Mama's more nervous than a polecat on a stormy night. She said her goodbyes to me today. It's been 38 years since she hugged a loved one and sent them off into the wild green jungles of Southeast Asia. She didn't say so, but I know she wishes I weren't going on this trip.

"There's war breaking out all over the world," she said.

That's Mama's way of saying: "I'm scared I won't see you alive again."

She's not a paranoid person. It's just the last time she sent a loved one off to Vietnam, he came home via air mail, in a casket. Mama can't help it -- she associates Vietnam with loss.

Brother John wasn't much help either.

"If  you get arrested over there, don't expect me to come bail you out," he said.

An odd comment coming from my older brother. The only night I was locked up I asked to be. I was reporting a story for the local paper. The county sheriff was more than delighted to lock me into the day room with a woman who bore more tattoos than I do freckles. I told her I was arrested for drunk driving. The really frightening thing was she believed me. I reckon everybody looks like a criminal when dressed in orange jumpsuits.

"Don't worry," I reassured my brother. "I don't plan on getting arrested."

"Well, then you better keep your mouth shut the whole time you're there," he warned me.

Brother John has always insisted that my repartee, which most consider to be witty, will land me in big trouble some day.

Sister Tater has promised to come see me off at Portland's International airport. She's not about to let me go halfway around the world without a hug first. Sister Tater hugs everybody. And she prays for everybody, too. Sister Tater and God are good buddies. She calls Him all the time. And whenever He needs a job done, God relies on his number one son or my little sister. There's nothing she wouldn't do if God asked her, too. Except maybe go to Vietnam.

"Fifteen hours on a plane!" Tater exclaimed. "I can't imagine doing that. You are so brave."

Not really.  I sure don't feel very courageous. I feel more like Scarlet O'Hara when she forced her worries aside and declared,"I'll think about it tomorrow."

Except now is the eve of tomorrow. My bags are packed. I've got a picture of my father, David Paul Spears, wrapped around my neck. It's the same picture I shared with a Vietnam veteran who dropped by the house earlier this week to wish me a good journey. When I handed him the picture this gentle man dropped to both knees on my living room floor and with his head bowed low over my father's picture, he wept.

I didn't say a word. I just placed my hand on his back.

I have learned that there's no shame in weeping over Vietnam.

Lots of people do it.

But what I'm looking forward to most about this trip is the laughter we Sons and Daughters will share as we journey in country. Because, as all my buddies know, laughter through tears is my favorite emotion.

Karen Spears Zacharias is the daughter of SSG David Paul Spears, KIA, July 24, 1966. A freelance reporter and columnist, she resides near the Umatilla River in Pendleton, Oregon.
Copyright 2003 Karen Zacarias. Karen Zacharias grants permission for this letter, in part or in whole, to be reprinted provided she is properly attributed and notified. Email will be forwarded by webmaster@VirtualWall.org

Ciao,

After a breakfast of fish sauce soup, plantain bananas and dragon fruit, we headed out for a tour of Saigon. At Chinatown we stopped by a temple. As others watched the ceremony I wandered out to the side road and snapped photos as four young boys, 10 and under played with a cardboard box. They jumped up and down flashing me the peace sign. I pulled out a balloon and blew it up and the boys went wild. Absolutely. It was great. Then a granny rushed up to me. She wanted a balloon too. I gave her one and she held up 5 fingers. She wanted more. Then 2 other women rushed over. Each holding up 3 and 2 fingers for their children. It was absolute chaos for a moment. Then as I walked away, the youngest of the boys saw my dad's photo (see below) hanging around my neck. He rushed and pointed to all the Montagnard kids in the picture and then yelled at his buddies who rushed over too. They stared and chattered at the picture then the older boys grew bored and rushed off to play with the box again. But the youngest boy, about 5, stayed and kept pointing at dad, saying, "Hello, hello." the only American word he knew, apparently. I was thrilled. But no one saw it and I couldn't take a picture of myself. But so far it's been the most grand moment of many great moments in Vietnam.Tonight we cruised down the Saigon River and sure enough the setting sun really does set red on this side of the world. It was beautiful. I spoke with the deputy general of the American embassy. We had a great visit.

