The Inner Battle of War

by CJ Heck

The following question has brought a mountain of varied responses since its April 3, 2016  posting on Memoirs From Nam:  "Do You Still Think About Vietnam?

The article has now received several thousand responses from Vietnam Veteran groups in LinkedIn, Facebook, and Google+.  Those comments have run the gamut, from outright indignation, to soulful thoughts of helping others.

The original article was written by a Vietnam veteran, who chose to remain anonymous. He felt it was important for people to understand why he cannot, NOT think about Vietnam. He will always think about Vietnam -- and the war.

For a soldier, war wounds.  It wounds the body.  It wounds the mind.  It also wounds the soul, but the soul does not condemn, or judge us. It is only our own ego which judges and condemns.  Our soul becomes wounded anytime we are called on to do things that go against our natural conscience, which is our soul's sense of right and wrong.

We also have our unnatural conscience.  This comes from mom and dad, schools, society, and in the case of the soldier, the government and military.  When we go against our unnatural conscience, we learn there are consequences.  It starts in childhood and follows us through life: if we lie, mom and dad will ground us; if we cheat on a test, we will fail the course; if we steal, we will go to jail. For the soldier, if you don't shoot the enemy first, you will be killed.

These learned consequences are paid through those who taught them to us: mom and dad, school, society, and the government and military.  They do not damn the soul; however, they do wound the soul
through our natural conscience, our soul's sense of right and wrong. When this happens, the ego strives to make us pay, and it does this by using guilt.

The soldier is called on to do things that go against his natural conscience, which is the soul's sense of right and wrong. the ego takes control.  It tries to make him pay by using guilt over a long period of time, sometimes for an entire lifetime.

When our body has a wound, it heals itself. The soul is much the same. When we do things to help others heal their soul, we also slowly heal ours, as well.  We are taking the attention off of our individual judgment, or the judgment of our ego, and we begin to open our hearts by service to another.  

We are meant to serve one another.   We are all one soul, all Brothers and Sisters, worldwide.

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


Feel free to comment on this post. You are also invited to write about anything you feel comfortable sharing. Memoirs From Nam is YOUR blog. You are writing America's history, sharing the truth about the Vietnam veteran, and what it was like in Our War.

A Piece of My Story: CJ Heck

Over the past month, many of you have thoughtfully shared your experiences. It's so good you have been able to do that. I know it took courage to face the memories and even more courage to sit down and write about them.

I figure it's only fair to also share something with you that I haven't written about before. I also had memories and feelings that haunted me.

My loss of innocence came when I was notified about the death of my husband in Vietnam when I was twenty. Doug ("Doc") was KIA in September of 1969. 

Emotionally, I was not able, (or maybe didn't know how), to talk about what that was like, even to those closest to me.

Months passed and eventually, I applied to and was accepted by TWA as a flight attendant. After the six weeks of training, I moved from my hometown in Ohio to San Francisco. A part of me thought by moving away, I could also escape everything I had been feeling and was unable to cope with.

For a while, I continued to wear my wedding ring, which often brought questions and comments from those I met.  Some people could be so cruel:

"He shouldn't have been in Vietnam -- none of them should be there!"
"What a stupid way to die."
"Thank God you didn't have any children."
"Vietnam isn't even a war."
"Oh, did he kill children?"
"Why didn't he just refuse to go?"

I soon took off my ring.  I locked it [and my memories] in a safe place, but where I could get to them, when I needed to. But I had learned not to talk about him at all, or about how I felt.

As you know and have shared, back then, anyone connected to the Vietnam War learned to hide their experiences, their emotions, as well as their anguish. I know many stopped all contact with other people, preferring only the company of those they knew would understand.

It was not a time when people wanted to listen -- they wanted only to take action.

One night when was feeling really bad, I decided that I didn't want to feel anything, ever again. I was going to be with Doug. I drove to a beach, parked my car, and calmly walked out into the ocean.

A couple walking on the moonlit sand saw me and, against my will, they dragged me back to the beach. They refused to leave, until I had stopped sobbing, and made me promise to get help in the morning.  Then they watched as I got in my car and drove away.  I knew I wouldn't be able to talk about it, so I ignored my promise, nor would I speak of this again to anyone.

