Bringing It All Back Home

by Philip F. Napoli

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  To Marilyn, love of my life

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  DEDICATION

  INTRODUCTION

  1. MAKING SOLDIERS: THE BOYS WHO BECAME THE MEN

  2. PROFESSIONALISM: RICHARD EGGERS

  3. FUTILITY: SUE O’NEILL

  4. WAR AND LIES: JOSEPH GIANNINI

  5. FOLLOW ME: ANTHONY WALLACE

  6. THE BELIEVER: JOAN FUREY

  7. WAR AND LOSS: MIANO, NOWICKI, AND GONZALEZ

  8. WELCOME HOME, JIMMY: THE BACOLO TWINS

  9. AGAINST WAR: FRIEDMAN AND LOUIS

  10. BECOMING VETERANS: EDELMAN, GERMAN, AND PAS

  11. WAR AND NORMALCY: ROBERT PTACHIK

  12. TWONESS: HERBERT SWEAT

  13. LONG ROAD HOME: NEIL KENNY

  14. LEADERSHIP: VINCE MCGOWAN

  15. THE DIVERSITY OF THE VETERAN EXPERIENCE

  16. LIVING MEMORIALS

  PHOTOGRAPHS

  A NOTE ON METHOD

  NOTES

  RECOMMENDED READING

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  INTRODUCTION

  There is no history of mankind, there is only an indefinite number of histories of all kinds of aspects of human life.

  —KARL POPPER, The Open Society and Its Enemies, 1945

  This book explores the American experience in Vietnam by linking our soldiers’ early years with their behavior on the battlefield and their progress after the war. It uses oral history to understand how veterans make sense of the most intense period of their lives in light of the knowledge gained in later years.

  There are many accounts of the Vietnam veteran’s experience. In 1997, the World War II fighter pilot and Princeton University literature professor Samuel Hynes published The Soldiers’ Tale, his personal reflections on the stories men write about war. In one chapter Hynes reviewed the narratives that American veterans have written about their war in Vietnam, highlighting the gap between public discourse and the war the veterans say they really experienced.1 Of course, veterans themselves helped to create the public discourse: in Ron Kovic’s Born on the Fourth of July and many other staples of the Vietnam literature as told by Vietnam veterans, Hynes found what he called the “myths of war … the simplified narrative that evolves from a war, through which it is given meaning.”2

  The memoirs and novels he studied suggested that the Vietnam conflict’s particular “myths of war” included an emphasis on dead children, on killing, on the bewildering directionlessness of the fighting, and on destruction as a deliberate military policy.3 According to these narratives, he concluded, “You might say, indeed, that the war in Vietnam was ironic from the beginning, that its essential meaning was the absence of a single coherent meaning in its events.”4 Such meaning as does emerge in these works reinforces one idea: “the loss of faith” in the American ability to fight Good Wars.

  This Vietnam myth, Hynes emphasized, worked and was broadly accepted because it provided a narrative structure for the telling of the story of America in Vietnam. This was, according to the title of one oral history, the Bad War.5 Soldiers could not feel good about fighting a bad war. The stories of veterans’ lives after the war therefore included “irrational violence, sleeplessness, alcoholism, the inability to hold a job or preserve a marriage or feel love” with depressing regularity.6 This story, the myth of the veteran that Hynes found embedded in the literature about Vietnam, echoes something the veteran Bernard Edelman once said to me: the assumption was that “the war was fucked-up, therefore the veterans must be fucked-up.”