I wish you could have seen when we first flew over Vietnam. Everyone rushed to the windows, there were people 3 and 4 deep, staring at what could have been the Willamette Valley or Iowa or Tennessee. People wept. They called out to one another. Mike McCoy yelled for sister Nina ( Son and Daughter of SFC John L. McCoy). He was pretty sure we were flying over the river where his father served. Kim Kendrick (daughter of PFC Richard S Kendrick) came and hugged me. And Kelly Rihn ( daughter of SP4 Joel D. Coleman) said, "I wonder what our fathers felt like when they flew into this country, knowing they were going to be bombing it."
 
 

SSG David P Spears (click to view memorial)

SFC John L McCoy (click to view memorial)

PFC Richard S Kendrick (click to view memorial)

SP4 Joel D Coleman (click to view memorial)

At the airport, as military officials checked our passports, one widow said, "I feel like I've come home."

It's hard to explain. But perhaps our fathers carried our hearts closer here than they did their guns. We children are connected to these people because of the sacrifices our fathers made. And like our fathers we find that the country is beautiful and the people are gracious in a natural way.

Tomorrow Mekong Delta and Cu Chi Tunnels.

Weather is good. Hot in the day. Cool at night.

I got an hour long massage for five bucks. That's incredible.

The traffic is unbelievable. Ashley would never drive in this town!

Love and hugs,
Karen

Karen Spears Zacharias is the daughter of SSG David Paul Spears, KIA, July 24, 1966. A freelance reporter and columnist, she resides near the Umatilla River in Pendleton, Oregon.
Copyright 2003 Karen Zacarias. Karen Zacharias grants permission for this letter, in part or in whole, to be reprinted provided she is properly attributed and notified. Email will be forwarded by webmaster@VirtualWall.org

Ciao Friends:

I am playing hookie from the trip to the Cu Chi Tunnels. As a journalist I can write my own propaganda and I've been in sewer holes before. Sisters Kelly Rihn (daughter of SP4 Joel D. Coleman) and Cammie Geoghegan ( daughter of 2LT Jack Geoghegan ) and I are painting the town of Saigon on our own today. Tell our husbands not to worry if the credit card companies come a'calling! 
 
 

SP4 Joel D Coleman (click to view memorial)

2LT Jack Geoghegan (click to view memorial)

PFC Richard S Kendrick (click to view memorial)

CPT Riley L. Pitts Earned the Medal of Honor

Team member Kim Kendrick (daughter of PFC Richard S Kendrick) has caught Vietnam revenge. She left this a.m. with the Red Team. They will be the first to head to their fathers' sites. As brother Mark Pitts (son of CPT Riley L. Pitts) and I walked Kim back to the hotel from the Saigon bar we were all at last night, a boy approached me. (Can you walk on these streets without someone somewhere approaching you to buy something?) 

"Jerry's my American name," he said, in the best English I've heard from a Vietnamese person yet. Jerry proceeded to tell me that he needed to sell $20 worth of goods before he could go home. It was already 10:30 p.m. 

"I have to pay for my school and my brother's school. I only have a mom. Dad left us for another woman," Jerry explained. "In my school I have the best English, but my writing is bad." 

I know how he feels some days. 

Jerry said he was 14. Brother Mark escorted sister Kim as Jerry took my hand and led me across the streets near the Rex Hotel. Not an easy feat. It's kind of like bungee jumping into early morning rush hour. Stop, go, bounce, dodge, OHMYGOD THERE'S 1500 motorbikes headed straight for me!

"Don't look. Follow me," Jerry said. 

Good advice when you're in Saigon. 

Jerry was able to weasel a couple of bucks from Mark, who said as he handed over the dough, "Jerry, you've got game. Now go away and leave my woman alone." 
 
 

MAJ William E Cordero (click to view memorial)

CPT Donald V McGregor (click to view memorial)

Our group started out at the Apocalypse Now bar but had to change plans when a fellow took a special liking to our great leader, Tony Cordero (son of MAJ William E. Cordero). Wrong crowd at that bar, we decided. But Brother Terry McGregor (son of CPT Donald McGregor) could not escape the clutches of the most cunning 8-year old girl who wrapped her arms around his waist outside the bar. She pleaded with McGregor to buy her wares. Anything, really. But when he refused, she cast slurs his way. 

