Memories from a Veteran: Terry Hill

It's Veterans Day 2015, and I'm compelled to begin this blog before it becomes old news. I write this as a veteran of the Viet Nam War, and since it’s a day for remembering, I'll begin by sharing a few of my memories of that war.

Opening memory: The fear begins as I board the plane at Travis Air Force Base, along with 220 other soldiers. We fly in almost absolute silence to the Republic of Viet Nam. We are all scared and apprehensive that we'll never see our families again; that we will come back in a box, or even worse, that we will return gravely wounded and become our family's burden for the remainder of our lives. For much of the ensuing year, the fear is never far away, and occasionally it erupts into sheer terror.

Memory 2:  One month later, I'm deep in the Viet Nam jungle with my First Cavalry colleagues, and after a twenty minute firefight, we cautiously creep forward to examine the results of our fire. A wounded Viet Cong soldier is gasping for air, and his makeshift uniform is slowly turning dark red. I stare into his eyes. They blink several times, and I can see the intense fear of what will come next. Then they stare ahead lifelessly. This is not the body prepared by a mortician for final viewing; this is a body twisted in agony, very much like my own. This boy too had parents and people who loved him, and they will deeply mourn his passing. To paraphrase both Marlon Brando in, "Apocalypse Now", and Joseph Conrad in “Heart of Darkness", this is the "horror".

Memory 3:  It's months later, and back at the fire base near Phouc Vinh, my friend, Rusty, is approaching with a paper bag in hand. Rusty is in his second tour in country and has seen more than 18 months of combat.  Although only a corporal, Rusty is our squad's informal leader; an older guy we can depend on when it matters most. Rusty’s eyes seem to bulge from his face, and as he gets near, he begins raving that he has found the secret of life, the secret that will get us out of this awful war. The answer, he alleges, is in his paper bag. He opens it slowly and I peer inside, recognizing my own face in the mirror that lies at the bottom of the bag. Hours later, Rusty is escorted aboard a helicopter to begin a long journey to a mental health facility in Japan, and I will never see him again. Two months later, another friend has a mental break while waiting to leave country, and makes a similar trip to Japan.

Final memory:  I arrive back at Travis Air Force Base, and process back into civilian life. The previous day, our base was rocketed by the enemy, and later today I'll walk the streets of San Francisco. I'm elated to be safe and back at home, but the yearlong experience will haunt me, and a post traumatic illness will plague me for several years to come.

Looking back today, I see that the entire wartime experience made me stronger and more resilient. I survived, but there are many, many soldiers that returned from that war, and from more recent wars, that have never fully recovered. 

I believe this country must do more to serve those we send into combat; more than the ceremonial rituals that are appreciated, but only begin to provide our veterans the support that they need. We must dramatically improve access to health services for our veterans, and must enlist the VA in more effectively integrating their health services with those of other health care providers.

One important improvement would be to make rural vets eligible to receive health services at their local rural hospitals, clinics and mental health facilities. It doesn’t make sense to ask rural vets to travel great distances to VA clinics and hospitals, when appropriate services exist locally. And, we must pay rural health providers fairly for these services.  

If we send young men and women to fight our battles, we must be prepared to provide full access to needed health services when they return.