  In fact, the Vietnam myth articulated in these personal narratives did not match the war fought by the majority of veterans. Hynes noted that as early as 1980 more than 70 percent of Vietnam veterans were reporting to the Veterans Administration that they were proud to have served and 66 percent said they would do it again. The story of their war was, Hynes asserted, “as valid, as truth-telling, as valuable, as the worst accounts of slaughtered innocents and damaged lives. The soldiers’ tale of Vietnam is all of the stories. We must not choose among them.”7

  The only way to present a counternarrative is to listen to a wider range of voices. This work is focused on Vietnam veterans who either grew up or live in New York City, because the city’s estimated eighty thousand veterans represent a diverse and inclusive sample of those who went to Vietnam. I have sought to find a balance between those who saw Vietnam as a guilt-inducing series of mistakes and atrocities and those who seem not to suffer from nightmares and disabling wounds. There are stories here of substance abuse and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), but also stories of redemption; stories of grief, but also of service; stories of pain, but also of transcendence.

  As these veterans also remind us, their experiences in Vietnam have implications for the lives of those who’ve fought in Iraq and Afghanistan. Rudy Thomas Sr., who earned three Purple Hearts while serving with the 173rd Airborne Brigade in Vietnam, emphasized the relevance of his war experiences to a new generation of returning soldiers. He said:

  For the past twenty-eight, twenty-nine years I’ve been a disabled-veterans specialist for the State of New York Department of Labor. I see veterans from Vietnam and I see veterans from Iraq and I understand. I don’t like what I see now. I see a lot of young people with problems that they’re not even aware of, just like myself. I had no idea what I was going through.

  The veterans I see from Iraq and Afghanistan, they have problems. They’re not really familiar with what’s going on, and I think it’s my duty to open their eyes and let them see what’s happening. I had a young lady two days ago. She was fine, and then I started questioning her. I said, “You’ve been up all night, right?” She said, “How do you know that?” And I just started laughing.

  I am experienced. I’ve been there, done that. I’m up all night. Sometimes I look up, open up the door, and look out. What the hell am I looking out the door for? There’s nobody at the door. But it’s something that I do. I look out the window, you know, and I catch myself doing it. What are you doing? There’s nobody out there. But it’s something that happens. And I see it in a lot of young veterans coming back now.

  What they don’t understand is the problems that they’re having affect not only them but the family also. The family doesn’t understand what they’re going through.

  So I tell them a lot of times, “Sit down with your family. Talk to them. Tell them what’s going on with you so they will understand. Hopefully, they will have a better idea of what’s going on in your mind so they wouldn’t get the wrong impression from what they see.”

  Just as Thomas stresses that remembering and sharing can promote understanding between individuals and among family members, Neil Kenny maintains that shared stories create connections across generations. As a Vietnam combat veteran, Kenny reaches out to the younger generation of men and women returning home from combat. He described his relationship with two of these young men. One Marine was struggling down in Charleston, South Carolina. When I met him up here, he said, “I want real Italian food.” I said, “It’s a real Italian restaurant.” He says, “What’s good?” I said, “It’s all good.” He said, “I’ve never had real Italian food.” And this kid was in Iraq, fighting for his country.

  The second young man, also a Marine from Staten Island,
was having trouble with PTSD.

  I go to Carmine’s house, and I’m talking to his mother. I said, “Where the hell is Carmine?” “Oh,” [she says], “he’s up in his room.”

  I [went up to his room and said], “You know, Carmine, you can’t be staying in your room like this, bro. You got to get out. You got to do something.” I said, “When you were in that courtyard in Fallujah and you were down because you were hit, and you were defenseless,” I said, “you didn’t really think you were going to get out of that courtyard.” He started crying.

  He says, “Neil, you read me like a fucking book.” I said, “I’m not reading you like a book, my friend. I’m only about three chapters ahead of you.”

  That common experience, the shared sense of what military service and combat can mean, enabled Kenny to reach out to this Marine. He has not finished living the chapters of his own book, but he is willing to share what he has learned.

  * * *

  All the people profiled in this book understood that their remarks to me were on the record and intended for publication. All were given the opportunity to edit their words, and some did so. Final responsibility for what appears here, of course, rests with me. No pseudonyms appear in this book. Throughout the text, all words spoken to me by my interviewees are presented in italics.

