Host: Jenifer Hixson
[Uncanny Valley theme music by The Drift playing]
Jenifer: [00:00:13] From PRX, this is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jenifer Hixson. This hour we're hearing stories about The Vietnam War from some of the people who were there. These stories were originally told in a Moth event we dedicated to the conflict in Vietnam. While putting the hour together, I noticed another theme, Brothers. Each of the three stories in this hour involves brotherhood, the kind of bonds forged in foxholes as well as in families.
[Little Wing by Benjamin Verdery playing] In searching for people to tell stories, I often found the stories are not easy for people to share. One veteran respectfully declined my invitation. He said, “While Vietnam was a divisive war fought by a divided nation, some of the things I witnessed, suffered and participated in have left me scarred. I've been in treatment for chronic post-traumatic stress disorder five times since 1960. While the physical scars of being wounded twice have healed, the emotional scars have not.”
[crowd murmuring] Our first storyteller, Dave Dillard, was also not eager to speak of his service for a long, long time. He was 17 when he volunteered for the army and became a paratrooper. He served for eight years, two tours of combat duty in Vietnam with the airborne infantry. When he returned to civilian life in 1974, he felt that most civilians couldn't relate to him. So, like many soldiers, he didn't talk about his experiences. Roughly a decade later, [cheers and applause] he reconnected with a bunch of the surviving soldiers from Delta Company, and they spoke openly about their experiences, some for the first time. Many of the men remembered a particularly harrowing night. Dave's going to tell us his part of that story. Here's Dave Dillard live at The Moth in Austin, Texas.
Dave: [00:01:54] It was about 4:30 in the afternoon and I heard a rooster crow. Now, it's not unusual to hear a rooster crow at 4:30 in the afternoon, I grew up on a farm. Rooster crow most anytime it wants to. But you see where I was, I shouldn't be hearing a rooster crow because chickens don't live in the jungle. [audience chuckle] And that's where I was with 80 other men in an airborne infantry company, about 80 paratroopers out there chasing North Vietnamese army regulars who had just swept across the border of Cambodia and made their way into Saigon and took part in a battle that would be later known as the Tet Offensive of 1968.
Since the offensive was put down and these men were sent backpacking into the jungle, we were out there to find them and try and catch them before they went back across the border. And we knew that the Vietnamese were notorious for carrying their livestock with them to feed their army and to hear a rooster crow meant that we could be very close. It was March of 1968, and I was 18 years old. I was a radio telephone operator. That's an RTO for my company commander, the captain. We called him the old man, but he wasn't very old. He was only about 25 himself. But my job was to stay with him. I was his ears, I was his mouth, I was his confidant. I was his bodyguard and sometimes his cook.
But I would always be right there with him when were on a mission, and we were on a mission. And we were very, very deep in the jungle, very dense jungle. In some places, triple canopy and it becomes so horrendously humid and hot that it's very difficult, and it takes a lot of water and we were in need constantly. And so, when you come across a clearing in the jungle that's large enough to take on a helicopter, then you take advantage of that commodity and you resupply. And that's what we did. Well, that's where I heard that rooster crow. And we decided-- the commander decided that it was time to move away from that clearing. When my phone, my radio lit up with a call from the point. They said, “We just saw a man carrying two buckets of water. He dropped the water and he disappeared into the jungle.”
I thought, a man carrying two buckets of water and I heard a rooster crow. And I thought this could be a very serious situation. The people reported back that they had movement up front and that we were very close to possibly making contact and we should be prepared. I heard then a short volley of what I thought was M16 fire. And that was followed by an eruption, an absolute firestorm, a withering firestorm of hail of bullets and explosions that I never could have imagined. What we didn't know is that we had just made contact with a reinforced regiment of North Vietnamese regular infantry that numbered somewhere between 1500 and 2000 enemy soldiers and we were in serious trouble.
Of course, the reports came back immediately that we had serious numbers of casualties. And the old man, he bolted. He went right straight up to the column, right up to the front and I was right on his tail and that's where I saw the carnage. We had taken five men down, killed and about 20 wounded in 15 minutes. And it was necessary for me, the RTO, to get into action. We needed to medevac these people. We needed to get them out. The old man looked at me and he said, “Go back down that trail. Take that radio and get those engineers to open up a little clearing. We're too far from where we resupplied to make it back. It's getting dark. Get these men out of here.”