"Animal!"

"Charlie! I no like you!"

Terry held up fine. "Get away from the car!" 

Beggars are on every street corner in every place we've been so far. Outside the Rex last night in a red and white dress with a peter-pan collar, a girl, about 7, stood, begging folks to buy her flowers. There was no parent in sight. Nothing. She was absolutely beautiful, with her big almond eyes, pleading and holding flowers up to the bus windows or in front of pedestrians. 

"Please, Madam. Please, sir." 

But even her poverty didn't compare to what we saw along the Mekong Delta on Thursday. A three hour drive from the Rex, the Mekong is flecked with banana, pod and palm trees. But everywhere we go there are people. In the most rural, remote areas, people squat and eat pho from ceramic bowls, or sit on plastic chairs, the kind we Americans buy for the kiddos when they are 5. People pedal bikes loaded with straw, or balloons or baskets, three and five bikes deep as buses and vans and cars, whiz past, blowing horns. No one flinches. Not ever. 

There is a motor bike repair shop in every block, even in the country. And graves, likes those in Louisiana, where they sit above ground, are scattered randomly about. Stuck in between the rice paddies or the bike shops. They are brightly decorated and often have miniature temples built into them. A place for sacrifice and incense. 

The Mekong River reminded me much of my beloved Chattahoochee River in Georgia. It was muddy and wide and surrounded by thick vegetation. Flowers, scarlet, ivory, and lavender, grew among the most wild brambles. 

We ate a lunch of elephant ear fish, pork, chicken, rice, rice, and did I mention rice, at this far out of the way place, which was a nursery of some sort. Lots of potted flowers about. Instead of kids begging for stuff, however, a group of children handed us purple and pink roses as we disembarked from the boat. (Something akin to those Disney® folks take you into the jungles with, only a lot more primitive version) 

We toasted our dinner with rice whiskey. I shared a shot with a friend. Have you ever tossed back a shot of diesel fuel? Then, you understand. 

My head was spinning within seconds. I kept eating, hoping that would help me center myself once more. Geeish! 

Then, after dinner, the dessert. 

No, not passion fruit. But the delight of holding a 50 pound python in my very own hands. 

A truly spiritual experience for me. I have it on tape, too. If you haven't read, you should read Dennis Covington's Salvation on Sand Mountain. The story of a journalist who, while on assignment, gets caught up in the spirit and ends up taking up the rattler like those faith-based southern folks he's writing about. 

I love that book. Not because I've been a member of those churches, but because I think being able to grasp in our hands the things we fear most is a powerful thing. Even if we can only hang on for a moment. 

I lived my early life in fear after Daddy died. He was the center of what made me feel safe. I've spent much of my adult life trying to regain that sense of security and safety and to not feel so threatened by the powers of this world that are beyond my control. 

So it seemed only spiritual that I should come to Vietnam and pick up the python. The place where my fears began and now the place where I have held those fears in my hand. If only for a moment. 

Brother Mark Pitts didn't have quite the same spiritual experience with his snake-handling moment as he joined brother Tony Cordero and sister Kelly Rihn, grasping the python around their shoulders. 

Pitts was screaming louder than a silly-assed cheerleader who was just crowned homecoming queen. 

"I have a snake phobia," he explained later. 

Yes, us fatherless children of Nam, have all sorts of fears. But we are here facing them. The way our fathers did before us. 

Today we split up for the first time, to head to the sites where our fathers fought their battles. 

Keep us in your prayers. Courage is not the absence of fear but the ability to press on in spite of it. 

You veterans taught us that. Thank you for that. 

Hugs, 

Karen Spears Zacharias 

Karen Spears Zacharias is the daughter of SSG David Paul Spears, KIA, July 24, 1966. A freelance reporter and columnist, she resides near the Umatilla River in Pendleton, Oregon.

