shared. Things they, too, had been carrying. But there's another reason I never give automatic thanks or use the word service. It's an easy out for the rest of us. It lets civilians like me off the hook when it comes to taking any responsibility for what we have allowed political and military leaders to do in our name. It allows us to wash our hands of any culpability for how they, and we, have used our troops. That's part of what I think James meant when he said all wars are acts of betrayal. Calling the sum of actions taken in war 'service' is a convenient way for the rest of us to deny what our warriors have been asked to do. It makes it easy for us to turn away from or to deny the burning anguish, grief and regret many carry. Insidiously, it also allows us to avoid asking awkward questions: Were we really justified in using violence to kill so many other human beings? Why are we so desperate to idealize those who have done the bloody, heartbreaking work of war? Who profits ― politically or financially ― from all this division and violence? What are we so damned afraid of? The 'service' euphemism has become so prevalent that it is now part of a cultural trance state that shuts down honest conversations about these and other questions. Automatically thanking a veteran for his or her service can inadvertently telegraph to those whose experiences fly in the face of our well-rehearsed storyline that we don't want to hear what really happened ― that we don't care about what they might be carrying. This not only reinforces our collective conceit that our own hands are clean, it ensures that we will not have to carry anything ourselves. Euphemism piles upon euphemism. Hiding the slaughter of war behind the innocuous word 'service' allows us to call the children James saw killed 'collateral damage.' Calling bombs 'smart bombs' and calling it 'precision bombing' when we unleash them on others allows us to conceal those children from our awareness as well as the pangs of grief in those left behind. It even allows some of us to vilify those Americans who dare dissent or protest the dropping of bombs as 'unpatriotic' or 'un-American.' When American troops are killed, we are protected, as though we are children, from any images of their charred and mangled corpses. Once more we are slathered in reassuring euphemisms. Our 'fallen heroes' and their 'brave sacrifice' are lauded by a ratings-obsessed media and politicians vowing revenge on an enemy also in thrall to the delusion that they are providing a service by killing young American men and women. If we really want to 'honor the ultimate sacrifice' our soldiers have made, if we really want to ensure that they have 'not died in vain,' we need to stop lying about war by hiding behind socially enforced rituals, platitudes and euphemisms. If we really want to help those who have survived and carry the wounds of war, we need to stop hiding from and denying war's cruel brutality. We must make sure it is safe for veterans who have been in the military during a time of war ― regardless of whether they were directly exposed to combat ― to speak for themselves and to speak the truth. And we need to listen to all of them, not just the ones whose stories make us feel good about ourselves. Note: Names and some details have been slightly altered to protect the privacy of the individuals discussed in this essay. This essay originally ran in January 2022 and is being rerun now as part of HuffPost Personal's 'Best Of' Series. Scott Janssen is a hospice social worker and writer. He has written extensively about providing trauma-informed care for patients who are terminally ill and has spoken nationally about ways to better support veterans who are nearing the end of their lives. His work has appeared in dozens of publications, including Social Work Today, Psychotherapy Networker, American Journal of Nursing, Reader's Digest, and The Washington Post. His novel Light Keepers is a visionary adventure about the transformational power of kindness and love when the world appears lost in anger, conflict, and fear.