So, I did exactly that. I went down the trail and we got the engineers busy. And in no time at all they had blown an area almost big enough to accommodate a helicopter. And soon we had the first chopper there, he was not able to land, but he was hovering low enough where I thought we could probably get that first man in. They threw off all their gurneys and that was great because we started loading up the wounded. And I had the first man with a helper on the back and extending up to try and get him on his helicopter and I could not reach. He could not get low enough. And also, I was hearing a sound that was coming and hitting the side of that helicopter. It was being hit by small arms ammunition from AK47 fire coming from way deeper in the jungle.
And I could not risk losing that machine and having it fall right where we are. We had to abort. We waved off the helicopter and it went away. I turned around and got back to my radio and I tried to call up headquarters and give them the idea of a report on our condition and what was going on. And I looked around and about that time I saw this black streak come across in front of my eyes and it landed about 15 feet in front of me. One of the engineers said, “What was that?” He had seen it. And at that time, it exploded and it completely engulfed me and the rest in fire. I was blown back about 10 feet and all I could think as I went back is, this is how it ends.
But I got conscious and I came to and I looked at my body and I was okay, except my head. My head was full of this ring, this intense ring. And I felt my ears and I looked at my hands and my ears were bleeding. And then I realized it. I was deaf. I couldn't hear a thing. I was in this game, this life-threatening game, and I was benched. I couldn't take part. What was I going to do? And I looked and I couldn't hear. And I saw the chaos and the confusion going on, more wounded pouring in and people there I could do nothing. And I started to sink into this despair and then all of a sudden, I felt the hands on my shoulder and turned me around and it was the old man.
And he looked at me and he had me sit down and he said, “Just take it easy. I could read his lips and the way he was treating me. And I sat down and I waited. And he busily started directing the people with all of these wounded and organizing it to go back down the trail. And so, they started down the trail. The North Vietnamese had already cut us off. They had encircled us on that side. And they set up an ambush on that trail. And when our new people, the leads in that column, reached into their kill zone, they initiated that ambush. And there were more dead, more wounded. And now they started flooding back and darkness was upon us. And the darker it got, the more we understood that were in very serious situation.
As the darkness fell and the troops came running, coming back in from down the trail, the old man had all of them circle up inside this little small perimeter that we had was no more than 35 meters across. And in the middle, we put all of the wounded. At this point, we were up to around 30 plus wounded. And we had all the wounded in there, he collected all the grenades. And the word came out, we have to observe night fire discipline. That is when we do not use our direct fire weapons, our M16s or our heavy machine guns, because the flash depressors on the front as they are fired will give away your position. Our only hope to survive this situation was to stay concealed. And we did.
We threw all the grenades in the middle and we started throwing them out in different directions. The enemy had no idea where we were exactly. And it was-- it was that which was keeping us concealed. But they kept probing us, they kept probing us, and they kept trying to get us to shoot. They would shoot their AK47s and they were so close that we could see the faces of those people as they fired. But we held. We used our discipline and we held. And we did not return fire. And it was an amazing situation that I was in because as my hearing came back, I began to realize that we had more issues than just the enemy out there finding us, because our wounded were making all this noise and the medics were working feverishly to try and keep them quiet.
I must tell you that during that night I saw acts of heroism done by men that never had a desire to be a hero. They were amazing. And as we continued to go forward in this evening, we had support from the air. We did have support from the Air Force and their fighters, and we had artillery. But we were very much alone in the middle of this. About 4 o' clock in the morning, we figured that maybe they've cut it off. We had no more people probing us. So, we took that opportunity to bring in one helicopter. We had been able to enlarge our perimeter a little more, and we were able to get that helicopter in. It landed and we were able to get all as many as we could on top in that first helicopter and by golly, it took off and off it went.
And we were amazed. In came the second and the third. And by 5:30 in the morning, all were gone. And by first light, in came another company, an American company that relieved us. We had made it. We had survived. But your feeling of joy and that flooding of knowing that you survived soon will pass, because we have a daunting task ahead of us. It is at this point that we need to go out and find and identify those Americans that had lost their lives, those friends with broken bodies. And we did. We went out and found them. There were 10 of them. We wrapped them in ponchos and we put them in the middle of the perimeter, right where we had the wounded not but a few hours before.