Later that same year, I met a veteran, a Marine Lt. fresh home from Vietnam. He was living in the BOQ at Treasure Island. His MOS had been transportation, and what he had experienced in country had been disturbing to him.

While we dated, I encouraged him to talk. Somehow, I knew that was important and I listened as it all poured out of him. I could easily relate to much of what he shared:  the anti-war atmosphere that permeated the news and the streets, the memories, emotions, the loss of Brothers in Nam, and the whole negativity of the public towards Vietnam veterans in general.

Ten months later we were married, but I knew early on that this had been a mistake. I also needed to talk about the worst experience that I had ever been through in my life.

He saw my need to talk very differently. He told me he would not compete with a ghost. Even though I assured him that was not what I was asking him to do, he would not allow it. I needed him to be there for me, to listen to what I had also been through and how it had affected me. But he would not.

Though I knew in my heart that it would never work out, I was not raised to be a quitter. Indeed, some in my family even said, "If it isn't working, then you aren't working hard enough." So, I set my jaw, determined I would make the marriage work. I stopped bringing up my issues and did my best to ignore, and hide, them.

Emotionally, I knew I was distancing myself -- I could feel it. And although I hid everything, it was still there -- I could feel that, too. Every time it came to the surface, I shoved it back inside, and each time it came back, it was worse than before.

By year seven, I was busy raising three daughters, ages 1, 3, and 5. They were the light and the focal point of my life and I poured my love into them.

Then suddenly one night, I started having the same dream over and over.   In it, the doorbell would ring. I would open the door to find Doug standing there wearing faded jeans, a T-shirt, his tan jacket over his right shoulder, and the teasing smile he always wore, the one I loved so much to see. He would happily say, "Hey, Babe. C'mon, you ready? Grab your jacket, let's go."

I remember feeling no hesitation in the excitement of seeing him. I threw my arms around him and hugged his chest. Then, as I turned to get my jacket, there stood my three little girls, side-by-side, looking up at me in wide-eyed innocence.

Like a knife in the chest, I felt a cloying pain, confusion, and an overwhelming sadness. As I looked from their beautiful trusting faces to Doug standing casually in the doorway, then back at them, and again at Doug, I always woke up. I was drenched in sweat and shivering with terror.

The dream haunted my days and plagued my nights for months, until I finally told my husband about the dream. He informed me that I was crazy, or worse, that I was obviously contemplating suicide.

To be honest, I wasn't sure myself what the dream meant. I only knew I would never, ever choose to leave my daughters -- him maybe, but them, never. Maybe I was going crazy. Was I considering suicide again?

During the next nine years, I distanced myself even further. I had stopped talking about the dream to anyone. It was still an active part of my nights, but it was ignored, hidden the best that I could manage, along with everything else I wasn't supposed feel, or talk about.

Then something happened, which finally broke me. My mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer. She and daddy had always been my anchor. They knew I was unhappy -- I had told them that much -- and I always knew they would be there for me. 

Mama's diagnosis weighed heavily on me, until my fiercely guarded control over everything finally just unraveled.

I remember being on the couch curled in a fetal position, when my husband came home from work. I tried to speak, but I was unable to. I couldn't do anything, but shake uncontrollably. He was shouting at me and I was having a nervous breakdown.

The next morning, I found a therapist in the yellow pages and called. Over the next eight months, two sessions each week, I learned that I wasn't crazy, nor had I been contemplating suicide -- I loved my little girls more than anything in the world and I loved my life with them.

Through therapy, I slowly began to break down the walls I had built for self-protection. I also learned that you can't run away from hurt. You bring everything with you no matter how far you go, or how deep you bury it down inside. To begin to heal, I first had to face my fear of feeling, as well as everything else I had hidden away for so long. In the therapist's office, I found I could safely talk with no repercussions.

