Hollow Words and Words of Healing

Hollow Words

Service and Sacrifice

Words that echoed then, echoing still

Hollow words, haunting us

Hovering over the earth

Memorial Day, 2019, was over. I woke Tuesday morning, crying. I was as brave as Bill had asked of me so many years ago, when he returned to Viet Nam in July of 1972. He wrote to tell me how it helped him leave when I did not cry at the airport. Of course there had been some tears, unbidden, caused by the sound of taps, the laying of a wreath (not once, but three times), Samantha reading his name, and the haunted feeling of walking into the bedroom we had shared in his childhood home on Longview Drive in Springfield Pennsylvania. It was a long day, the end (or was it merely a resting place?) of a long journey.

This long belated remembrance of Captain William G Chandler by the American Legion of Springfield Township, could not have been better planned or more thoughtfully executed. (for the complete narrative of Bill’s life see https://www.americanlegionpost227.org/cpt-william-chandler-legacy). Having my daughters and grandsons with me was pure gift, and as grateful as I am that they were accompanying me, I am aware that this event was essential for their understanding and healing as well. As well as his four comrades who served with him, and his high school classmates, and his sister who also came. We each carried memories and questions and our sorrow.

This time, dressed in an appropriately modest black sundress, I listened to stories, I asked long unanswered questions, and I allowed the truth to wash over me. On Tuesday I woke, remembering August 25, 1972, the day we traveled to Portland from Spokane. How I was dressed in an open knit mesh, pink and brown short skirt and see through top—an outfit that Bill like seeing me wear. I was, after all, on my way to welcome him home.

Abigail, at three months, still fit in her green plastic baby seat, with the adjustable metal bars to change the angle. Most of the time she was in my arms, her colicky stomach making her squirm and cry. When I held her, I felt our hearts beat together, the pulse of her father’s life continuing in her blood stream.

The day began with an early flight. A full size sedan was needed to transport eight of us to Willamette National Cemetery. My father, missing a day of harvest; my mother; Jayne, my mother-in-law; Holly, my fifteen year old sister-in-law; my sister Susan; I and my daughters, crowded together. We awaited his arrival, not at the airport, but in the office of Willamette National Cemetery. Others arrived. My sister Sandy and 3 week old Diane, four cousins. I have no memory of whether we walked or were driven to his gravesite, but my mind is clear about the shock of seeing his 6’2” frame reduced to a small urn of ashes.

My bravery was on full display, still hiding tears from 3 1/2 year old Samantha because I was not ready to answer her questions, gratefully distracted by the fussing of 3 month old Abigail. I was outside myself, listening to taps, flinching as the gun salute was given, watching as the flag was folded into a triangle with precision. I accepted the flag and the spoken tribute from a “Grateful nation.”

As my hometown community had been caring for us for two weeks, my cousins invited us to spend the rest of the day with them. It was forty miles to Silverton, where we were fed and I sat numbly listening to children laughing, waiting to resume my life, to find a life, to pick up the pieces, to invent a future, to sleep without tears or nightmares. 

We returned to the airport, sending Bill’s mother and sister home to Maine. Before she boarded their plane, Jayne gave me her blessing to find love again, to marry someone else, to find someone to provide for her son’s children, to be happy. I stood, incredulous, still dressed in my provocative outfit, holding Abigail’s baby seat, now filled with a folded flag. I felt eyes upon our sadness, wanting to be seen, to make the world know what it had done to me, to us, to gaze upon a 24 year old widow with fatherless babies.

Words of Healing

Forty seven years have passed. I was touched as words of appreciation were spoken. Yes, it was a great sacrifice, a great loss, but I am not grateful, not a believer in the idea that war, any involvement in death and destruction in another sovereign nation is in the best interests of this nation. 

I woke up at 4 am on May 28th, and began to cry. Emotionally exhausted I worked hard to stop the “if onlies” and to live with “what is.”

 The presence of Bill’s high school classmates, and four members of his advisory team in Vietnam, the American Legion, and his hometown community had given the honor he deserved. Wreath laying, taps playing, marching band behind us, prayers, the incredibly thorough and thoughtful narrative of his life were overwhelming. Two hours for lunch with his comrades, Mike Delaney, Ed Blankenhagen, and John Haseman, who had all been Army captains, serving together on Advisory Team 88 and Brian Valiton, an Engineer Advisor, provided answers to questions I didn’t know I needed to ask.

What I said to the military envoys who came to break my heart on August 13, 1972, —“It wasn’t supposed to happen, he was only an advisor,” — turns out to be true. My question to his compatriots was “how” did it happen. Their response boiled down to “It shouldn’t have.”

Their sorrow, their regret, their memories of Bill match mine. He maintained his integrity, was devoted and protective of me and our children, loved us and wanted to come home to us. He had their support and friendship to the end of his life.

Those were the words that rang true, the stories I needed, the flame of memory that will remain.