And when they were all collected, and while were waiting for those helicopters to come and pick them up, the tears flowed. Now it was over. And we could let that emotion come back into ourselves. And the tears by every man. It was a very hard thing to imagine. But the helicopter came, we loaded them, and off they went for their last ride back to the United States and to their families. It's not over. Every infantryman-- every infantryman knows that there's always one more job that must be accomplished. We have to go out and find the enemy dead. And we need to go through their pockets and their pouches and their packs, and we need to collect intelligence material, which we rarely found. No, I will tell you what we found. We found letters from home. We found diaries. And always, always pictures.
Pictures of their wives, pictures of their moms and dads, pictures of their families, pictures of their children, pictures of their farms, pictures of their pets and their animals at home. And you look at those, and if you're a human being at all, you have to say to yourself, “My God, they're the same as us.” And we are all caught up, just small people, in this meat grinder called war. And this is the only thing that we have, that we must survive this to tell the story. Well, the company survived to fight another day. And this was the ending. The old man, the old man, he was decorated with the Congressional Medal of Honor. That's Paul Bucha.
And many people have come to me over the years and they said, “Dave, you know, he won the Medal of Honor.” He was RTO you were the man. You were right with him, what did you get? And I always answered the same way. I got life. I got to go home. I got to see my mom and my dad again. I saw my brothers and my sisters. I got an education. I got married. I got children. I've got a ranch in East Texas. I've got a pond. I got ducks, I got geese. [audience chuckle] I got horses and I've got chickens. And when my old rooster decides to crow at 4:30 in the afternoon, that takes me back to a different time and a different place and a situation that changed my life. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Jenifer: [00:17:53] [music by Bill Frisell playing] That was Dave Dillard. There were 85 men in Delta Company and they were up against North Vietnamese regular army regiment of more than 1,500. They lost 10 men that night and 47 were injured. These days, many of the men of Delta Company stay in touch and continue to honor their fallen brothers. Dave's most recent project is the Hometown Release Foundation. They send film crews out to gather the stories of active-duty military members and their families for release on their local television stations. To see a picture of Dave and some of the guys from Delta Company and to find a link to a longer radio documentary put together about that night in the jungle, please Visit our website, themoth.org.
After the second time Dave told this story live on The Moth stage, he admitted something to me. Dave's hearing was compromised in the war and is particularly troublesome on the phone. So, when I first called him and said I was from The Moth, he heard that I was calling from the mosque. He told his son, “Someone from a mosque in New York City called me today and invited me to come and talk about the Vietnam War. Isn't that wonderful?” I love this about Dave. He knows that talking helps healing. And so, when anyone calls The Moth, the mosque, the moon, he wants to share his experiences. And he says, “Sign me up.” [music continues] When we return, we'll hear from one of the nearly 10,000 women who served in Vietnam.
Jay: [00:19:30] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX.
Jenifer: [00:19:44] [crowd murmuring] Our next story in this hour about The Vietnam War comes from Edie Meeks. Though their stories are not often heard, nearly 10,000 women in uniform served in country during the conflict. [cheers and applause] Many of them were just out of school. Here's Edie Meeks live in New York city.
Edie: [00:20:01] 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.
[cheers and applause]
Jenifer: [00:32:49] [Have A Little Faith in Me by Bill Frisell playing] That was Edie Meeks. Edie has now been a nurse for more than 50 years. If you know someone who was wounded in Vietnam or died while hospitalized there, I hope it's a comfort to know that someone like Edie was at his bedside. All of the soldiers, I spoke to were quick to commend the medics, nurses and doctors who served. Edie has served on the board of directors to both the Vietnam Women's Memorial Foundation and The National Purple Heart Hall of Honor. In 1992, Edie's daughter was at Mount Holyoke College taking an American history class. And a professor made the mistake of saying, “You women will never know what it's like to be in war.” Edie's daughter asked, “Can my mom come in and speak to the class?” A week later, she introduced her, “This is my mother, Edie Meeks. She was an army nurse in Vietnam. I'm so proud of her.” Edie said, “It was the first time she had heard anyone say they were proud of her service.” [music continues] Next up, a different perspective on the war and its wake from a Vietnamese man who was a teenage orphan in 1975. When The Moth Radio Hour continues.
