Vietnam - Light At the End of the Tunnel

Vietnam - Light At the End of the Tunnel

My home town of Alden, Kansas, was a village with a total population under 300 (and that may have been counting a few dogs and cats). My high school had a grand total of 40 students in it.

Two classes ahead of me was a kid named Norman Small, a farm kid who was quiet, unassuming, and unworldly. Built like an ox, he was gentle as a lamb. Somehow an army recruiter must have convinced Norman to sign up with the army upon graduation. Or maybe Norman signed on out of a sense of duty.

Whatever the reason, I could never picture him as a fighter.

So I wasn’t surprised to hear shortly thereafter that Norman had been killed in ‘Nam – I figured the whole experience of boot camp and then being tossed into the jungle halfway around the world must have been overwhelming for a poor kid from the middle of nowhere.

Today, the only reminder of his having lived in my small town and of having died to serve his nation is a tiny plaque on the base of the flag pole in the what passes for the “city square,” and his modest gravestone in the tiny cemetery.

I have thought of Norman off and on over the years and just how unfair his death seemed. So it was good for me to discover his page at The Virtual Vietnam Wall. Visiting his page, I took a moment to remember how gentle and kind he was, and what he might have become had his life not been cut short. And then I had to consider how, too often, the war machine chews up and spits out human lives with little or no regard.

How often was his story repeated during the Vietnam War as the disadvantaged from urban and rural settings were sent to “serve their nation” by choice — or through the draft? And what about those “smart kids” who found refuge through deferments, often attending school or getting married simply to avoid what looked like a no-win war?

Don’t get me wrong. I think freedom must often be purchased with blood. Such freedom is worth dying for. And perhaps Norman was one of those who died to preserve our freedom. But I have my doubts.

I do believe we must fight terrorism (heck, I was all for using tactical nukes in Afghanistan after 9/11 — so don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m not a hawk).

Yet Vietnam. Did we really belong there? Or were we just helping the West save face after the French were forced to flee their colony, beaten by a tiny third world nation? Or were some perhaps interested in the rich oil fields off Vietnam’s shores? I wonder how history will look at a nation that takes on conflicts like the Vietnam “police action.”

And what about today?

With our unemployment and a job market where illegals are both exploited for their labor as well as a way to keep wages low, are we turning young men into hoods, bums, or soldiers in order to survive. And in the case of those who opt to become soldiers, are they perhaps too often just as seemingly clueless to the dangers as Norman was?

I guess those are questions for historians and those in power. In the meantime, I will remember Norman Small, a gentleman and a soldier who risked and ultimately sacrificed his life to make the world better for his having been here.