"Disney"® is a registered trademark of Disney Enterprises, Inc.
"The Virtual Wall"® is a registered trademark of www.VirtualWall.org, Ltd.
Copyright 2003 Karen Zacarias. Karen Zacharias grants permission for this letter, in part or in whole, to be reprinted provided she is properly attributed and notified. Email will be forwarded by webmaster@VirtualWall.org

Ciao Friends:

I'm pretty certain Cammie Geoghegan ( daughter of 2LT Jack Geoghegan ) will never take another cyclo ride again in her life. We bartered rides from three fellows from the Saigon market to the Caravelle Hotel, about 5 blocks. The deal was to get a ride for $2 USA. But the cyclo drivers decided after we arrived that they wanted 200,000 dong, over $10 each. Cammie pulled out every wad of dong she had stuffed in her pocket, after I'd already paid the boys the $6 I'd bartered to begin with. If Cammie lived in Saigon, she'd be out on the streets like Mother Teresa handing out every last penny she could scour up.

Not me, though. I brokered deals for both her and Kelly Rihn (daughter of SP4 Joel D. Coleman)  at the market today. Taught them both how to bargain hunt. Every time I set a price and encouraged them to stick to it, we'd walk away and sure enough the peddlers would be yelling at us to come back and buy the wares at the price we'd set. (I think Kelly and Cammie owe me a commission for this!)

Then, we girls got manicures, facial, and pedicure for $10 at the Rex Hotel. Now this is a part of Saigon we could all get used too.

Joined the group for dinner tonight. More Vietnamese food. Rice, rice and did I mention rice?

I'll tell you what for as long as the French were here, the Vietnamese learned nothing about cooking. I'd rather eat shoe leather than another bowl of fish soup. Good thing I packed those Slim Jims®! I just wish I'd remembered the Snickers too.

And we are all dying for a cold drink. Cammie's sick of lukewarm Tiger Beer ®, but that doesn't seem to slow her from drinking it ... or me from slugging Coke ®.

I interviewed Tom Corey, president of Vietnam Veterans of America today. A poignant interview. We are all glad to have Tom here with us. He encourages us to look beyond ourselves. He said God saved his life so that he could do the job he's doing. There's no doubt in my mind that's exactly what God saved him for.

The Red team has left for their site today. The rest of the teams leave at 5 a.m. Saturday (our Saturday)

I think we are all looking forward to getting out of Saigon, but all apprehensive about where the journey leads next.

Hugs, 

Karen Spears Zacharias

Karen Spears Zacharias is the daughter of SSG David Paul Spears, KIA, July 24, 1966. A freelance reporter and columnist, she resides near the Umatilla River in Pendleton, Oregon.

"Coke"® is a registered trademark of Coca-Cola Company
"Slim Jim"® is a registered trademark of GFI Holdings, Inc.
"Tiger Beer"® is a registered trademark of Asia Pacific Breweries, Ltd.
"The Virtual Wall"® is a registered trademark of www.VirtualWall.org, Ltd.
Copyright 2003 Karen Zacarias. Karen Zacharias grants permission for this letter, in part or in whole, to be reprinted provided she is properly attributed and notified. Email will be forwarded by webmaster@VirtualWall.org

 I saw him standing beside the road as our guide Hai explained the significance of Dragon Mountain. He was wearing what appeared to be an NVA helmet and a khaki shirt. Quang was one of several locals who gathered on the roadway about 15 miles from Pleiku, just directly outside what was once a Montagnard village. (Ed. note: pronounced "mountain yard" for "mountain people", Montagnards were an ethic group in Vietnam with a history and culture separate from most other Vietnamese.) 

One fellow sat cross-legged on his moped and grinned at me as if I were the first white woman he'd ever seen. Sheer delight lit up his entire face. I'm just probably the whitest woman he's seen in a long while. 

Across the field three boys giggled. They had run off when I approached them with balloons extended. 

Quang pointed at my camera. I looked back over my shoulder. Our most noble leader is always accusing me of wandering off. I was at it again. The rest of the group stood in the field, discussing the crash that had killed Brother Billy Everett's dad. We weren't at his Dad's crash site yet, but we were close.

