05/25/2026
My Dad
My father was a man of many secrets. Not by choice, but by temperament. He rarely spoke of his past. He'd come from a chaotic childhood and left home at 16 to join the Navy. He loved the camaraderie it afforded him and was proud of his service. He was what they called a "lifer."
I was a teenager in the 1960s when my father and I bonded through watching football and tuning up the car together on weekends. But it was between his tours of duty in Vietnam that I realized just how close we were. The times he'd invite me out onto our patio in the late Louisiana summer evenings. He'd sip scotch and smoke ci******es while we listened to Hank Williams and Patsy Cline on the record player.
Most of the time, we'd sing along with Hank and tell corny jokes. And sometimes, he'd comment on the heavy, warm humid air that reminded him of times in Vietnam. It was these times that I knew I was in for a good story. He spared me the horror he must have witnessed and would tell me stories of his friends and how they would pass the time.
One particular story strikes me still. I don't remember where specifically he was stationed, but it was on a border between North and South Vietnam. There was a rickety four-foot tall barbed-wire fence which separated the enemies, where they could hear distant sporadic gunfire and explosions during the day. The fencing spanned a treeless, grassy field where each side could easily see the other's buildings. There was no movement between them during the day. My Dad's squadron's sole mission was to ensure no one crossed. And no one ever attempted to cross from either side. It was an "easy tour" as he called it.
Late at night, and every night, a very different scene took place. One that my father said haunted him in a way none of his other war experiences had.
It would take place long after the gunfire and bombing had settled down to an almost peaceful calm. My father and his brothers-in-arms would spot tiny sparks of periodic light emanating from the buildings across the field. It was almost like a signal. The handful of American men on the nightshift would approach the fence without hesitation, as if back home taking a leisurely stroll. And as they approached, they'd see their counterparts equally relaxed coming to the fence.
They would meet and exchange brief greetings in whatever limited language each could understand. Making hand gestures, offering up ci******es, and from the dim light of a match show each other photographs of their families back home. Sometimes they would exchange odd wares unique to their respective cultures. They were no longer enemies in this nightly routine.
They were just men who turned a blind eye to what divided them. An American on one side, a Viet Cong on the other. No one knew when or how this ritual started. But it was carried on nonetheless by each new troop arrival. Was it from boredom? Or out of curiosity? It didn't really seem to matter. It was a chance to be human again. The only danger seemed to be in caring.