I was also encouraged to vent the deep anger I had hidden and felt so guilty about; anger towards God for allowing this to happen and towards Doug for leaving me. Most importantly, I was learning that it was okay to have all of those feelings. They were all a part of the grieving process and all were normal stages that I had just not gone through when I should have.

I also learned that it takes two people to make a marriage work. I could set my jaw all I wanted, with all the determination in the world, but unless both people are willing to do that together, the marriage cannot survive. We were like oil and water. Each is unique and good, separately, but the two together will never mix.

I still had a long, long way to go, but that had been a beginning ...



“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

A Peace in Knowing: by CJ Heck

Combat Medic Memorial

Through Memoirs From Nam, I have now heard from several people who knew and served with my husband, Doug, ("Doc"), in Vietnam.

I will be forever grateful to these men for the courage it took to reach out, because I have come to understand just how difficult it is for them to talk about brothers they lost in country. 

From a widow’s perspective, their reaching out creates a precious Bridge -- a Bridge of Healing.  To hear from someone who knew and served with their loved one, someone who may have been the last to see him alive, does help answer some of the agonizing questions they have held inside for decades.

Several years ago, I received a letter from Lt. James McCraney, who was Doug’s friend in Vietnam. On the day Doug was KIA, the Lt. had also been part of the same mission.

With his permission, I posted that letter here on the blog, where it touched the hearts of those who read it. (Memoir of Douglas S. Kempf, 8-2-10)

Later, I spoke with Lt. McCraney by phone. It was emotional, but it was good for both of us to talk about Doug, and I respect Lt. McCraney for the courage it took to contact me. There were some things he couldn't share, but it was an important beginning.  He said some day, maybe he would be able to tell me more.

Time passed and we stayed in contact through occasional emails. Then I received another letter that touched me deeply.  It was as difficult for me to read as I know it was for him to write.

I extend my most profound and sincere thanks to you, Lt. James McCraney.

"Cathy, 

I am ready to tell you as much as I can remember about my short time with Doug. 

As I have mentioned to you before, I was a brand new 2nd Lt., not two months out of Officer Training. I was flown out to a remote firebase on the edge of a small, rice-growing, and very poor village. This firebase was so small that I can't even remember the name of it.

As I made my way from the landing zone, (which was in the middle of a road), I saw a couple of guys walking toward me. One was the guy that I was to be replacing, and the other was Doc Kempf. Both had big smiles -- one was about to go home, the other just seemed genuinely glad to meet me.

I went in and met the officers in charge of the artillery unit at this base. Doug hung around and after a while showed me my "hooch". It was mostly sandbags on top of a metal culvert and an air mattress. His was next door. 

I don't think that Doc ever met a stranger. Everyone knew and loved Doc. He was our friend and our Mama. He treated us for everything, listened to us, and he always seemed to know what to do. We hung out a lot whenever we both had some "free" time.

I was asking him about being in country and where all he had been He stated that the infantry had been south in the area called Pineapple -- this is the Mekong Delta. All were glad to get out of there, since it is wet and muddy most of the time. It was the rainy season when I hit Nam and it would rain until November or December.

Doug and I would sit in our hooches and fight the rain, play cards, but mostly we would talk. Since I was single, I didn't have family to talk about like he did. He always talked about you and about how he missed you, since you had only been married for such a short time. He showed me pictures, too, however, the only one that I can remember clearly now was a photo of his niece. He was so proud of all of you.

Doug and I didn't know when the next mission in the boonies would be. Bear in mind, this would be my first mission. He tried to prepare me as best he could, telling me what to take and all. Also trying to let me know what to expect even though you can't explain it. Remember, he was my Mama at this time. Even though I was an officer, I never looked at Doug as an enlisted man. We were just friends, that's all.

One day he asked me to go into the village with him to "doctor" some of the kids. They were dirty and had skin rashes on them. Doug would treat them and give them what "goodies" that we had. I was always fearful that someone would kill us down there, but he didn't seem to worry. He had a great big heart especially for the kids. I told him that he would make a great doctor someday.

The time came for my first mission. We were going out for about three days recon. Doug didn't seem to think that this would be much. He was right. They were uneventful, long days of scorching heat -- when it wasn't raining. Since I was an artillery officer, I walked in the formation in the middle with the Captain, his radio, and Doug, We were always together, or close.