Quang pointed at my camera again. He wanted me to take his picture. 

Ok, ok, I told him. One of our drivers walked up. He offered to translate for me. I asked if Quang had been in the nearby village when the American soldiers came through. I showed Quang the picture of my father hanging around my neck. He stared and chattered. 

Staff Sergeant David Spears with Montagnard children in 1966
This is the photograph that Karen is wearing..

No. No. He wasn't around. He was up North. Fighting up North. Many of the Montagnard had moved from the village, driven out by the NVA, he reported. Quang was smiling the victor's smile. The other locals formed a half-circle around me, staring at Dad's picture, pointing to the Montagnard children. 

"My Ba, My Ba," I said, as they clicked their tongues and "arred", "arred" over the picture. It's a sound the Vietnamese make, a way of saying, "Ok, ok. I understand." 

The fellow on the moped stared at the picture. He was of Montagnard descent. I could see it in his dark skin and wide-spaced smile and his sinewy arms. He looked at my Ba and into my eyes. And he never once quit smiling. Not even for a moment. 

Quang pointed to the camera again. The Orange team was moseying to the vans, eager to head to our first site, the crash on Dragon Mountain that our guide Hai said was the only one during the war. 

Hey, I said. This guy wants to take a picture with us. 

Ok, they said. And we stood with Quang in the middle, still grinning that victor's smile. Then we hopped in the vans. But before heading to Bill's site, Dick offered to stop in the nearby village, to find an elder who might recognize someone from the picture that hung around my neck. 

We backtracked about a quarter of a mile, when I saw it. A flat spot off the side of the road. A river bed? A gully of some sort? Hai had studied the picture. He was pretty sure the gully was the spot where my father had the picture made. He ordered the driver to pull over. 

(This is where the letter was continued from March 10th to March 11th)

We came to the embankment about a quarter of a mile from where we'd first stopped. 

Hai, our Pleiku guide, pointed to a gully that he was sure was the same spot as in picture I carried of my Dad with the Montagnard children. 

"See here," he said. "Look at the road, the mountain, the dry creek bed large enough to drive jeeps through." 

Villagers continued to gather. A mother with two small girls. The fellow on the moped. An elderly woman pushing a bicycle loaded with bananas. Viet, our tour guide from Saigon, approached the young mother with the children. Her face was covered with a scarf. She pulled it down below her chin and began to chatter with Viet. 

"What's she saying?" I asked. "What's she saying?" 

The woman held the picture in her hand, studying it. Village men clustered around, also studying the photo. 

"She says this is the place," Viet said. He pointed to the ridge of the mountain. Then, across the road to the gully. See here if the gully were wet, it would be muddy like this. "Arr, arr, arr," others surrounding Viet nodded in agreement. 

The day I left Portland, my sister had driven two hours to see me off. Before I left she handed me a picture of our family with our brother and mom. And a photo of my father's 13 grandchildren. "You will know where to leave this," she said. "When you come across the place you will know." 

"This is it," I said to Dick, the only one skeptical about the spot. "I'm not sure," he said. "I'm not sure this is the place." 

"It is," I said. Viet and Hai agreed. 

My teammates wanted to help. 

"Gather stones," I said. "Please gather stones." 

"You want flowers and incense?" Viet asked. "We have some in the car." 

"No," I said. "Stones. Gather stones." 

So Cammie and Kelly took my cameras and Lori Zanni and Norma Sanders, widows in the group, scoured the dry gully bed for rocks. Not much of anything in the gully besides red clay and scrub brush. 

"I found a big one!" Norma yelled. "But I need help carrying it across the street." Norma and I lugged the boulder together. Someone got me the plastic bottle from my bag. 

Viet gathered the village children along the embankment. Two little girls took off running. 

"Where are they going?" I implored, afraid I had chased them off. 

"To change their clothes," Viet explained. "They want to put on their best dresses." The girls' home was a two-room shack. Similar to the Appalachian homes where my father once lived. I couldn't imaging what a "best dress" for these girls would be. 

