Category: Opinion

By Tom Kauffman, May 13, 2014

Recent allegations that the Phoenix Veterans Affairs hospital was derelict in its duties, resulting in the deaths of 40 patients, have attracted the eyes of veteran service organizations, politicians, and the media. A recent town hall meeting, co-hosted by Phoenix radio personality Mike Broomhead, was meant to address these allegations and others emerging in the wake of the Phoenix scandal.

“Thank you for coming today, we are here to get answers and table solutions ,” said Broomhead, a steadfast veterans advocate.

At issue was the “amount of time veterans have to wait to get the care they deserve and earned,” he asserted before polling the crowed. By a show of hands, he asked attendees how long they had waited for care at the Phoenix facility for 15 days, then 30 days, then 60, 90, 6 months, and 1 year or longer.

At the end of the survey, more than a few hands remained in the air.

Senator John McCain then took the stage, inviting four women to speak. They told stories of husbands and fathers dying while waiting for care, of dying due to substandard treatment.

One couldn’t help but notice the flurry of flashes and hear the clicks of cameras as reporters raced to record the more emotional moments.

“For a year my husband tried to get an appointment. They just kept telling him, ‘Be patient, sir. You have to be patient,’” claimed Vicki Olson, one of the grieving widows on the stage.

“My dead veteran husband cannot be much more patient than he is today.  But me, I’m pissed.”

Senator McCain then made some points regarding the allegations of a secret “Death List.” He addressed reports of officials “cooking the books” in order to make it appear as if patients were receiving timely care.

He stopped short of calling for the resignation of Eric Shinseki, departing from the stance taken by several veteran service organizations as of late.

Instead, McCain took an easier stance, arguing that, if the allegations prove to be true, it will not be a matter of officials resigning, but a matter of officials spending time in jail. He then backed off on his rhetoric a bit, stating that investigations by the Inspector General can take months or even years.

Unfortunately, none of his words offered a solution to the ongoing problems of lengthy wait times and substandard care. Many veterans cannot afford to wait for things to change.

The only hint at a solution came when McCain proposed the idea of veterans choosing their own doctors: “Maybe we could have a card that would allow for reimbursement of outside care.”

However, he backtracked again, pointing out that the type of legislation requited to enact such a change would need to go through Congress. The blame was put on the system. Solutions would have to come from elsewhere.

McCain then opened the floor to the veterans in attendance. Emotional stories were followed by one pointed question in particular. “What are you going to do for veterans?” one veteran asked.

“I’ve helped [with] thousands of cases. You can see my record and ask my special team,” McCain replied.

“We’ve heard all this before,” the veteran added. “Sir, are you and your colleagues going to do the right thing for veterans?”

I was left with the impression that Senator McCain was doing little more than helping his constituents on an individual level—that he was doing his job, nothing more. After an hour, the floor was closed to veterans’ questions and comments. Nothing had been accomplished. No new ideas were presented. No leader emerged. 

McCain, who is often, due to his military service and time spent as a Prisoner of War in Vietnam, touted as the federal government’s one representative aware of the sacrifices made by veterans, failed to prove himself as a leader.

After waiting for the national media to get their talking points and interviews, I calmly asked  Senator McCain about his plans to reduce the number of veteran suicides. Citing current statistics, I made a point of letting him know, that during the course of the town hall meeting, it was likely that three veterans had taken their own lives.

“I’m not answering anymore questions.”

I am a veteran living with PTSD. And though there were many others in attendance who could’ve made the same claim, I was one of the few with a legitimate press pass, one of the few who’d been pre-approved for a chance to talk one on one with the senator. I felt insulted, shrugged off, ignored.

The senator instructed me to see his team of caseworkers to address any personal issues I’ve experienced with the VA.  Perhaps, in the company I found myself in at that moment, it was unrealistic for anyone to assume that a veteran could be looking for a change that would go beyond self-interest. His refusal to answer my question seemed at odds with my experience of camaraderie and looking out for those brothers and sisters who’ve worn the uniform.  I was looking for answers, not more lip service.

