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Show Family Weekly May 12, ms MY UNFORGETTABLE MOTHER'S DAY GIFT Marine Son I Visited My She overcame everything from red tape to enemy danger to spend mother's last Day ONyear, my husband, a doc- tor in Vancouver, Wash., gave me a most unusual gift. He handed me a prescription blank on which he had written, "Good for one trip to Vietnam." The gift had a particular significance for me. My son Robert had joined the Marines and was on orders to duty in Vietnam. It took months to get the necessary inoculations, visa, and U.S. and military credentials (as a writer), but I was intrigued with the idea of seeing Bob in Vietnam, though maybe he had some doubts about a tough Marine at war having "Marna" visit him. Finally, I boarded a commercial Pan Am jet destined for Southeast Asia. Stops at Honolulu, Tokyo, and Manila diminished the passenger list, but at last I flew over the jungles and rice paddies of Vietnam, knowing that somewhere up north, near the DMZ, Bob waited for me. The plane landed at Saigon airfield, and I had many miles and days of traveling throughout the country before joining Bob. During my first days in the field, I was most aware of the noises of war. The crack and boom of artillery is so much a part of the nights that its absence awakens one with the feeling that something is wrong. One night when the artillery had stopped briefly, I heard a scraping on the wooden door of my billet. I grabbed the nail that served as a door knob, jerked the door open, expecting to see a rat. I saw instead a tall GI with an embarrassed smile on his young face. "Could you come over and talk to us, ma'am? The guys sure would like it." We talked nd drank coffee for three hours, until 2 a.m. The raw light from the bulb hanging in the ceiling and the coiFee, lukewarm, with a paper-cu- p taste, would not promote intimacy under ordinary circumstances. Yet this night, we free-lan- 4 Family Wttkly, May ce It, 1968 fellow said kindly, "Now look, ma'am, you can have our bunker. It's right over there." "Never," I said. "You guys need it more than I do." The young soldier looked right at me and insisted, "You won't be making us uncomfortable the bunker's talked with the candor and trust of lifelong friends. A blond medic leaned forward on a wooden chair and turned his paper cup around and around in his hands while he took me into his private world of horror. ". . . then I ran out of supplies. Lord! The company ambushed, and I ran out of supplies." He raised his head and looked at me with eyes that begged, What could I do, tna'atn f "Four of my buddies lyin' there bleeding, and I couldn't help. My job and I couldn't help them." The harsh light spared no feature on the face of war a young man's face twisted with pain and guilt for which there is no comfort. I put my hand on his arm and said, "You helped most of them, don't ever forget that. You were there, you stayed with them, you did the best you could. They understood, their families will understand." "Thanks for that, ma'am. I know you're tellin' the truth; it helps." It was not easy to be a mother in Vietnam even though the GIs, with their wonderful humor made most things bearable, for them and for myself. One evening-- was sitting on the ground in front of a tent with seven GIs, all experienced in combat and all eager to indoctrinate me. - . ... ' ' i v r, 1 : C ,- 1; ' i-- . K got three feet of water and a family of water moccasins in it!" Another GI slapped the ground and shouted, "But they're a friendly family of moccasins very friendly, ma'am." Laughing, he barely dodged the dirt I threw at him. They're not saints, you understand, not by anybody's standards; especially their own. Some are doing the same things their fathers did in other wars. Things like stealing, getting drunk, selling to the black market, and leaving wives and babies in a country at war. Also, like their fathers, today's generation of soldiers has found that two things-d- ogs and kids can provide tenderness and a touch of home in the rotten world of war. The GIs are not supposed to keep dogs as pets, so naturally every base has a good supply of dogs who are pampered and loved and whose presence is conveniently overlooked. I saw puppies being smuggled all over Vietnam; concealed under a flak - 4 A- (S' As (or V&u A5fJ ; A V" d The meeting he had waited H -- sandy-haire- 'f - a - A " brace her son Bob at Phu Bai airfield. CIV " K ' 1 1 - Mrs. i jacket, peeking over the rim of a helmet, or sleeping innocently in the arms of a tough sergeant who wouldn't light his cigarette because, "Well, the pup's asleep, and I hate to wake him up." The children are a different situation entirely. On a DaNang street I stopped to talk with a Pfc who was tossing a child up in the air, to the delight of both participants. "Yeah, he's a good kid," the GI said. "I saw my lieutenant killed when kid threw a grea I and nade, s'pose I should hate all them, but they have such a rotten life. How can you hate anybody who lives like this?" The Pfc put his friend down gently on a dry spot and said, "We've got to help them, ma'am ; we've just got to. They're smart and they're cute, and I don't care how long it takes, we've got to help them." As he turned to leave, his young friend ran after him. The two boys, American and Vietnamese, walked across the street hand in hand. Walking was a good way to get around. Whether I was on the busy streets of Saigon or slogging along a road at some outpost, hitchhiking was simple. Every few minutes a jeep or a truck would slow down and a smiling face would lean out and ask, "What are you doing here, ma'am? Do you need a ride?" No matter what my destination, the drivers always said, "No trouble at all. It's not out of my way; besides, you're the first American mama-sa- n I've talked to since I've been here." Not all our sons live with daily horror. Thousands of them plug away at jobs behind desks or counters, unheralded and unnoticed. Their absence or failure to do their jobs decently would be noticed, but it's not much fun to be a nonhero. One evening 11 of us were sitting in a three-side-d tent drinking coffee and listening to stories of firelights. A forlorn kid spoke up, "Yeah, that's outstanding, all right; but how about me? For three months I've been burning garbage. How do I explain that to my mother?" seven-year-o- ld |