My teammates stacked stones. Someone grabbed the photos my sister had given me. Kelly Rihn and Cammie Geoghegan helped me place the photos in front of the stone heap. Half-a-dozen children stood still as posts, watching and wondering. The roadway was busy as curious onlookers studied the process. 

I plopped down behind the stones, in front of the children. My teammates formed a half-circle around me. I began to pour the contents of the plastic container over the rock pile. Then, I turned and poured some into the hands of a toddler standing to my left. She smiled shyly. The others didn't want dirt poured through their hands. 

Turning back to my teammates, I explained: "Inside the container is the dirt I gathered from Fort Benning, Georgia, the area where my father trained the troops. And sand from the North Shore of Oahu, where my father loved to fish." 

Then, I began to scrape at the red clay with a rock. "I'm leaving some here in Vietnam and taking some of Vietnam back home with me," I said. 

"You know in some Native American cultures, when Indians were a nomadic tribe, they would build rock monuments. A way of marking their journey. By looking back at the monuments, they could measure the distance that they traveled and the direction." 

"We military children are a nomadic tribe. And for those of us left fatherless by the war, Vietnam has always been the rock monument of our lives. It is by looking back at the Vietnam war that we realize how far we have journeyed. And it is my hope that we will remember how far we have come in our love and affection for the Vietnamese people," I said. 

Red clay streaked my face as I wiped away hot tears. I looked up to see Cammie Geoghegan and Kelly Rihn weeping. I turned back to the children. I couldn't bear to see Cammie and Kelly's sorrow. 

On the plane ride into Pleiku that morning, I had watched as a young father tended to his three daughters. He was kept busy by the youngest, a dark-haired cherub about 14 months old. As he tied his daughter's shoes, I thought of Kelly and Cammie and how their fathers never got the chance to see them become toddlers. 

After we dropped our bags in our rooms, I walked into Cammie and Kelly's room and told them how struck I was by the father on the plane. 

"I'm so sorry your fathers never got to see you grow up. I have such good memories of my dad," I said. "That's why I still miss him so much. I only wish you had some memories to hang onto." 

Then, the three of us clung to each other and wept. 

"It isn't fair," Cammie said. 

She's said that a lot this week. 

Cammie said it again later that afternoon as we stood at the edge of a manioca field and overlooked the Ia Drang Valley. Somewhere out there in dense brush, her father had bled to death. Somewhere not far from where my father would also bleed to death. "It's no wonder the soil in Vietnam is red," I thought. 

"It makes no sense," Cammie said. With head nods and hot tears, Kelly and I agreed. 

Why did Gene Fields, a Georgia boy, lose his mother in a car crash at 3 months and his father in Vietnam before he turned 13? 

Why did the helicopter that carried Bill Everett's dad crash into Dragon Mountain? The only crash ever on the mountain, our guide Hai claimed. 

Why do people who make the decisions about war rarely consider the cost to families? 

Families like our friend Peter. Peter is a native son, born and raised in Vietnam. He was only 3 when his father was killed in a fierce battle at Quang Tri. The entire 3rd Division of the Southern Army was wiped out in the battle, Peter explained. Peter was our tour guide for Hoi An and Hue. His father was a Lieutenant who would sometimes drive his jeep home from the battlefield. Peter's only memory of his father was a trip to his father's base about a week before he was killed. 

"They let us play with the guns and ammo," Peter said. "I don't know why," he added. But he and one of his six older siblings had a great time that day. 

Their father's body was never recovered. Their widowed mother never remarried. "She was very beautiful," Peter said. "Many Americans wanted to marry her, but she would not. Their suffering was immense, especially after the fall of Saigon," he said. 

Today at lunch a man approached me. He wanted to see the picture around my neck. The one with dad and the children. 

"This your husband?" he asked. 

"No, my Ba," I said. 

"Arr, arr," he said. Vietnamese slang for "I understand." 

"He was American soldier in Vietnam?" he asked. 

"Yes," I said. 

"Did he come home?" 

"No," I replied. "He died here, near the Ia Drang." 

"Arr, arr," he said. What a pity. 

"Yes, yes'" I agreed. 

What a pity for us all us rendered fatherless by the Vietnam War, for those in America and those here in Vietnam.