  1

  MAKING SOLDIERS: THE BOYS WHO BECAME THE MEN

  On December 7, 1941, the attack on Pearl Harbor galvanized public opinion in favor of war. In June 1942, a “New York at War” parade up Fifth Avenue attracted about 500,000 participants and 2.5 million spectators. The parade was intended, according to The New York Times, to “visualize the magnitude and intensity of the city’s contribution to all phases of the war program.” The Times pointed out that the crowd was larger than in “any other single American city with the exception of Chicago, and there were twice as many people along Fifth Avenue as live in Detroit or Los Angeles.”1 By 1943, it was estimated that 600,000 New Yorkers were in the armed services.2 By one account, some 800,000 New Yorkers served in the military overall during the war years.3 For many children of these World War II veterans, their parents’ military service was a conspicuous point of pride.

  The New York veteran Ed German is a painter and the host of a public radio jazz program that airs on WPPB, on Long Island. He lives comfortably on Long Island, in a home filled with works of art and the music he loves so much. He is both a public and a private personality, carefully sharing stories that reveal bits and pieces about himself and the world he grew up in. Recently, he published his autobiography, Deep Down in Brooklyn. He says of himself, “I don’t consider myself an African American. I am an American Negro. We’ve been Slaves and Nigras and Niggers and Colored and Spades and Spooks and Coons and Splibs and Afro Americans and Blacks, but Negro conclusively describes for me who I am and the journey that my continental ancestors took.”4

  German’s parents, originally working in agriculture, were from Georgia and came from a large family: Between my mother and my father, he says, I had twenty-two aunts and uncles, eleven on each side of the family.

  German’s family left the South in the early 1940s, as part of the great African American migration to the North. They moved first to southern New Jersey, where his father worked as a sharecropper. The African American population in New York City had more than doubled from 1900 to 1920 and then doubled again in the 1920s. By 1940, African Americans represented 6 percent of the city’s total population.5 They would make Harlem famous as a cultural enclave, but they also populated many other neighborhoods, like Williamsburg and Bedford-Stuyvesant in Brooklyn.

  Eventually, the German family moved to Brooklyn. Ed’s father got a job as a building superintendent there, and his mother did domestic work. German was born at 533 Halsey Street in Bed-Stuy. His father, born in 1916, had fought in both the European and the Pacific theaters as part of a quartermaster company, picking up some French and German language skills along the way. All his uncles served in the war as well. German has never forgotten learning about his father’s service.

  When I was a little boy living on Willoughby Avenue and my parents used to leave the house, we kids often would do what my mother and father [called] plundering. We’d just go up into their room and just looking at stuff, you know, opening doors and closets. And I remember one day I looked in my dad’s closet, and I saw his old Army uniform. It was in a clothing bag. I unzipped it, and I looked, and I said wow. I was only about eight years old when I saw it. I saw the medals on the outside of it, and then I looked in the inside jacket, in the inside pocket of the jacket, and there was a little leather folder in there, and I pulled this leather folder out, and I looked in it, and his Honorable Discharge was in there.

  After the discovery of his uniform, German senior began to share stories of his war experience. They left a lasting impression, especially the story of his war wound.

  He got shot one day in the wrist. And he told us the story. He said while he was in Germany, I think, he said he had bought a new watch. I forgot the name of the watch, but it was a really stylish kind of watch to have at that time, and he said he bought a new watch. And he was driving the jeep and he had his left hand holding on to the top of the window of the driver’s side window and he was showing off his new watch, you know, because he was—that’s what he said, he said he was showing off his watch. And he was just driving along and a bullet hit him in his wrist. And he used to show us a small bullet mark on his leg, too. I don’t know how he got that one. But he was over there from 1943 to 1946. He came home in 1946.

  German would later write in his memoir: “I can see from all of this that he’s been somewhere far away and done something important.”6 By the time German returned home from Vietnam in June 1969 with his own military discharge papers and the Purple Heart medal he’d earned for being wounded in action, the idea of the uniform as a symbol of pride had changed drastically for him.