I was left with a sickening feeling. Because a politicians’ verbal maneuverings upstaged the true, heartfelt stories and cries for help of our veterans, it wasn’t hard to think that the event had been co-opted for political gain.

I spoke with one of the organizers after the event off the record. He, too left with the same sick feeling. Call it “posturing,” dilly-dallying,” or “lying” outright if you want. In the end, the town hall was little more than an exercise in rhetoric.

I had hope, at least, that the event would bring our issues to the attention of the national media.

Still, as of this morning, I hear nothing but crickets.

By David P. Ervin

It started with a simple question, and it ended with a powerful lesson. Seth Lombardy, a close friend, Soldier, and trademark director asked if I’d like to meet Joseph Galloway.  A lot went through my mind besides the word ‘yes.’ It was an honor. I’d be able to meet a famous author, have my well-worn copy of his book signed, and perhaps pick his brain a little. I didn’t know just how meaningful it would be, though.           

When he walked into the hotel lobby just outside of the Pentagon to meet us, you wouldn’t know by looking at him that he’d seen as much history as he had. He was amiable and down to Earth. His demeanor was that of a kindly grandfather. He was humble. Considering he’d interviewed Colin Powell that day, I was humbled. I was a little tongue tied as well, but it didn’t matter much. We let him lead the conversation.  Young soldiers know when to listen. 

That conversation had a wide range. He discussed the evolution of technology in regards to war reporting.  Things have come a long way since waiting on a military phone in Saigon to call in a five-hundred word story. He went on to cover the Gulf in 1991, then the Iraq invasion in 2003.  Despite the advances, he thought that something was missing from modern war reporting. He pointed out that everyone could recall an image or set of images from Vietnam, but that there weren’t any memorable photos from the Iraq War.  The public got the sugar-coated shots like tearing down Saddam’s statue in Baghdad or a medic cradling a hurt Iraqi child.  No images of dead or wounded Americans ever made it to a newscast, and for this reason, it didn’t impact our society as much.  But as the conversation continued, it dawned on me that he knew a way around that. We can still record it. 

It took Mr. Galloway and LTG Hal Moore ten years to research and write We Were Soldiers Once.  He spoke of cold-calling veterans of that battle and of a painstaking process of letting them edit the notes from their interviews. One story connected to that book and battle in particular illustrated the point of it all; why we write, why we share, and why we remember. 

He told us the story of CPT George Forrest at LZ Albany.  Summoned to the head of a battalion column for a conference, when the NVA opened up a murderous ambush, he had to sprint four-hundred yards through withering fire to link up with his company.  The two radio operators with him were killed, but he made it. He put his men into a tight perimeter and saved as many of them as he could given the circumstances.  When asked how he felt about it, he harbored some guilt. He didn’t feel he’d done enough, that he could have saved more of his soldiers.  So Mr. Galloway wrote the chapter, and like he always did, sent it to the appropriate veterans for their review.  CPT George Forrest’s father got to read it.  His reaction? 

“You done good, son.” 

It was a powerful moment, and I’m not sure if there was a dry eye amongst us. Beyond the emotion, though, was a poignant reminder of the importance of recording these experiences.  We can give a voice to the unspeakable.  We can inform generations about what it was like.  We can help them understand, and we can understand better ourselves.  Mr. Galloway has been a bridge between military and civilian cultures for nearly half a century. It’s up to us to continue the mission. 

Michael Lund is one of our workshop leaders in the Veteran’s PTSD Project (VPP) Facebook writing workshop. Lund is a retired professor of English and lives and writes in Virginia. An Army correspondent in Vietnam, 1970-71, he is the author of a collection of short stories, How to Not Tell a War Story, and a novel series inspired by The Mother Road, including Growing up on Route 66 and Route 66 to Vietnam: A Draftee’s Story. 