Karen Spears Zacharias 

Karen Spears Zacharias is the daughter of SSG David Paul Spears, KIA, July 24, 1966. A freelance reporter and columnist, she resides near the Umatilla River in Pendleton, Oregon.
Copyright 2003 Karen Zacarias. Karen Zacharias grants permission for this letter, in part or in whole, to be reprinted provided she is properly attributed and notified. Email will be forwarded by webmaster@VirtualWall.org

Bill Everett ( son of SFC Jay Leroy Everett) has worn overalls and a white shirt every single day. He pulls his wavy golden hair back in a ponytail. A thick mustache with handlebars covers his upper lip. Scoliosis had left a permanent hump in his back. He keeps a stash of Snickers® in his bag for the diabetes that has rendered him rail thin. 

The Vietnamese children love the man we call Farmer Bill. Bill is really a civil servant. He tells a great story about getting back at a mean elementary teacher. I'd share the details but then I'd have to kill you to protect the buddy we call Bill. 

Bill was 15 when his father left for Vietnam. He remember the last time he saw his Daddy. 

"He hugged my older brother, kissed my youngest sister and shook my hand and told me to take care of the family," Bill said. 

Bill's mother never remarried after her husband's helicopter crashed into Dragon Mountain, about 15 kilometers outside of Pleiku. I'd tell you which direction but I can't even figure out what time it is here without calling the front desk, much less figure out which way the sun sets. 

We had to walk through a field of tall dry brush to get to reach a spot to memorialize his father. A one-room shack, not much bigger than an outhouse was nearby. 

The day was hot. The dry grass waist-high. Viet, our guide, had to light the incense away from the memorial spot, which was nothing more than a small clearing at the foot of Dragon Mountain. Our local guide, Hai, had told Bill on the drive out that his father's crash was the only crash ever on Dragon Mountain. All the locals still talk about it. 

Viet explained the reason for the incense. 

"When we use the incense, we place it in a circle around the memorial. We believe it represents our ancestors who have died before us. This becomes a neighborhood for the dead. When we place the incense, we are going around the neighborhood, saying hello to everyone," he said. 

Without any fanfare, Bill stooped over and placed his flowers. Then, smoke rose from the handful of incense sticks Bill and Viet held. They bowed three times and placed the incense sticks around the flowers. Each teammate took the incense sticks and placed them there in honor of the man Billy Everett called Dad. 

His blue eyes were moist, but Bill, the only brother on our team, did not cry. 

"If I had time, I'd like to hike up the mountain," he said. "But this is enough. I have always wanted to see the place where my father crashed." 

Then, pausing and looking back over his shoulder for a moment, Bill turned to me and said, "I expected the mountain to be bigger than this." 

I understood. Our fathers seemed invincible to us as children. So strong. So powerful. Our fathers seemed capable of scaling Mt. Everest in a single breath. How could such a small mountain, a large hill, really, cause the death of Billy's dad? 

Storytellers in the nearby villages talk of the crash on Dragon Mountain. A fiery crash that changed Billy Everett's life forever. And that's how heroes earn their status ... by they way they live and die. 

Bill has kept his promise to care for his family. He even knows how to cook all the meals his mama used to make. 

Nurturing comes easy to Bill Everett. He's been doing it since he was 15. 

Karen Spears Zacharias 
 

Karen Spears Zacharias is the daughter of SSG David Paul Spears,  KIA, July 24, 1966. A freelance reporter and columnist, she resides near the Umatilla River in Pendleton, Oregon.
"Snickers"® is a registered trademark of Mars, Incorporated
Copyright 2003 Karen Zacarias. Karen Zacharias grants permission for this letter, in part or in whole, to be reprinted provided she is properly attributed and notified. Email will be forwarded by webmaster@VirtualWall.org

Cammie ( daughter of 2LT Jack Geoghegan ) went for a massage this afternoon. She needed one. She's been stressed since getting into an argument over the lack of towels in the hotel at Pleiku. Unfortunately, the massage didn't help relieve any of her stress. She said the only happy moment she's looking forward to is getting home to her two daughters. 

