VietNow National Magazine

May 12, 1968
It was a day like any other day, wasn’t it? It was Mother’s Day. It was a nice day. And it was the day that changed everything for a family waiting back home in Kentucky. From the point of view of his mother, a winner of VietNow’s Sons & Daughters In Touch Scholarship tells the story of his grandfather’s death in Vietnam.

By John Howard Starnes, when he was in 8th grade.

A dark-headed third grader enters the Second Street Elementary School in Frankfort, on a beautiful spring day in Kentucky. Spacious blue skies are above, birds are singing in harmony in the trees around the school, and the air is less humid than usual, in the town by the river. Not much is different from any other day, but school will be out soon. Then her Daddy will be coming home from that place (Vietnam), at the end of this month. She is not really counting the days – she just knows it is soon.
“What will be the next move the family will make when Daddy comes home? Germany? The Philippines? What are those places like?” the little girl sometimes wonders. She knows not to talk much about her Daddy, in or out of school. After all, he is in Vietnam. Many people get upset and say bad things about the men fighting there.
Anyway, life is good. She lives with mother, brother, and sister, with her loving grandparents (Mammy and Pop-Pop) in Frankfort, Kentucky, on Wapping Street. Her mother is always there, and the little girl gets to hear Daddy’s voice over the tape player. Granny and Granddaddy live in Eminence, and come to get her almost every weekend to do something fun.
May 12, 1968, is Sunday (Mother’s Day). The little girl celebrates the day with her mother and her mother’s mother (Mammy). Granny, her other grandmother, is traveling in Mexico. The girl walks around her grandparents’ big house in Frankfort. She loves the big house. There is a pleasant yard to play in, trees to climb in, and many rooms to hide in. The house is in the old part of town, so there is not much traffic at 505 Wapping Street. It is a wonderful place to live – all that is missing is her Daddy.
May 12, 1968, is just another evening. The little girl watches the news on the television while supper is being prepared. It shows more of the same things – more news from Vietnam. The little girl watches with casual interest. Her Daddy’s there, but nothing can happen to him.
The television shows a plane crashing into the side of a mountain. A U.S. plane had been shot down near the Kham Duc Special Forces Camp airfield by the North Vietnamese. The aircraft was attempting to evacuate Vietnamese dependents in a village in the mountains. This is what she saw every night, it seemed, along with people protesting, “Make love, not war!” and, “Hell no, we won’t go!”
May 12, 1968, just another night, and the family goes to bed. It will not be long until her Daddy comes home from Vietnam, at the end of May. Her mother dreams wild dreams of trying to catch a train that her husband is on. She runs, but cannot get on the train. A solemn hand waves goodbye. She wakes up with tears streaming down her face, and tries to go back to sleep.
May 13, 1968, Monday, is just another school day. The little third grader again walks to Second Street School with her big sister (a fifth grader), and her big brother (a seventh grader). She enters the classroom and sits down. Time is passing quickly.
What? Here is Mrs. Clayton, a family friend, coming to get her out of class. “Oh boy,” the little girl says. It is a beautiful day, and she would really rather be outside. However, she is confused because this has never happened before. Wait – her brother and sister are getting out of school, too. Mrs. Clayton will not say, but the little girl realizes something is wrong.
“Mrs. Clayton, what is going on?” the big brother asks, as they get into her car. Mrs. Clayton did not answer. The children had never been driven to or from school before. After all, the school was only three blocks and the Singing Bridge away. Silence prevails in the car.
Mrs. Clayton pulls her car into the drive. The children climb out of the car. The little girl looks at the door on the glassed-in porch. It has a heavy, iron black hand that serves as a doorknocker. She looks at the slender, feminine gold-hand doorknocker on the stained glass door that leads into the main house. They open the big door, and enter the house. Thoughts race through the girl’s head. One thought comes to mind, but she tries to find another reason.
Their mother, usually secure and composed, is sitting in the big chair in the living room. The room is the same. The same high ceilings, the same beautiful paintings, the same antique furniture – it is all the same, but their mother is crying. Something is terribly wrong. There is something she must tell them. It is the hardest thing she will ever have to tell them. “Children, we have just found out that your Daddy was killed. His plane was shot down.” The little girl’s mind seems to wander, and she hears something else about “no survivors.”
The children did not seem to grasp reality at first. Everything happened so quickly, but tears and sadness were contagious. The family groups together and just cries.
Later the children settled into their own forms of grief. There are so many people around. Relatives have come from everywhere, all wanting to help. The house was big, and could hold many people. Granny and Granddaddy had to be called. They were away on vacation in Mexico City. Daddy was their only son. He had died on Mother’s Day.
The Air Force had not notified the family on May 12 because it was Mother’s Day. What, however, is a good day to notify a family that their life had irrevocably changed? For a few days life seemed distinct and a blur all at the same time. An aunt tried to make smiles by dancing on top of the dining room table. An uncle hopped up and down on an orange ball. The grandmother tries to bring the children out of themselves by giving them chores. The children do not have to go to school for that week, but it is not any fun.
A memorial service is held. What is going on? There is a coffin and a flag, but the body lies unclaimed, deep in the jungles of Vietnam. “Taps” floats through the air and into the minds. The little girl knows the words: “Day is done. Gone the sun, from the lakes, from the hills, from the sky. All is well, safely rest. God is nigh.” A 21-gun salute hurts the ears and wounds the heart.
The family goes to Granny and Granddaddy’s house after the service. The little girl still cannot figure it all out. People are eating and telling stories about her Daddy. They laugh some, and they cry. What is there to laugh about? She really does not know.
The children all have vivid dreams. “An airplane had just landed. There is
a man, and he is bandaged like a mummy. Nobody knows who he is, and he has amnesia. I know who he is. He is my Daddy, and he has come back to the family, and she is the only one who knows who he is,” was the little girl’s dream. The news talks about MIA (Missing in Action). That is what they really think happened to their Daddy.
Things go on, and life continues – although forever different. The little girl, her sister, and her brother do not talk much about their Daddy’s death. They were so proud of their Daddy, but he was killed in that place, Vietnam. The war no one won.

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