Jay: [00:34:15] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, prx.org.
Jenifer: [00:34:30] [crowd murmuring] You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jenifer Hixson. We're hearing stories about The Vietnam War and brotherhood. Jason Trieu was 14 years old, a Vietnamese orphan, when it became clear that Saigon was about to fall. American soldiers and civilians were being evacuated before the North Vietnamese took hold of the city. Our allies, the South Vietnamese people, would be in peril. President Ford called it a great humanitarian tragedy and issued a press release that said the US had directed $2 million of special foreign aid to fly 2,000 South Vietnamese orphans [cheers and applause] to the United States. Here's Jason Trieu live at The Moth.
Jason: [00:35:11] It was only in spring of 1975 that my two younger brothers and I, along with about 50 other orphans waiting on this cargo airplane to go to America. It was in Saigon, the capital of South Vietnam, at the end of the Vietnam war. I was 14 at the time, old enough to understand that South Vietnam was facing a grim situation. South Vietnam was collapsing rapidly under the advancing force of North Vietnam. I could sense the panic and the urgency, and the airport was buzzing with military airplanes, vehicles, personnel. But for my two brothers and I, the only thing that was on our mind at the time was that we're going to America. This was a dream coming true for us. Nine years before that, our dad had died fighting in the war, and a year later, our mom died in a traffic accident.
So, the neighbors brought the three of us to an orphanage. It was while living in the orphanage that I came to the realization that my brothers and I were not in a normal situation, that we didn't have parents like regular kids, to provide for us, to support us, to give us our futures. But our futures were unknown, uncertain. As the oldest child of the three, I took over the parental responsibilities, following the Vietnamese tradition. So, as a 7-year-old parent, I worried a lot. For the seven years that were living in the orphanage, I constantly worried about how I'm going to take care of my brothers, how we are going to survive in a land that even ordinary people were having a tough time because of the war.
And then we met a woman named Sherry Clark, an American woman who was heading a charity organization called Friends of Children of Vietnam. She was living in Vietnam at the time and was traveling around helping orphanages. And so, now she was helping my brothers and I and the other orphans to go to America as part of the Operation Babylift. So, now, sitting on this airplane, waiting just moments before we take off for America, it was indeed a dream coming true. I was so lost in my own excitement and thoughts that I didn't notice there was a South Vietnamese police officer on board of the airplane until he was right in front of me. The officer looked me over and asked me a couple of questions. Then he told me, “No, you can't leave the country. You are too old.” I was dumbfounded.
I could only imagine that he wanted me to stay just in case South Vietnam amasses all of his available resources. A last ditch to defend the country against the enemy. I was devastated, didn't know what to do. The officer then proceeded to take me and another boy about the same age off the plane. I felt like I was being dragged through a deep dark tunnel. I looked over to my brothers, they looked shocked. I could see the fears and confusion in their eyes. And I wanted to say a lot to them. I wanted to tell them to take care of themselves and take care of each other in the new land. But I couldn't say anything. So, I just left the plane silently.
I learned later though, the pilot of the airplane, his name was Ed Daly, who was also the president of World Airways at the time and was spearheading the Operation Babylift. He tried to bribe the police officer with $100 bill to let me and the other boy go. But the police officer refused and ripped the hundred-dollar bill in half. So, the plane took off with my brothers and I went back to the shelter. That night was a long night for me and the following nights and days, I was trying to come to terms with what just happened. I was filled with disappointment and hopelessness, but at the same time I was feeling a sense of relief knowing that my brothers would be okay and that I don't have to worry about taking care of them anymore. So, now it's just me, myself.
I convinced myself that I can survive in any situation. And I can handle anything that might come to me. But that conviction only lasted only a couple of days, until Sherry Clark, the lady that was helping us, handed me a newspaper from the US. My brothers had left on the first flight of the Operation Babylift, so it made big news when they landed. And the newspaper has this photo of my two brothers playing in the snow. As soon as I saw that photo, it hit me like a freight train. I realized then that I just lost all of my family. We lost our parents. After we lost our parents, my brothers were my only family and now I just lost them.
And facing with this distinct possibility that the North Vietnamese Communists would overrun the south at any time, with communications cut off to the US. So, the idea of being left behind would perhaps never see or hear from my brother again was too much for me to bear. I was overwhelmed with the desire to leave Vietnam, come to the US be with my brothers again. So, I begged Sherry. I said, “Sherry, anything you can do, whatever you can do, help me out.”