Upon coming in from this mission, Doug worked on us as best he could. He called me a big baby since he cut a boil out of my back. I told him that he could at least give me a stick to bite on. He just laughed. 

Doc treated scratches, sore feet, or whatever else ailed us. We would laugh and talk and dream of home and loved ones during this downtime. Doug always liked to hear me talk, since I was from the deep South. I told him that he talked funny to me and he would even try to talk like me -- I couldn't get the Yankee out of him.

The next mission was in September. There was still a lot of rain and humidity. This mission was to be for two weeks. That is no fun. Again, Doug told me how to pack. For the life of me, I don't know how he always seemed to be in such a good mood. We had been out for one day and nothing happened.

The second day, around 11:00 am, we were ambushed. The forward units were hit the hardest. Doug and I were in the middle of the unit and "fairly" safe at that point. They radioed back to the Captain that we had hurt and dead. This had gone on for about 30 minutes. 

Doug was listening to the Captain's transmissions. He started to go and someone pulled him back. He would look at me and me at him. He knew what he had to do. 

Momentarily, someone hollered, "Medic!" He didn't balk. Grabbing all of his gear, he raced up to the front.

We thought they were gone. That was not the case. They had left a couple of guys behind just to wreak havoc on us. As Doug got close, one of them opened up on him and Doug never knew what hit him. I hate to be so graphic, but that is how it was. He did not suffer. 

After everything was really over, it was time to gather everything up. We called in medivac choppers and had to cut down trees in order for them to hover and receive the hurt and dead.

As I got to the front and saw the ponchos on the ground, I asked who they were. Someone turned to me and pointed and said, "That's Doc Kempf". 

I can't describe to you -- and I mean that -- how I felt. All I could think of was, no, no, no! I uncovered him to make sure. He looked peaceful, if that is possible.

As the chopper hovered and the grass was blowing from the rotors, I helped strap Doug into a chair-like device to pull him up into the chopper. 

The last visual I have of him is seeing him going up and going round and round with his arms outstretched. I can't get that out of my head -- and I don't really want to.

That was the end of a too short, but fulfilling, friendship. I have shed many tears over Doug throughout these years. His death has touched me like very few have. I know that all of you feel so much more for him than I could ever feel, but I was fortunate to have been exposed to him.

I never knew anything more after we came back in from this mission. We had a medic replacement, but no one could take Doug's place. He was discussed many times after that.

Respectfully,
James"

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale

From Bride to Widow: by CJ Heck

Doug and I on our Wedding Day

The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief -- but the pain of grief is only a shadow compared to the pain of not risking to love at all.


The worst day of my life was September 13, 1969. Actually, there were more than that one day, but that's the one day I can talk about, at least for now.

I was living at my childhood home in Ohio with my parents at the time. I had married my high school sweetheart, Doug Kempf, in January, and though in our hearts we were still newlyweds, Uncle Sam had other plans and in May, he sent Doug to Vietnam.

In Vietnam, he wore a different hat. There, he was a combat medic: SP4; RA; HHC, 4th BN, 12th INF, 199th LIB.

Doug and I shared a good life from January to May in 1969. We were military-poor and living in a trailer on base at Ft. Bragg in Fayetteville, NC, but we didn't care. We were together and we were happy. There we dreamed and loved and planned our future for when he returned.

We would have an old Victorian with lots of bedrooms, oak woodwork, a huge kitchen to entertain family and friends, and a large front porch with a wooden swing where we could cuddle, read a book, or watch thunder storms together, something we loved to do.

We had decided on three children -- two boys and a girl. The boys would be tall, handsome, and have their dad's slightly bowed legs, legs that loved to dance, and his infectious laugh and sense of humor. They would grow up to be good men with strength of character. Like their father, they would be smart, and kind, gentle husbands, loving and playful fathers, as well as proud and fiercely patriotic.

Our little girl would be (in Doug's words) "Pretty, like her mommy, with big blue eyes and just a touch of tomboy to defend herself from her big brothers ... but always daddy's little girl."

