VietNow
National Magazine
Veterans Incarcerated
A Man, Broken by
War, Tells His Story and Wonders If He
Can Be Fixed
By Matt Davison – VietNow
National Veterans Incarcerated Chair
Matt
Davison |
|
This is the second article that tells
the story of a Veteran Incarcerated, one
who served in Vietnam with the U.S. Navy,
and one who still suffers the effects of
PTSD from his Vietnam experience. This
individual is named Lawrence. I will withold
his name for confidentiality purposes.
People ask me what it's like going into
correctional institutions and working with
Veterans Incarcerated. They want to know
if
I deal with “attitude” from
these men, or if I’m in danger being
left alone with them in the room where
I provide counseling and case management.
The fact is, each veteran goes out of his
way to express appreciation that somebody
cares…that somebody shows up…that
they are not forgotten. Recently, a vet
I had been assisting
was released. I set him up with transitional
housing in Southern California. While working
a stand down a couple weeks ago, I was
approached by this vet wearing a volunteer
t-shirt. He was there to help homeless
vets. So here was a vet who got help while
incarcerated and was now giving help to
other vets in need. He came full circle
in his life transformation. No, there is
no attitude
and no threats. There is only the hope
that these vets will be forgiven for making
a wrong choice and given a chance to redeem
themselves. Lawrence is one of those vets,
and here is his story.
Lawrence's Story
As
a Gunners Mate (GMA), I believed that
my duties after leaving school would be
simple, but I found out different after
leaving Subic Bay, PI. Heading out for
my squadron, I was put on an oiler fuel
supply ship, the Camden.
I was informed that the Camden would
be my ride to the gun line. The ship
was slow, as oilers generally are,
and I was asked by the chief gunner’s
mate to help with the amidships little
3-inch “pop
gun.” We
steamed for what seemed an eternity
until one morning around 0130, I heard
the sounds of war for the first time.
It was the New Jersey firing its giant
22-inch guns in the gun line at Yankee
Station in the Tonkin Gulf. I was not
frightened by this, but the picture
in my mind from all the hype on TV
did not seem to match the reality.
The real picture was the sound of people
dying at the hands of the VC. I was
ready to join in the fight then and
there, still believing what was spewed
out on TV.
When dawn broke,
I was summoned to the chief’s office
and told that my squadron had choppered
out to Yokuska, Japan, two days earlier,
and that I would be going aboard the
Albert David to man the slick assigned
to the T.A.S.S. system on board the “Big
Al.” I was very excited
about that, as my little brother was
assigned to that ship. I had not seen
him in two years. This was great, I thought.
When I was hi-lined over, he was the
first to greet me. I could see that my
brother had changed, as war changes people.
His eyes seemed dull, tired, lifeless.
I went below to stow my gear, was assigned
a berth, and met the crew. I was then
informed by the X.O. that my temporary
assignment would be short, as the crew
member I was replacing was expected back
soon, and I would then be released to
my squadron.
I was instructed to meet
the chief of the watch and introduce
myself. While talking to the chief, GQ
was sounded and I reported to my duty
station, the UH-1 named ‘“Felix,” and
off we went. The USS
Higbee, another
DD, had just been attacked by a Soviet-piloted
MIG which dropped a 1,000-pound bomb
on the bow. Many died that day on the
Higbee. As we flew over the damaged ship,
I couldn’t
believe she was still afloat. The Turner
Joy, DD 959, and the Henderson went to
the aid of the Higbee. The “Big
Al” steamed
in circles, waiting to kill something.
We were all fighting mad. The next 24
hours changed my life forever.
At quarters,
in the morning, the weather had changed
and it was a no-fly day. ‘Felix’ was
also in need of service work, so I was
assigned to a boarding party. We boarded
a long junk, with a Vietnamese family
on board, only to discover that it was
loaded with NVA. I don’t know who
fired first, but I unloaded my M-16
with a vengeance. When the cease-fire
was called, seven NVA and seven of the
Vietnamese family were dead. Five of
our team lay wounded, and I had
killed another human being in the rage
of war.
After a detailed report, we were
debriefed and relieved. Later that night,
while sitting on the fantail, I observed
what appeared to be a star or light in
the distance. The night was overcast
and no plane or helo would be run-
ning white lights. Seconds later, a heat-seeking
missile came down off the post side of
the ship.
Patrolling the Delta was my
assignment after T.A.S.S. While this
may not have been the best duty, it was
certainly not the worst. It did teach
me how to survive anywhere, and how to
be a more efficient killer. What it didn’t
teach me, was how to return home and
live a normal life.
For me, the “welcome
home” wasn’t
very welcoming. It ended up nasty and
hurtful. I was sent to the captain’s
mast and court-martialed for fighting
a KKK member, who also happened to be
a senior chief, aboard ship. He mouthed
off, and as a result, lost a few teeth
and had his ribs cracked. I was confined
to the ship, and led to the brig in handcuffs.
This was just the start of a life in
state and federal incarceration.
As I
see it now, the Navy trained me to kill,
not defend. They didn’t train
me to handle the ugliness of racial prejudice
or the hatred of those war protesters
who called me a murderer. The Navy spent
thousands of dollars to train me to kill,
and then, along with society, abandoned
me.
Fitting in is something that just
doesn’t
happen for me too often. It is something
that has eluded me for over 35 years.
Once, long ago, I did fit in, including
boot camp and aboard ship, but it seems
I’m at a loss when it comes
to interacting with others now. Even
in prison, I’m not eager to extend
myself unless it’s about
Christ, and then I feel empowered.
I was
told by a prison guard that I was unique
because I was black, a combat veteran,
and a professional aviator. He said he
could see that I was not accepted by the
other inmates. The places where I felt
most at home were combat environments like
Nam, or when I was a “contract” aviator
in Nicaragua, Panama, and Saudi Arabia.
When I work “hot spots,” I
feel accepted and welcomed. This is not
normal.
My feelings of abandonment are
real, and as I look around me, I can
touch it. I’ve
been broken for over 30 years, and no
one will fix me. I don’t know how
to fix myself. Did the Navy break me?
Was it war? Did prejudice and racism
produce this person sitting behind these
walls? Did the failed marriages and drinking
add to my life failures? I can only say
that I wasn’t born like this, and
wasn’t
like this when I left home in 1971.
The
killing of another human being, under
any condition, has an effect on you.
Compound that with all the other components,
and you have me. Somebody fix me, please.
I’m
not making excuses, just telling the
facts, and asking for a hand.
Matt Davison,
Veterans Advocate with Joint Efforts,
Inc., began working with veterans incarcerated
two years ago through the creation of
the Veterans Support Group at the Federal
Corrections Institution at Terminal Island,
San Pedro, CA. He has also counseled
pre-release veterans at the Los Angeles
County facility in Lynwood, CA., and
worked to get a veterans incarcerated
support group set up at San Quentin.
He received the “Beacon of Light” award
from FCI Terminal Island for developing
the fastest-growing program at the institution.
Back to main Veterans Incarcerated page.
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