As a member of a family from which every male member served in the Vietnam war, the annual April 30 anniversary marking the fall of Saigon and the conflict’s end is one that, for me, does not pass by easily. With the recent passing of the fiftieth year anniversary of that event just over a week ago, perhaps more than usual, I was haunted by two ironies—one on a national level and a more emotional one on a personal level.

By the conflict’s end, we had fought what then was the longest war in which we had ever been engaged. It had divided our country in a way not seen perhaps since our Civil War and made the thought of any reconciliation with Vietnam, in the lifetimes of those who served, a distant reality.

Ironically, however, the U.S. and Vietnam have been driven closer together, motivated by a mutual concern about China’s intentions. Recent discussions about re-occupying Vietnam’s Cam Ranh Bay underscored the change of heart; the Vietnamese spent years trying to dislodge us from that very bay.

Americans are welcomed to Vietnam today—the war virtually being forgotten as it is viewed by the Vietnamese more as a mistake of history.

But the irony on a personal level for my family is a bitter one and, therefore, much more difficult to let go.

Three family members served in that war—two in the Navy and one in the Marine Corps. My father, then a vice admiral who would go on to become the youngest head of the Navy, commanded all U.S. naval forces in Vietnam from 1968–1970. My older brother, Elmo, commanded a swift boat (1969–1970) that patrolled the deadly waterways. Meanwhile, I became the “black sheep” of the family, joining the Marine Corps and serving as an infantry company commander, arriving in 1972 with a battalion landing team.

Understanding why the conflict would become a bitter irony for my family necessitates first sharing a short fictional story that was written by my father for the midshipman magazine while he was attending the U.S. Naval Academy (1939–1942).

The setting for the story was 1940 Greece. He told it through the eyes of a narrator who was a U.S. news correspondent, accompanying a resistance sniper, named Themistocle. They were atop a mountain from where they could observe a column of Axis tanks. The tanks were heading to destroy a small village, where other resistance fighters were located. Situated across a small valley, the village was only accessible by a single bridge.

Seeking to avoid the village’s destruction, Themistocle loaded a wagon with barrels of gunpowder, hidden underneath straw. He ordered a young resistance fighter, named Demetrios, to get to the bridge before the tanks could cross it. Demetrios did so and started driving across it. With his rifle, Themistocle sighted in on the gunpowder in the wagon and fired a shot. A tremendous explosion ensued, destroying the bridge and halting the enemy’s advance, obviously killing Demetrios.

With that, Themistocle turns to the narrator and says, “My son was a brave man.” To the narrator’s astonishment, Demetrios was Themistocle’s son.

The bitter irony of this story came back to haunt our family years later in the Vietnam war’s aftermath.

When my father took command of the naval forces in Vietnam in 1968, those serving aboard the patrol boats were suffering a 72% casualty rate. In other words, during a twelve-month tour there, they stood a 72% chance of being killed or wounded.

This was due to the enormous advantage the enemy was afforded in setting up ambushes. The waterways were relatively narrow with heavy vegetation on the river banks. It provided them with sufficient cover to set up ambushes very close to the water’s edge. It gave them the element of surprise in launching their attacks as the boats and their crews were targeted before they had any chance to respond.

Upon discovering the U.S. Army was using Agent Orange (AO) to defoliate areas around their bases and after being assured by the chemical company manufacturers there was no danger if our forces were exposed to it, my father employed the agent to defoliate the riverbanks. It did a tremendous job of doing so and denied the enemy its advantage of cover and concealment. The results were reflected as U.S. Navy casualty ambush rates dropped to only 6%.

AO undoubtedly enabled my brother Elmo to survive the war. But years later, he would learn, as many other Vietnam veterans who were exposed to it did, AO had a deadly side as they were falling ill and dying from various cancers it triggered. Among those impacted was Elmo, who died in 1989.

Evidence of the strong bond between my father and brother was revealed by Elmo’s response months before he died when asked by a news reporter if he ever blamed his father for using AO. Without hesitation, Elmo responded he absolutely did not. He truly believed AO’s use had clearly enabled him to survive the war, return home, get married and start a family. He added, so many of those who served in the waterways before him and before AO was employed were denied the same opportunity.

Like the story my father had written years earlier about the hand of Themistocle ironically playing a role in the death of his son Demetrios, the bitter irony for my family was that the hand of my father, albeit unintentionally, ironically played a role in my brother’s demise. And like Demetrios, Elmo too was a “brave man.”

Image: Public domain.