Daryl J. Eigen - A Hellish Place of Angels: Con Thien: One Mans Journey

A Hellish
Place
of Angels

Con Thien:
One Mans Journey

Daryl J. Eigen

iUniverse, Inc.

Bloomington

A Hellish Place of Angels

Con Thien: One Mans Journey

Copyright 2012 by Daryl J. Eigen

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The cover photo by David Douglas Duncan as well as his other photos used herein were taken in September- October 1967 at Con Thien, Vietnam. Harry Ransom Center (HRC) The University of Texas at Austin.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-3212-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-3213-3 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 06/26/2012

Contents

Boot Camp

Journey to the Nam

The Nam

Into the Zone

Con Thien: The Meat Grinder

To my mother,

Pearl Rice Eigen

From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother.

William Shakespeare

St. Crispins Day speech in Henry V

The Brown Case

In the summer of 1998 I flew from my home in the San Francisco Bay Area to my hometown of Milwaukee to help my brothers and sisters move my eighty-nine-year-old mother from her house to a more manageable condominium. I didnt know that this was the beginning of a long journey of rediscovery. My mother, Pearl, had lived in her house for more than twenty years. The house was in a nice neighborhood on the east side of Milwaukee. It was not too far from Lake Michigan and was within easy walking distance of the University of WisconsinMilwaukee, where all of her kids at one time or another had been students. It was the house my father had died in after being married to my mother for more than half a century.

The house was a white Milwaukee bungalow, an odd and modest home that originated and proliferated in Milwaukee after World War II. The Milwaukee bungalow was a small home that had the attic lifted to allow a new family consisting of a war veteran, a war bride, and a baby or two to live in the upstairs of a parents home. Cute dormers brightened the love nest. My mother had lived in the house alone for ten years since my father died and rarely went upstairs after having both her hips replaced. Mom loved gardening. The house and yard, mostly the yard, had won the Mayors Award one year for being one of the most beautiful in Milwaukee. She was very proud of this distinction.

We all showed up at the house at various times that Friday in early June, including Donna, my twin sister; Barry and Beverly, the older set of twins; and Charles, my younger brother. Everyone except me lived in Milwaukee or its environs and in the months before the move had been working diligently to help Mom get things ready. Throughout her life our mother had saved everything, so there was plenty to sort through, throw out, and give away. The things Mom cherished had more emotional value than any worldly worth. I had already made it clear I wanted nothing, for a number of reasons, not the least of which was I did not want to have more to carry.

That afternoon, when most of us were present, Mother came out of the bedroom and into the dining room, which was cluttered with boxes and artifacts of a lifetime. Her silvery white hair framed her face. The light from the kitchen gave it shiny highlights. She was now only four feet eleven inchesshrunken with age. She had a sad smile on her lined face, and her large bright brown eyes were teary.

She said, I have something for you. Since she didnt say, Dont tell anyone, I wondered what it was. She always tried to give me things secretly, saying, Here, take this, dont tell anyone. I most often refused, since I am not particularly a collector.

I assumed she treated all the kids the same way, although I never checked. Conspiracy was one path to intimacy in our large family. I always felt special, even though there were five of us kids.

She went into the bedroom again and brought out one of my fathers sales cases. It was a dusty and heavy brown, wide block of leather. I opened it by springing the brass-colored clasps. Inside was a collection of items from the time I was in the Marine Corps and Vietnam, including all the letters I had written home during my tour of duty. I had forgotten about them. There was also my boot camp graduation album, a large rolled picture of the battalion I went to Vietnam with, and a Marine Corps manual.

I checked the case further but couldnt find the medals and ribbons I had been awarded. Shortly after my return from duty in 1969, I had ceremoniously burned all of my uniforms and had proudly presented the medals and ribbons to my mother. I had thus divested myself of all tokens, symbols, and memorabilia of that period of my life.

I asked Mom where the medals and ribbons were. She said she didnt know. She was upset by this discussion and then said Barry had them. I was not ready to pursue this any furtheror rememberand quickly snapped the case closed and carried it to my car.

Later that afternoon we walked my mother to her new apartment, and she said, My life would have been perfect if only you had not gone to Vietnam. I looked at her sadly, and she added, Well, of course you have more than made up for it. Her memories as a mother reading these letters may have been worse than mine having had the real experience.

After doing as much as I could, I left for San Francisco. As I carried the case full of letters, I felt as if I were carrying the remains of a young man, my former self, who had died in Vietnam. It overwhelmingly felt like my duty to honor that lost boy in some way. That boy was more the father of who I am today than was my real father. I had tried to suppress, ignore, deny, and blot him out for thirty years. Now it was time to face the horror and pain. The time was right to remember and to heal.

When I got home I placed the case in a prominent place so I would be reminded to deal with the letters. One day while looking at the case I called my brother Barry and asked him about my medals and ribbons. I felt my family had not honored my deeds, deeds that for some twisted reason I felt I had done on their behalf.

Barry eventually found the awards and decorations. He sent them to me via special delivery. They were jumbled and dusty, and some were missing. At first I thought this was disrespectful, but then I had an insight that the medals and ribbons represented so much pain that the family could not bear to care for them. They held the pain I could not feel.

Slowly, day by day, I confronted the letters. To help my recollections and to try and understand what my family had gone through, I researched my war experience in the library microfiche and archive files of magazines and newspapers of the time. In the rarely visited periodical section of the library, I found several references that pertained specifically to my unit and my experience. Some of the letters even referred to newspaper articles or had been sent with clippings enclosed. Later I researched the Internet for more material.