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Lynda Van Devanter,
Home Before Morning: The Story of
an Army Nurse in Vietnam (1983)
Many of the young men and women who volunteered for Vietnam were answering President Kennedy's call to national service. Lynda Van Devanter,
fresh out of nursing school, believed that going to Vietnam was the right thing
to do. During her time "in country," Van Devanter saw her views change dramatically: she came to resent President Nixon and the American policymakers who promoted the war; detested the "Saigon warriors" who pushed papers
in the safety of their offices but never entered the field of fire; and hated the
'1ily-livered" South Vietnamese troops who gave too little support to the American forces. But what hurt her most was the reception she received on her return home to "the world." Van Devanter discovered that many Americans
did not want to be reminded of the war:
When the soldiers of World War II came home, they were met by brass
bands, ticker-tape parades, and people so thankful for their service that even
those who had never heard a shot fired in anger were treated with respect. It
was a time when words like honor, glory, and duty held some value, a time
when a returning GI was viewed with esteem so high it bordered on awe. To
be a veteran was to be seen as a person of courage, a champion of democracy,
an ideal against which all citizens could measure themselves. If you had answered your country's call, you were a hero. And in those days, heroes were
plentiful.
But somewhere between 1945 and 1970, words like bravery, sacrifice, and
valor had gone out of vogue .... When I returned to my country in June of
1970, I began to learn a very bitter le~son. The values with which I had been
raised had changed; in the eyes of most Americans, the military services had
no more heroes, m~rely babykillers, misfits, and fools. I was certain that I was
neither a babykiller nor a misfit. Maybe I was a fool. ...
Perhaps if I hadn't expected anything at all when I returned to the States,
I would not have been disappointed. Maybe I would have been contented
simply to be on American soil. Maybe all of us who arrived at Travis Air Force
Base on June 16 had unrealistic expectations.
But we didn't ask for a brass band. We didn't ask for a parade. We didn't
even ask for much of a thank you. All we wanted was some transportation to
San Francisco International Airport so we could hop connecting flights to
get home to our families. We gave the Army a year of our lives, a year with
more difficulties than most Americans face in fifty years. The least the Army
could have done was to give us a ride.
At Travis we were herded onto buses and driven to the Oakland Army
Terminal where they dumped us around 5 A.M. with a "so long, suckers" from
the driver and a feeling th'at we were no more than warm bodies who had outlived their usefulness. Unfortunately, San Francisco International was at least
twenty miles away. Since most of us had to get flights from there, wouldn't it
have been logical to drop us at the airport? Or was t expecting too much out,
of the Army when I asked it to be logical?
I checked into commercial buses and taxis, but none were running. There
was a transit strike on, and it was nearly impossible to get public transportation of any kind. So I hung one of my suitcases from my left shoulder, hefted
my duffel bag onto my right shoulder, grabbed my overnight case with my left
hand and my purse with my right, and struggling under the weight, walked out
to the highway, where I stuck out my thumb and waited. I was no stranger to
hitchhiking. It was the only way to get around in Vietnam. Back in 'Nam,
would usually stand on the flight line in my fatigues, combat boots, jungle hat,
pigtails, and a smile. Getting a ride there was a cinch. In fact, planes would
sometimes reach the end of the runway; then return to offer me a lift.
But hitchhiking in the real world, I was quickly finding out, was nowhere
near as easy-especially
if you were wearing a uniform. The cars whizzed
past me during rush hour, while I patiently waited for a good Samarit'!l1 to
stop. A few drivers gave me the finger. I tried to ignore them. Some slowed
long enough to yell obscenities. One threw a carton of trash and another,
nearly hit me with a half-empty can of soda. Finally, two guys stopped in a red
and yellow Volkswagen bus. The one on the passenger side opened rus door.
I ran to the car, dragging the duffel bag and other luggage behind me. I was
hot, tired, and dirty.
"Going anywhere near the airport?" I asked.
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LJV.L
"Sure am," the guy said. He 'had long brown hair, blue eyes framed by
wire-rimmed glasses, and a full curly beard. There was patches on his jeans
and a peace sign on his T-shirt. His relaxed, easy smile was deceptive.
I smiled back and lifted my duffel bag to put it inside the van. But the guy
slammed the door shut. 'We're going past the airport, sucker, but we don't
take Army pigs." He spit on me, I was stunned ....
[The driver] floored the accelerator and they both laughed uncontrollably
as the VW spun its wheels for a few seconds, throwing dirt and stones back
at me before it roared away. The drivers of other passing cars also laughed.
I looked down at my chest. On top of my nametag sat a big glob of
brownish-colored saliva. I couldn't touch it. I didn't have the energy to wipe
it away. Instead, I watched as it ran down my name tag and over a button before it was absorbed into the green material of my uniform.
I wasn't angry, just confused. I wanted to know why. Why would he spit on
me? What had I done to him? To either of them? It might have been simple
to say I had gone to war and they blamed me for killing innocent people, but
didn't they understand that I didn't want this war any more than the most
vocal of peace marchers? Didn't they realize that those of us who had seen the
war firsthand were probably more antiwar than they were? That we had seen
friends suffer and die? That we had seen children destroyed? That we had
seen futures crushed?
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Vietnam and America 1954-1975
His clothes were frayed and his face deeply lined. He ran his bony fingers
through his gray-black hair, then shook his head and smiled. "I don't know
where you're going, little girl," he said. "But I been by here four times since
early morning and you ain't got a ride yet. I can't let you' spend your whole life
on this road." He was only headed for the other side of Oaldand, but he said
he'd rather go out of his way than see me stranded. He even carried my duffel bag to the trunk. As we drove south on 101, I didn't say much other than
thank you, but my disillusionment was obvious.
"People ain't all bad, little girl," he said. "It's just some folks are crazy
mixed up these days. You keep in mind that it's gotta get better, cause it can't
get any worse."
Were they that naive?
Or were they merely insensitive creeps who used the excuse of my uniform
to vent their hostility toward all people?
I waited a few more hours, holding my thumb out until I thought my arm
would fall off. After awhile, I stopped watching people as they hurled their insults. I had begun noticing the people who didn't scream as they drove by. I
soon realized they all had something in common. It was what I eventually
came to refer to as "the look." It was a combination of surprise at seeing a
woman in uniform, and hatred for what they assumed I represented. Most of
them never bothered to try to conceal it. "The look" would start around the
eyes, as if they were peering right through me. Their faces would harden into
stone. I was a pariah, a nonperson so low that they believed they could squash
me underfoot. ...
While I stood there alone, I almost wished I was back in 'Nam. At least
there you expected some people to hate you. That was a war. But here, in the
United States, I guess I wanted everything to be wonderful. I thought that life
would be different; that there would be no more pain. No more death. No
more sorrow. It was all going to be good again. It had to be good again. I had
had enough of fighting, and hatred, and bitterness.
Around 10:30 A.M., when I had given up hope and was sitting on my duf-.
fel bag ... an old black man in a beat up '58 Chevy stopped and got out of his
car. He walked with a limp and leaned forward as ifhe couldn't stand straight.
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