A sea change on veterans and war 50 years after my military service
I started as a summer intern in Newsweek’s Washington bureau in June of 1968. I was to work there briefly before reporting for Army duty at the Pentagon in the fall. Like many a visitor to the nation’s capital expecting only a brief tenure, I stayed. Fifty years later, the drama and turmoil of that memorable year remain etched into my memory.
By any measure, 1968 was an epic year in the American experience, defined by twin traumas of war and racial unrest. Vietnam, the most polarizing war in our history, would drive President Lyndon Johnson from office. The assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. in April triggered several days of race riots in the capital that left several city blocks in ashes.
At the Pentagon, I reported to Rear Adm. Shannon Cramer, a silver-haired submariner. I distinctly recall two pieces of advice. Never forget, he confided, that his boss and ultimately mine, the assistant secretary of Defense for public affairs, was the civilian equivalent of a five-star general. Then he turned somber: “Lieutenant, I’d also recommend that when you’re off duty, avoid wearing your uniform whenever possible. This is not the best of times for our military, especially in this city.”
That was an understatement. A year earlier, 100,000 demonstrators marched on the Pentagon to protest the Vietnam War. Draftees continued to die in sizable numbers in Southeast Asia, but military commanders assured President Johnson the war would soon be won so long as ever more troops were dispatched to the combat zone. Public opinion began to wane — especially after a seismic February 1968 report by CBS anchor Walter Cronkite cast doubt on the Johnson administration’s glowing reports.
Outside the Pentagon cocoon and the many bases ringing Washington, the military wasn’t much welcome, much less honored, by many civilians enraged by the war’s escalating toll.
Today, a remarkable turnabout has occurred.
At a white-tie dinner recently, tourists from New Jersey noticed the medals on my lapel and said, simply: “Thank you for your service.” This gratifying salute happens regularly when we veterans show our retired-military IDs at airport security checkpoints.
What explains this change? I believe the Vietnam Veterans Memorial was the catalyst. Those 10-foot-high slabs of black granite humanize the Vietnam War dead. They convey a sense of legitimacy to their sacrifice that can’t be ignored.
Moreover, the wall isn’t merely a powerful icon enabling survivors to mourn 58,000 fallen brothers and sisters in arms; it also helps an aging generation of anti-war activists recognize the distinction between the troops who returned, often with deep physical and psychological scars, and the military brass and politicians who sent them there.
The wall is a uniquely American analogue to John McCrae’s haunting World War I poem: In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row That mark our place . ... We are the dead. There aren’t any poppies at the wall, but each dawn brings a fresh supply of combat boots, dog tags, stuffed animals, medals, faded uniforms and other symbolic links between the living and the lost. It’s America’s own Flanders fields.
Thomas DeFrank, former senior White House correspondent for Newsweek, is a contributing editor at National Journal.