Edie Meeks - Honoring My Brothers

 

It was March 19, 2004, and I was at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum waiting for the Huey helicopter to come in. They were going to be honoring the Huey helicopter and accepting it into their collection. And it should be honored, it really rescued an awful lot of the young men. And all of a sudden, I hear this whop, whop, whop. It's a very distinctive sound that Huey has. And it comes in and it flies low over the mall, and it goes past, which it wasn't supposed to do. But since it was being flown by Vietnam vets, they were going to do whatever they wanted. [audience laughter] So, they went and flew over the wall, whop, whop, whop and it came in and landed, and the doors opened, and all these guys in fatigues came out.

 

And all of a sudden, I was back in Saigon, 1968. I joined the Army Nurse Corps in February of 1968 for several reasons. One was, I'm from Minnesota, and Midwesterners like to help. [audience laughter] But secondly, because I had two younger brothers of draftable age. My brother Tom was a Marine. He had been drafted and joined the Marines. And my brother Charlie was a war protester. And I was proud of them both. But I figured I didn't know if the war was right or wrong, but I knew that if my brothers were wounded, I wanted somebody there who wanted to take care of them. And so, I joined the Army Nurse Corps. I joined with the guarantee that I would be sent to Vietnam. 

 

In July of 1968, I arrived in Saigon. I was at the 3rd Field Hospital in Saigon in the intensive care unit. Now, I knew I could do this. I mean, I had worked emergency room and OR and ICU, and I delivered babies in British Columbia. I could handle just about anything. And the first day was okay. We had a few casualties, and that was all right. But the second day, more casualties came. And the third day and the fourth day, and they just kept coming. And you'd hear that, Huey, and you'd know it was bad news. There was one young man that I took care of. This was in October of 1968, and he had a terrible abdominal wound. And he had a letter from home and he asked me to read the letter. And it was his mom writing and saying that his dad had just come in with the family dog from pheasant hunting. And I said to him, “I bet you would have been with him, huh?”

 

And he smiled a little and nodded. And then she goes on to tell a little bit about the family and the news of the town. And at the very end, she says, “And we're so proud of you, son.” And three days later, he was dead. You had to just keep working. You had to just keep going. Don't think about it. You don't have time to grieve, you don't have time to feel bad. I know you took care of that guy for a long time and he's dead now, but you've got some more coming in tomorrow and the next day and the next. And we never talked about it amongst ourselves. And then there was this 19-year-old young soldier who had been drafted. I had asked him and he had a severe groin injury. 

 

And he turned to me and he said, but lieutenant, I haven't even had a girlfriend. Twelve hours a day, six days a week was the minimum that we worked over there for a year. And as these guys kept coming in, the disappointment and the anger and the rage that I had against the army and our government got larger and larger. I had thought that the army and our government would value each of these boys. These were my brothers. These were citizen soldiers. And yet they seemed to be throwing them away. They'd come in and say “They aren't letting us win.” But you just kept going. You couldn't stop, you couldn't deal with the anger, you just kept going. The nurses that were coming in country said, “When you go home, be sure and take an outfit with you. Don't be seen in your uniform. You will not be welcomed in your uniform.”

 

And so one day I was working hard in the ICU. I get on a plane in my fatigues and combat boots. I fly 24 hours and then I'm in San Francisco. I get off the plane, go to ladies’ room, take my uniform off, throw it in the trash and put a dress on. And I go to Minnesota where everybody expects me to be normal, to be the same person I was when I left and I wasn't. I still had six months left. And they sent me to Tacoma, Washington, to Madigan General Hospital. There was a big basic training camp there. And I thought that the death was over. I was finished with seeing sorrow and sadness. But it wasn't over. Basic training could bring a person meningitis. 

 

And we would get young men in who had waited too long or their sergeants wouldn't let them come, or whatever the reason. And they'd come in and they'd be so sick and they die. And this time, you'd see the families come, bewildered. They hadn't even gone anywhere and they were dead. So, I left the army, February of 1970, and of course I was perfectly fine. I had no problems at all. [audience chuckle] I got married, moved to New York. I was very lucky. I have two wonderful children. They're here tonight. And I thought I was doing just fine, but I was getting more and more depressed. My memory wasn't working right. My anger started bubbling up. 

 

And in 1993, there was the dedication of the Vietnam Women's Memorial. My hooch mate from Pleiku, Diane Evans, was founder, and she had asked me to do a lot of stuff. And I said, “Forget it. I couldn't touch that with a ten-foot pole. I don't know how you can talk about it.” She said, “Well, at least come to the dedication.” So, I went to the dedication and all of a sudden there were women there that spoke my language. I didn't have to explain a thing. It was a revelation. I felt safe for the first time. But then I went home. I was doing fine. I had that big dam held up there. 

 

Sure, there was a little crack from the Vietnam Women's Memorial, but I could deal with what was trickling through. And then they asked me to speak at the dedication of the Huey helicopter. And then I heard the Huey helicopter. After my speech, the captain of the Huey came up to me and he said, would you like to look inside? And I said, “Oh, no, I don't even want to get near the helicopter.” He said, “Oh, that's fine.” Okay. And he took my hand, he tucked it under his arm, and he kept me really close. And as we were walking, he would chat with this person and that person. And pretty soon we were by the door, and pretty soon we were through the door, and pretty soon, we were next to the helicopter. And he said to me, “Would you like to look inside?”

 

And I said, “No, thanks.” This was a helicopter that had actually carried my boys. And he said, “Okay.” But he positioned me so that. And all of a sudden, I could see inside and it looked the same. And then he took my hand and held it up and he said, “Would you like touch the helicopter? But he left it up to me and I touched it and it punched a hole through that wall. That was Vietnam. And everything came pouring out. And a week later, I went to the VA for help.