A few days later, Sherry came to me and said, “Get into the van. We're going to the airport. There might be a plane that you may be able to get on.” So, I went. But this time the trip to the airport was very different than the first. Instead of excitement, it was shrouded with fears and anxiety. I knew that I was defying the government order. I felt like I was on an escape mission. At the airport, they rushed me onto a military airplane. I took my seat, tried to lay low, tried to be invisible, hoping for a quick departure. But as I looked up from my seat, I saw a police officer coming my way. The officer asked me a couple of questions, then told me, “No, you cannot leave.” I felt like the sky was falling. But instead of taking me off the airplane like the first officer did, this officer told me to wait there for him and then proceeded to talk to the pilot and then went inside the building nearby. So, I waited. Time was passing very slowly. Minutes seems like days.
At any time, I was expecting to see the officer coming back out with soldiers and drag me off to some unpleasant place because I have to fight order and tried to escape. But after what seems to me like an eternity, I started hearing doors closing and engine roaring. So, I was thinking to myself, I'm hearing things. My mind must be in overdrive. And then the plane started moving. Questions were rested in my mind. I was wondering, “What's going on? Is the pilot leaving without permission? Is he going to gun it?” I held my breath, started to pray for the plane to move faster because it was moving way too slow for me. And at any time, I was expecting that the Vietnamese government seeing that were leaving, that would send vehicles, troops to stop us.
But after what seems like another eternity, the plane began to lift off. I felt a huge relief and started breathing easier, but still very fearful that anytime the Soviet missile would send planes off, send military jets to intercept us and force us back. It wasn't until we landed in the Philippines hours later that I felt completely safe. I flew to the US the next day, two weeks before South Vietnam was completely overrun by communist North. Sherry Clark helped united my brothers and I. She also gave me half of the ripped hundred-dollar bill that Daly had given to her, told me to keep it as memento of an attempt to battle for my life.
When we met up with my brothers again before they rushed in for a big embrace, they were looking at me in this bewildered, “I can't believe it” look that reminded me almost similar to the look that they looked at me when we were on that plane. But this time it was not fierce in their eyes, but it was happiness and excitement. And for me, I felt the intensity of great happiness and peace with me knowing that things are going to be okay, knowing that from now on, I no longer have to worry how my brothers and I are going to survive. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
[Across the Universe by Bill Frisell playing]
Jenifer: [00:48:14] That was Jason Trieu. Jason and his brothers were reunited in Wisconsin, where they all became very familiar with snow. The numbers aren't exact, but somewhere between 2,500 and 3,000 children were airlifted by American Operation Babylift. Jason is a software engineer, a painter, a husband and a father. He's extremely grateful to Sherry and everyone, all the pilots and soldiers and nurses and volunteer chaperones who helped get so many children out of harm's way. To see a picture of Jason and his brothers, visit themoth.org. I wanted to end by quoting Glenn Baker, the soldier I spoke of at the top of the hour, who said, “He'd rather not share his personal story on stage.” Public speaking isn't for everyone, but I wanted to note Glenn Baker is a very brave man.
He received two Purple Hearts for his service with the 1st Air Cavalry Division in the Central Highlands and Cambodian border areas of South Vietnam. Glenn is African- American and said that the racial divide back home, made things more difficult in country. He was a squad leader with a predominantly white squad, but they made it work. He wrote, even after all these years, I'm still caught up in the Vietnam War. It's still very real for me. And although I want to feel proud for having served my country, I think it's important for all Americans who see themselves reflected in the Vietnam War Memorial Stone to remember the war honestly. We owe that to ourselves and to our children. That's it for this episode. We hope you'll join us next time for The Moth Radio Hour.
[Uncanny Valley theme music by The Drift playing]
Jay: [00:50:01] Your host this hour was Jenifer Hixson. Jenifer also directed the stories in the show, along with Sarah Austin Jenness. The rest of The Moth's directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman and Meg Bowles. Production support from Timothy Lou Ly. Moth stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift. Other music in this hour from Benjamin Verdery and Bill Frisell. You can find links to all the music we use at our website.
The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allison with Viki Merrick at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is presented by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on how to pitch your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.