Lund shares how writing impacted his life and how it can impact yours in his short piece “Keys”

On a small table in my living room sits the Underwood standard typewriter I purchased as a high school senior in 1963 from a fleet of used machines being sold at an auction. Mechanical, black, ridiculously heavy, it’s a tool I found you must engage tactilely, pounding the individual keys with fingers, hitting the space bar with thumbs, sending the carriage flying back with a flip of the wrist at the sound of a bell. This Underwood is a key to my stability.

I carried–perhaps lugged is a better word–this monster to college with me and on to graduate school. It traveled with me in my brief Army career. though not, obviously, to Vietnam, though there was a mate there for me to use as an Army correspondent. At my first teaching position, I typed tests, scholarly articles, and drafts of stories I would later write about my military experience. Each finished piece was a material object. The key I pounded levered an inverted piece type up and smacked it onto a ribbon soaked with ink, leaving the shape of a letter on paper flattened against a patten. With my hands I struck the keys in the necessary order to produce words, arranged those words into sentences, shaped the sentences into paragraphs. They all represented ideas, but ideas literally hammered into place by me with the Underwood standard.

When the personal computer became available sometime in the early 1980s, of course, I switched to the new technology. I still had a tendency to bang the keyboard and to reach up to return the carriage; but the speed of editing, the easy of producing (and saving) multiple drafts, the reduced cost of paper (one clean copy at the end) were obvious even to traditionalists. The Underwood was put away in a closet, forgotten for some years.

The machine that had proven necessary to my academic and professional career returned as an objet d’art, something for children and even young adults to inspect next to old pocket watches, a few first editions of hardbound books, memorabilia form my parents’ and my own lives. A key to the past, it sits appropriately in a house built in 1905.

When I see my Underwood, I am reminded that writing is a labor to overcome disorder, an effort to gather into one structure disparate, sometimes warring elements of our world and selves. To impose structure on my thoughts, feelings, and desires I have put them into words and those words into familiar shapes–letter, essay, memoir, short story, novel.

When I hosted a writing seminar for veterans in my rural community last summer, I hoped I would be able to encourage the six participants–all about my age–to achieve the same settling of things that matter into a comforting shape. I offered advice from my more than 35 years of teaching about shaping an argument, narrating an experience, describing a character. I explained, however, that the process would at times be challenging, roadblocks might occur, it was possible to veer off course. They, too, would have to hammer words into patterns, even if their fingers were just tapping a touchpad. Still, whatever the effort, their sense of personal and communal history would be strengthened, I predicted, their approach to the future made more clear, the sense of who they are and what they’ve done become more sure.

Though all achieved these ends, I will refer to only one individual: a military wife whose son lost a leg in Iraq. That admirable young man had recovered to the point of skiing, completing college, running marathons, helping other veterans, marrying, starting a family. So the story was not about him, but about his mother, who flew from Virginia to Germany to be with him immediately after he was wounded, who lived at Walter Reed as he went through rehab, who wrestled procedure, paperwork, and regulation for him long after he was released. She knew she had a story to tell: the trauma of a mother who almost lost her son.

That story is not done. She finished one fine chapter, drew up drafts of several more, and continues to work as her busy schedule allows. Her family has entered into the process, reading drafts of different sections, offering memories, encouraging her to get it all in, to get it all right. She laughs when she tells me the project may expand to a series of books, not just one, with many collaborators. She has been pleased at each stage of the process, satisfied at the growth she has found in herself and in others through the process of writing.

If my Underwood standard no longer has a function in producing documents, it serves as a key reminder to me of the solidity, the weight, and the staying power of experience put into words. Writing benefits the writer (in my friend’s case, the writers) and readers. I encourage those who have carried the burden of service to produce products of their experience in words, coming to terms with and growing from traumatic events they have had to endure for their country.

Read more by Michael Lund