Dan Paicopulos's Page War, Again ... and Still
by Dan Paicopulos
On October 27, 1967 I met with my mother. She'd been dead since September 30, 1959.
At 8:00 P.M. local time, Con Thien, Vietnam, as artillery shells landed within inches of my position with the Third Marines, my world, my body and my mind explosively turned upside down and inside out. All that most of us now have read about near death--the peaceful feeling, a bright white light and long tunnel, friends and family who had gone before--all of that was new to my experience at the time. Not frightening so much as it was bewildering. If who we are is simply an accumulated menu of our life's experiences, this moment surely was my main course so far.
Does war really change people? Does physical trauma change them even more? I think not. And then I think yes. And then I think it's both yes and no. I am satisfied that drama accentuates and magnifies what is already there. Crisis reveals it. For me, it closed down some physical body functioning while opening my eyes. For a very long time I was unable to walk, allowing me to just sit and "to be". The concussion ruined my hearing while allowing me to listen for the first time. Flying shrapnel scarred my body but permitted me to learn to love my physical self, unconditionally and without regret. It also led me to a career path that made a difference in the lives of thousands of people in need.
Before my transformational moment in time, however, I was immersed in war, and it was unlike anything which I could possibly imagine. It certainly was not like any movie I had ever seen. Television news can never reveal the horrible synthesis of blood and mud and fear that is battle. All of my senses were heightened. A constant, nerve-fraying alertness was required for survival. I was utterly aware that any distant sound might signal impending injury or death. I was always afraid, as were my buddies. We might have slept for a minute or two per day, but no one in combat ever remembers complete unconscious rest. Although it is inarguable that no one hates war more than the warrior, there is no room for philosophy and analysis while under fire. There is only the fear and working through the fear--the fear itself never completely goes away.
In Vietnam, my job was Scout-Interpreter, and it was my task to question those from the "other side" who fell into our hands. I learned about troop strength and enemy positions and supply routes. I also learned that fear knows no nationality. It is universal. The "enemy", too, was always afraid. Seen from today, it is easy to understand why. Wars are fought by the young, those for whom life holds so much hope. Or not.
Post-rehabilitation, a stranger asked me if I had discovered what I wanted from life. I told him that I wanted others to look at my face and have them see the same joy that I had seen when I looked at my nurses and therapists. Through a combination of good fortune and hard work, I was able to fulfill my dreams, helping others to help themselves. Thirty- three years later, and now post-career, my life has been exactly as I would have written it, were it a novel.
In this contemplative portion of that life, without living too much in the past, I want humans not to kill flies and spiders and crickets--and people. Some former Marines revel in knowing about battle. Most do not. The latter are those who are reminded that today's wars, like all others before them, are fought predominantly by 18, 19 and 20-year olds--on both sides. They remember the terrible fear and know that it is timeless, as prevalent on today's battlefields as it was in the past. They do not require television newscasters or newspaper reporters to inform them of what is happening at the core of today's conflicts. They know that young lives are being wasted, denied their future promise. It does not matter if their name is Jones or Nguyen or Assour. They are 18-year old privates who will never have the chance to start a family, 19-year old corporals who will not return to school and achieve a life of contribution to their society, and 22-year old lieutenants who will leave behind a widow and infant child.
True peace may be as unknowable as love is inexplicable. The longer I live, the less I know for sure. One thing I do know to a certainty, however, is that we can not develop the capacity to love our enemies until we have learned to love ourselves and our neighbors. Many of my intelligent, creative and capable friends tell me that they feel powerless in the face of war. They are desolate. They look for answers and none come to them. This is not a political issue for them. It is their basic humanity crying out.
I tell them that there's little that I can do about Iraq or Kosovo or Afghanistan, or even about New York, but, tomorrow, I can hug my wife and tell her again that I love her. I can call my friends and remind them that they are cared about and appreciated, and I can tell the people on my block that they matter. Yes, my neighbors--every one of them in the world--matter.
Note: This piece appeared in the May 2003 issue of Mature Living, The Desert's Magazine for Active Adults.
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