12 cassette tapes
An envelope filled with snapshots
A box of combat medals, including two purple hearts
Official letters of condolence, including one from Richard Nixon, one from the Secretary of the Army
A flag, once draped over a small box of cremated remains, folded perfectly into a triangle
A telegram that includes the words: "Killed in action on a combat mission when the area received mortar and small arms fire from hostile ground force."
All that is left of a marriage of four years and nine days
Except for the daughters and grandsons, who proudly retain the name Chandler
Except for my life
The legacy of William Gary Chandler, November 18, 1947 - August 11, 1972.
I need to hunt down and borrow a cassette player to listen to his voice. It is deep and calming and speaks of his experiences and his fears, his longing to come home and our plans for the future.
I am startled by what I read, jarred into the memory that my move from Washington to Pennsylvania to live with his mother when he left for Vietnam in December of 1968 was in order for us to save money. We wanted enough money from his combat pay to create a nest egg for our future together, in our own home, with kids and dogs. My unplanned pregnancy, our quickly planned wedding, and my personal shame of the "prude that wouldn't put out" gone "bad" are what I retained. That far away from home, I wouldn't be a visible embarrassment to my parents, to myself.
Reading the first thirty letters, the letters written before his "million dollar wound" which took him out of combat and brought him home in time to welcome our precious red headed baby girl into this world, I revised my memories.
My mother-in-law, mostly because I was twenty, hormones amuck with pregnancy, and homesick, was a challenge to live with. Because she knew her son loved me and I made him happy, she loved me. She accepted me, welcomed me, and celebrated the new life growing within me.
How could I have forgotten the loving letter from my mother, sharing my father's delight that I was a sexual being, like her, and celebrating another grandchild?
The bulk of the letters came during Bill's second tour. The one he volunteered for out of a sense of completing his obligation, doing his duty, and in order to earn a reassignment to Germany. He left the infantry and joined military intelligence, believing he would not be sent into the rice paddies. He prided himself in writing every day that he could, and made tapes on days he couldn't write. He surprised me with phone calls from his monthly trips to Saigon, reminding me that I wrote more letters but he called more often.
On Memorial Day, I will walk in a parade, a small procession really, through the streets of Springfield Township, Pennsylvania, to lay a wreath, in his honor, as a fallen soldier, a son of that place. I will attend a ceremony for Gold Star families. Our daughters and our grandsons, Bill's sister, and a nephew will be there with me. We will recall his service and sacrifice. And we will cry.
We have been clear with the organizers. We are pacifists all. We abhor war and violence and national policies of colonialism and the arrogance of American power and presumed superiority. I have shared this letter, the first that Bill wrote as he left for his first tour of duty:
Dearest Kitten
It is 19 Dec 1968 and the time in Calif. is 2130.
I pray that our first child is a girl. I don’t think I could stand to see my son go off to war; not a war like this.
I spent about five hours at Travis Air Force Base sitting, thinking, and drinking coffee. For me it wasn’t too bad, but I pity the soul who would start off on such a venture without knowing anyone or having a good friend to talk to. Not just anyone but someone you can talk to and know that he understands.
We’re on the plane now, a Boeing 707. One hundred sixty three strong. Army, Navy, Marines, Air Force. Not a unit here, just individuals, all with doubts fears and memories of what they left.
163 people going to a place to fight in a so called war.
A war with no end in sight and no gain intended.
163 boys, the cream of the crop and the sons of parents who love them.
As I look around there can be seen the entire group with their mixed emotions.
Those that are loud and raucous for one of two reasons. They don’t know what they’re going to, or they’re so scared that silence would shatter their facade.
The quiet who talk of what they’ve heard about Viet Nam, about their wives, families, their past. And there are the silent who are scared for they know what lies ahead, and talking, to these people only frightens them more. I haven’t classified myself yet.
163 leaving for Viet Nam for a one year tour.
Those that are silent and quiet and loud know that after one year no one could assemble those 163 for a return flight.
They instead wonder, how many killed, how many wounded, how many maimed, how many hurt so bad that they’ll be vegetables the rest of their lives, and how many will live one more year.
I predict nothing but wonder much.
There are only three classes, those that make it, those that don’t, those that make it back but not all in one piece. Apathy is a scarce commodity right now. They all ask, which class will I be in?
We have all of them here. Privates, NCO’s and officers.
I wonder how the private feels. He probably wonders what he’ll be doing and where and will his leader be competent.
The NCO’s, I imagine, wonder the same thing, but with more responsibility added in.
The officers, I know how they feel. Some wonder about themselves, do they know what to do? They’ll be given men over there, will they finish with all that they started out with? When everyone looks to him for the answer, the decision, the plan, will he have the right one, the one that will kill the fewest? So young, so new, so much in charge.
Now is the time for serious self-evaluation for many.
It’s 2200 hrs now. I rest, and think and wonder, about them, about the upcoming year and about me.
Love, Bill
War ended his life
War changed mine
War has affected his children
We are his legacy
We are survivors