  The historian Joshua Freeman writes, “In the memories and memoirs of working-class New Yorkers, the neighborhood looms large.”7 This certainly seems to be true for the Vietnam veteran John Flanagan, who was born on November 6, 1946, in Brooklyn, New York. He recalls his home and the surrounding area with a degree of bitterness mixed with anger. In his memory, the block was mainly Irish, although there were a significant number of Puerto Rican families too, and the overcrowding was intense, with as many as four families sharing a two-bedroom apartment and adults sleeping in shifts.

  I was the fifth child of first-generation Irish. All four grandparents came from Ireland. Most of the uncles worked “longshore” or became policemen … my father worked for the city in the Parks Department. We lived on Fortieth Street between Third and Fourth Avenues. It was my grandmother’s house. My grandmother lived on the top floor. We had the second floor and the basement. We didn’t have a lot of money at all. Money was tight, and I mean all the time. Having a grandmother living on the top floor who owns the house didn’t make it any easier. She was a widow and always had one or the other of her sisters that were maidens that were living up there.

  Since we lived in the house with her, we were always no good, and all of my cousins, since they didn’t live there, they were always so good. So we were always being told how bad we were and how good they were.

  Flanagan had two sisters and a brother, who was two years older than he was. Shortly after Flanagan’s first birthday, his brother died.8

  That sort of destroyed my father. He was just bitter, drank an awful lot, and we had some really terrible times with him. Although I recognize all of the things he went through—what I had to go through with him—I just absolutely hated him. I hated the house and to be there with him.

  When they got the autopsy, they found that [my brother] had some kind of lead poisoning. It wasn’t until my mother died [and] we were going through some stuff that I came across the letter from the doctor and the results of the autopsy.

  I got a remembrance of the funeral; he was laid out in my grandm
other’s living room, my mother’s parents. They lived above a delicatessen. I’ve got a memory of that—of seeing a baby lying in a crib and the baby not moving—from an angle of being real low, and later on I find out that when he died, they laid him out in their front room and it took two days to get a children’s coffin in. So they in fact did lay him out in a cradle.

  Immediately after his brother’s death, his parents became very protective, but as he got older, the Flanagans began to loosen their grip a bit, and Flanagan participated in the kinds of urban street games that many children played in that era.

  We were playing stickball all the time. You sort of watched them from the sidewalk forever, and then when you got old enough where they trusted you to count and keep score, you could be the scorekeeper, and then when they needed somebody on the outfield or something like that [you could go into the game]. So it was a lot of fun sort of growing up there. We played that and we played box-ball, you know, Chinese handball.

  Eventually, a portion of Flanagan’s street was removed to enable the building of the Gowanus Parkway. It cut right through a large swath of the Sunset Park, Brooklyn, neighborhood he grew up in. While the construction project is often blamed for devastating the neighborhood, in the eyes of a young Flanagan it opened all kinds of potential for fun. It became “Contractor Central,” as he calls it, with all its materials and equipment. Flanagan and his friends cleared out a big area, moving rocks and rubble so they could create their own urban baseball diamond.

  While his father did not serve in World War II, Flanagan was influenced by other veterans who fed his patriotic pride.

  I remember on Flag Day and Memorial Day having to help my father string a gigantic American flag from my grandmother’s two top windows on the top floor that would hang down almost to the basement. I mean, this was a humongous flag and very heavy, too.

  Joey lived upstairs, and he didn’t have a father. His father was killed during World War II. I thought that was just “Wow; he’s got a hero father.” Plus, I had an uncle who was a tail gunner on a Flying Fortress that got shot down and bailed out over Germany. He and his crew, on the anniversary of the shoot-down, would do a conference call with all of the guys. My uncle Frankie and my uncle Herbie, they were in the Navy.