Saying goodbye at the Columbus Airport in May, was soul-crushing. I promised myself I wouldn't cry, but it was a foolish promise, and one I wasn't able keep. One thing I can say with certainty, it never occurred to me that Doug wouldn't return home.

Our letters were happy and full of love. The intimate moments we'd shared were written about and yearned for in the letters between us. But what we wanted most, and what we actually had, was breaking my heart and I counted the days to our R&R, which was never to be.

On September 13, 1969, my world stopped. I was working as a secretary in the office of a manufacturing company a few blocks from my parents' home. That afternoon, mother called me at work. "Honey, you'd better come home. There are some men here from the Army and they need to talk to you. It's about Doug."

I couldn't say a word. I dropped the phone on my desk and with my heart in my throat, I ran out of the building. I didn't stop running until four blocks later, in front of the house I grew up in, the home where I had always felt safe and loved.

I was filled with fear and dread. Parked in front of the house and looking out of place, was a large black car with something printed along the side. I gathered my courage and climbed the front steps and opened the front door.

Just inside the foyer stood two uniformed men locked to attention, their hands behind their backs, hat tucked under an arm. Their faces were somber. Daddy and mama stood nearby. Daddy had his arm around mama's waist and she was crying softly.

[No. No. No. Dear God, why are they here? No, wait, I don't want to know. Go away. Please, please, just go away.]
"Mrs. Kempf, we regret to inform you that your husband, Sp4 Douglas S. Kempf, was killed in action while performing his duty in Vietnam on September 5 ..."

I didn't hear the rest of what the man had to say. Daddy said I fainted where I stood, just inside the front door in the foyer.

When I came around, I was lying on the couch in my parents' living room -- and then I remembered. Oh God, I remembered, and I wanted to die, too. I was devoid of all feeling, except soul-numbing grief. My whole world had turned upside down in one heartbeat. 

How could everything still look and sound so normal? The sun still shined through the front windows with Mama's white curtains swaying in a light breeze. The birds still sang outside in the gnarled old apple tree I used to climb as a child -- and where Doug and I had carved our initials inside a heart. A neighbor somewhere was mowing his lawn, and I could hear children laughing and playing in their yard.

Only a few minutes ago, that had still been real. Now it clashed with a new reality and I suddenly felt I was losing my mind. Why? Why? Why?  Then I focused hard, until only the couch was real. 

I was on the couch where Doug and I first held hands and hugged; the couch where we had our first disagreement, then kissed and made up. The same couch where I often sat in front of him on the floor between his knees, leaning back against him while we watched TV and he ran his fingers gently through my hair. The same couch where he nervously asked me to be his wife and I accepted.

No, nothing would ever be the same again. My life was changed forever and I felt helpless and so completely alone, even though I was surrounded by people who cared and who also grieved. 

All I could do was cry, and I remember fighting a growing anger at God. How could You do this? Why would You reach down inside me and rip out my heart? And always, there was the question, Why?

There was so much grief and hurt and I went through the following weeks and months and years in a fog. There are some things about that time that I can't remember at all, but there is one thing I will never forget. That was the first and only time I ever saw my father cry.

That day in 1969 was the worst day of my life. But, in the years since, that day has also carried me through some bad times, too. There have been things that have happened since then, when I've said, "This hurts. Yeah, this really hurts -- it hurts like bloody hell!  But I will survive.  And the reason is, because I know what real hurt is." 

For the rest of your life, that one day becomes your yardstick for measuring pain. You know with a final certainty that nothing else can, or ever will, hurt you quite that bad again. 

When I look up into the night sky, I pray that it isn't stars I see, but little openings in heaven's floor where the love of my lost one pours through and shines down to let me know he is happy ...

“I am only one, but I am one. I can't do everything, but I can do something. The something I ought to do, I can do, and by the grace of God, I will.” ~Everett Hale


You are invited to add an opinion, thought, or comment, about this post. Or, write about anything you want to share and send it to me in an e-mail and I will post it for you.  E-mail CJ

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