Leslie Smith: Remembering a Vietnam vet

They say that, out of all the members of Congress during the Vietnam War, very few — maybe 8 to 10 — had children who actually served as combat soldiers in Vietnam.

I just read an article about how Vietnam vets were spat upon when they returned from Vietnam in the '60s and '70s. It reminds me of something that happened many years ago.

I was in college in Washington, D.C., in those days, and I saw lots of soldiers there. We always could tell who they were because they didn’t have long hair. They were the ones with the really ugly short hair. They were also the guys who, we supposed, just didn’t have the wherewithal (read: family money) to get into college and stay out of war. So, for the most part, I stayed away from those guys. I wanted a college boyfriend with wherewithal.

One night, after the clubs had closed, my boyfriend, Fred, and I decided to watch the sun rise at Dulles International Airport. It was around 4 in the morning. We arrived in the dark and went inside the terminal. It was pretty deserted.

I noticed a little boy sitting by himself in a very empty waiting area.

“Hi. What are you doing?” I asked.

“Nothin.” He was bashful.

Then, from right behind me, a woman’s voice said, “Tell him what you’re doing!” Mom, obviously. She was dressed up and she was smiling.

“I’m waiting for my father,” said the boy.

I noticed that the kid was wearing nice new pants, a clean shirt and a little tie. His legs didn’t reach the floor from where he was sitting, and he was swinging his feet in brand new shiny shoes. He was all spruced up. I look back at Mom. She was spiffed up too, holding a purse with both hands in front of her.

“Is he coming in on a plane?” I asked.

“He’s coming in from San Francisco. He’s in the Army, “ Mom said, walking over to me.

San Francisco. In those days, it usually meant someone was coming in from Vietnam. I think it was 1970. That meant a whole pile of Vietnam guys could be coming home. Fred and I and our friends decided to stick around.

We waited for about an hour. I made small talk with the kid and his mother. Fred and the guys (somehow, I was the only female in the group) wandered around, talking importantly about wingspans and DC sixes.

Finally, the loudspeaker boomed out the arrival of Flight blah blah from San Francisco. At last. I’d been waiting for this for about 60 very slow minutes. Mom and Little Boy had been waiting for years. The airport began to bustle. I noticed a few people ambling over to the arrival area. Fred and his buddies walked over to me. We all stood a polite distance away from the woman and her son. It was about 5:30 or 6:00 in the morning. The sun was up. We were all waiting for one particular Vietnam Vet.

At last, people started coming off the plane and into the waiting area. It was a big plane, with lots of passengers, but there were very few people at the airport waiting for them. Men, women, kids, families, teens — they step into the room, look around, look right past us, and then they move on. Finally, there’s a soldier — but no, wrong guy. He’s a White guy. Our family is Black. Then, there’s a Black guy, not in uniform, but … nope. Another false alarm. By now people are pouring off the plane, rushing past us and into their own lives. We all mean nothing to them. Minutes pass.

I glance at Fred. He actually looks worried.

“You know, some of these guys … they don’t tell their families … and they’re carried off the plane in cots and wheelchairs,” he says, looking straight ahead at the door.

I looked over at our soldiers’ wife. She now looked taut and scared. I didn’t care any more about wherewithal. I didn’t care about Vietnam. Her little boy was standing right beside her. A soldier’s family. Where was her man?

More people in uniform. Then. There was one more Black guy. And he was in uniform. He was a big guy with medals on this chest and he saw only two people in the whole room. He smiled a huge smile, dropped his bags right there on the floor and ran over to his wife and son.

I jumped up and down and wanted to cry. All of us clapped. I wanted to hug him. He was fine. He was healthy. We almost rushed him like he was some kind of celebrity. But we hung back. He captured his wife and boy in a huge hug. They all kissed. Then, after a moment, the guy looked at us. Who are all these White kids standing around?

I don’t remember any names, but his wife stepped back. She was so proud of him. Her face was full of love and happiness. She said to us, “Let me present my husband, Sergeant So and So.” We all solemnly shook hands. The President couldn’t have gotten a more dignified introduction. We spoke briefly, and then the three of them walked away.

I went to lots of anti-war demonstrations in the years after that. I thought the war was very bad, and very stupid. I never saw any soldiers being spat upon or yelled at. Maybe it happened, maybe it didn’t. But to this day, when I think of Vietnam vets, I think of that guy and his family.

I hope they’re still doing fine.

Leslie Smith lives in Gilmanton Iron Works and writes stuff occasionally.