In retrospect 1969 proved to be the benchmark year of a youthful, grass roots, social revolution that ultimately altered America's perception of patriotism and its established cultural values. The offspring generation of parents who had endured world war sanctimoniously vilified the liberties that their progenitors had nourished with blood and sacrifice. Oddly, the final year of this tumultuous decade ended in optimism bolstered by unprecedented scientific achievement. While American soldiers suffered hardship, death, and disfigurement a world away – the home front reveled in sexual freedom, drugs, good economy, and a distracting sense of national pride resulting from world scientific leadership. During that wonderful July, when America went to the moon, the finest and most educated army it had ever fielded disintegrated in a quagmire of political ineptitude and national shame.

 My involvement with Vietnam began during what was inappropriately hyped (coition had been confused with affection) as the "Summer of Love." After graduating university in June 1967, my S-2 student draft deferment immediately changed to A-1 eligibility. Although there were many lawful options to escape military service, draft avoidance and self-exile blossomed to high fashion. Many young males simply did not want to risk their well-being for others. The chant, "Hell no, we won't go!" became the credo for an antagonistic generation of disenfranchised youths. Although this rebellion was little more than an extension of pubescent intolerance directed against the policies of government, it matured into a cultural statement that adequately reflected the self-centered perceptions of an emerging middle class born of the post World War II baby boom. The psychological aftermath of world economic depression and war had compelled its survivors to vow a better life for their children. A guerrilla war of attrition in Southeast Asia, reminiscent of the jungle warfare with Japan, did not fulfill middle class expectations of a better life. In Vietnam, history's greatest experiment in democracy would field its last army of citizen-soldiers, ending a tradition begun two centuries earlier at a bridge in rural New England. Henceforth, America would depend upon professional troops to defend its liberties and execute its political will.

 The events of 1969 dramatically altered the soldier's perception of combat in Vietnam. During my seven months in country, the Esprit-de-Corps withered from the ideal of Duty, Honor, and Country to an individually subscribed doctrine of survival. Conscripted soldier no longer sanctioned sacrifice in a cause lost to questionable politics, failed military leadership, immoral societal peer behavior, and divided loyalties. There was, and there would continue to be, great valor and dignity in combat but, henceforth, for different reasons. Soldiers now executed orders only if the objectives of the Army did not interfere with their own well-being. Commanders who did not understand and accept this reality dared not venture into the field. The nature of America's involvement in Vietnam declined from an international political commitment to a domestic ritual of manhood. During 1969 the universal draft was replaced by a general lottery. This unfortunate change of government policy psychologically implied losing and bad luck for the chosen. As the army of the 1960's continued to withdraw piecemeal, those remaining – understandably – valued self-preservation above Duty, Honor, and Country.

 My first inkling that Vietnam soldiers were held in low national esteem manifested itself on my homecoming flight from Oakland. I was seated next to an attractive, vivacious, young woman. Our conversation had been light and jovial until she asked where I was stationed. When I told her I was on my way home from a tour in Vietnam, she chose to sit elsewhere! I was shocked. She never said, "excuse me" or "goodbye," she just stood up and left. When the plane landed after midnight at Newark Airport, there was no taxi service to Union, NJ. The airport kindly secured a ride for me part of the way with a citizen traveling south on the New Jersey Parkway. We hardly spoke during the drive and at the Union Exit he left me off. I walked a couple of miles to my home. I didn't mind the walk, I had been in the infantry and a couple of miles meant nothing.

 My mom and dad had placed our nation's flag in the living room window along with a sign that read, "Welcome Home Bob." It was very late, way past their bedtime, and my arrival was days earlier than expected. They were old and I didn’t want to frighten them by knocking on the door (I had no key). I stood outside for quite awhile, alone in the darkness, gazing at the message in the living-room window. For what seemed to have been a lifetime in a different world, I had given of myself. This sign of love was all for me. My eyes watered. It was an unfamiliar sensation. I cried for joy, I cried for all the occasions that I should have cried during the past seven months, I cried for the unfinished business that I left behind and the guys who were still a part of it. And then I cried for myself.

 Initially, I didn't talk much about Vietnam. I tried to put it all behind me. I was overjoyed to have survived the experience. I, like many other fellow citizens, watched the dinnertime combat footage on the evening news with disinterest. It wasn't my war anymore and the people in my life didn't really want to talk or hear about it. We all, however, felt the horror of the Kent State University incident (2/4/70). My heart went out to the handful of beleaguered guardsman who, while attempting to disengage from an overwhelming force, felt the desperate need to cover their withdrawal with suppressive fire. I quickly learned the societal inappropriateness of my reaction. We were supposed to grieve for the irrational horde of students who thought they were privileged to attack the sovereign state of Ohio. For years I speculated on the outcome had it been a squad of USARV infantry being stoned at Kent State. Police serve and protect; soldiers kill. Both carry weapons, but each responds differently to threats.

 Bitterness began festering in my heart toward my countrymen who had the obscenity of mind and spirit to have forced me into a charnel and, then, hold me in contempt for what they forced me to do. I began to talk about Vietnam. It amazed me how people resented hearing what I felt I had to say. Social drinking loosened my tongue. A pervasive wall of common indifference encouraged me to speak excessively, and at times, obnoxiously. Even individuals I considered friends became inconsiderate of my service to this country. Many a times I vowed to myself that I would never speak of Vietnam again. I, however, could not dismiss it from my thoughts.

The bitterness I felt toward my fellow citizens eventually matured into cynicism. Their collective attitude toward the Vietnam War and its participants was outrageous. Well-meaning, but ignorant people advised me to put Vietnam behind me. The implication was that my service to the United States of America was shameful. "Block it out, Bob. Forget it. Move on with your life." Others actually doubted my service and its quality. They compared me to a stereotypical, fiction-inspired, combat veteran who never talked about the war because of the undisclosed horrors he had endured. "Cat got your tongue?" Unfortunately, there exists no norm for the qualify of horror or standard to quantify its affect and ultimate effect upon the individual psyche. Humans perceive, process, and cope with fear (the resultant of horror) in a fashion that is compatible with their individual intellect and emotional disposition. This is why some excel in threatening environments while others wither. Experience and training artificially alter the natural perception of horror but, then, fear accumulates in the memory and invites future psychological shock.

 It took many years for me to realize that it wasn't the retelling that caused distress, but rather, the psychological and emotional state of the recipient listener. Offering one's life for the well-being of another, or for a conceptual value remains beyond the intellectual acceptance of the average American citizen. We are a nation of self-centered consumers. We deny God, we deny the sanctimony of marriage, we deny, we deny. Vietnam taught different lessons.

My war experience remains much a part of my life now as it did then. There isn't a day that goes by wherein a smell, a sight, or a sound triggers a memory and – for an instant – I am back in the Delta. Sometimes in the early morning, when arousing from sleep, I awake thinking I am still there, confusing reality with the dream. But, no, I know I am home. Here I have a family and relationships that are worth a man or soldier's sacrifice. There all I had was an intangible concept of Duty – Country – Honor. Not much to risk life and limb for; yet, perhaps it was everything.

When I departed for Vietnam in January 1969, I was an ingenuous romantic enamored by the rhythm of words and the synergy of musical notes. I loved poetry and literature. For seven frightening months I made music with the 9^th Infantry Division Band, and when I closed the lid of my trumpet case that last time on Dong Tam – it was forever. I returned home in August 1969, a realist who no longer heard the rhythm of words or appreciated the synergy of musical notes. For me the music had faded.