Last fall, author and University of Colorado instructor Juliet Wittman offered “Tell Your Story,” a writing workshop for military veterans. They met weekly to read and discuss their projects. Here are excerpts from their work.
A second workshop begins Jan. 28 at the Boulder Vet Center, 2336 Canyon Blvd., Boulder. The cost is $225, with scholarships available to all veterans; call 303-492-5148 for details or e-mail juliet.wittman@colorado.edu.
Love and War
I befriended two Korean girls. I’d guess their ages at 8 and 6. I would hand them candy and cookies through the barbed wire whenever I received a package from home.
One day, the 6-year-old handed me a black plastic comb, probably one of the few treasures she owned.
Although we could not communicate through language, our lives touched at a very basic human level — the level of love.
— John Finck, Sgt, U.S. Marine Corps, 1953-61
Concentration Camp
There were just the three of us — my two younger brothers, 14 and 15, and me, just turned 16. Being the head of the household, I went and opened the door, and led my brothers out to meet the soldier.
He commanded us to follow him to the truck, and ordered us into the back. Once inside, I saw other people like us, all looking fearful.
I helped load my brothers and our belongings, and climbed inside to join the sober human cargo for the trip . . . destination unknown.
— Eddie Owada, T4, G2, Military Intel. Service 1944-46
Self-inflicted Gunshot Wound
The only recognizable feature was his left eye. The medics said he was breathing when they loaded him.
I checked for a pulse. I listened for breath. Even if there was any, what would be the point of resuscitating him? The front of his face and top of his forehead were gone.
He had received a “Dear John” letter from his wife, we were told.
“Go tell the Doc we have a casualty,” I said. I put the towel back over his face.
So, I thought, this is war?
— Bob Lecy, Sp/6 June 1966-August 1970, Army medic, Vietnam, 1968-69, infantry division
Spider Hole
Suddenly the sound of machine gun fire was all around us. Danny and Al jumped in the tractor to start the engines, while I moved behind the machine gun. Then: “Boom!” and a short burst from a machine gun. As quickly as it had started, it was over.
I climbed down from the tractor and walked behind the nearest hut. There stood a couple of Marines looking (at a body in) a spider hole — a camouflaged pit used by the Viet Cong.
One of the grunts got close enough to throw a grenade into the hole. We took his rifle and buried him in the hole he’d dug himself.
As we headed back to camp, it troubled me that what had happened didn’t scare me.
It should have. I knew that.
— Perry Walker, Lance Cpl. USMC 1966-67, Quang Tri, Vietnam
O Youth Rejoice
I was 17 and I knew everything and all there is to know.
I had dropped out of school. I thought of myself as hardheaded, hard-nosed and just plain stubborn. Now was my chance to escape at last.
I gave myself the once-over in the mirror. Next to it were posters showing you how to properly wear your uniform. It was my turn to step into a man’s shoes, build a future, be able to go to college, and become somebody someday. Serve my country, the flag and all things American.
— Jimmy Groblebe, SP4 HHS 1/10 Cavalry