"I can't wait to see my girls again. I'm even looking forward to that hectic dinner hour, when my youngest is pulling at my leg while the other one is yelling about something."

Cammie has been ready to go home since we left the field overlooking the Ia Drang Valley where her father died, November 15, 1965. Only five months old at the time, Cammie has no memories of her dad. Still, that lack of daily contact did not in any way diminish her love and affection for her father. Not a day goes by that Cammie doesn't miss her dad.

It took two hours of arduous travel over mostly red dirt roads to reach a place where we could see the Ia Drang Valley. It wasn't exactly a roadside overlook, like you see in the Smokies. We had to hike past oxen and wooden carts and through an orchard of manioca trees before we reached a clearing. Cammie brought along her father's wallet. Inside was a picture of a chubby-legged baby. On the back, Cammie's mom had written a note to her father: See Daddy I can roll over. Also tucked inside was a letter Cammie’s grandmother, Lance Geoghegan's mom, had written to her son, her only child. It was a tender letter, filled with news from home and prayers for his safe return.

Cammie placed her flowers underneath a bush that sprouted heart-shaped leaves. We lingered in the background as she knelt among the brush and placed pictures of her daughters and husband Ray, her mom, stepdad and her siblings at the site. Then, she stood and looked out over the Ia Drang Valley. It's frustrating for those of us who can't get to the sites where our fathers actually died. No one is allowed into the valley because of unrest among the minority groups in the region. 

I had saved my father's flowers to place at Lance Geoghegan's site. Dick S., our most noble leader, summarized that my father died somewhere in the Ia Drang region. Over there, he said, pointing east. “That's where the artillery would have been providing back-up from,” Dick explained.

“It's not fair.” Cammie said, when I hugged her.

“You're right.” I said. It makes no sense to me the way our fathers were dropped willy-nilly, here and there, in the Ia Drang, or at Bong Son, or An Khe or Quang Tri. Vietnam's terrain made it impossible for them to seize territory and hold it. The only way to win such a war was to wipe out every single NVA in existence. Seeing the country has only further emphasized to us the overwhelming odds our fathers faced. 
 

The vans followed behind us, as we tromped through town like forlorn missionaries, visiting the people I labeled the Tapioca people. The villagers grow two things -- rice and manioca. Everywhere we walked there were women and children sitting with piles of white roots surrounding them. “Manioca is the base for tapioca pudding,” our guide claimed. I never knew so many people liked tapioca. Every village we passed for the next 24 hours had piles of the stuff strewn about. There were manioca sidewalks. Manioca piled in burlap bags. Lawns heaped with manioca.

As a boy driving an oxen cart moved down the red dirt road beside us, Kelly, Cammie and I trucked up to the wooden huts and handed colorful balloons to the Montagnard children and their parents. Everyone smiled and nodded their heads in appreciation.

As we reached the halfway point in the village, Kelly stopped and turned to the two of us. 

"Do you hear that?" she asked. 

We all paused.

Drifting from the open door of a nearby thatch-roofed home was music. 

"Isn't that the Beatles?" Kelly asked.

Yep. Sure enough. Somewhere near the end of the world, near the Ia Drang, the lyrics of the Beatles was playing. 

"Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away..."

A familiar song for the men who fought and died in the Ia Drang, Quang Tri, An Khe, and Bong Son. And for their children.

Ray, Cammie can't wait to get home. She promises to never, ever complain about anything ever again.

Shall I get that in writing? 

Karen Spears Zacharias

Karen Spears Zacharias is the daughter of SSG David Paul Spears,  KIA, July 24, 1966. A freelance reporter and columnist, she resides near the Umatilla River in Pendleton, Oregon.
Copyright 2003 Karen Zacarias. Karen Zacharias grants permission for this letter, in part or in whole, to be reprinted provided she is properly attributed and notified. Email will be forwarded by webmaster@VirtualWall.org

(Ed. Note: "Hanoi Hilton" was a euphemism for the Prisoner of War (POW) prison in Hanoi at which hundreds of American POW's were held during the war. There was no relation to Hilton Hotels®) 

We walked silently through the Hanoi Hilton, the place where Senator John McCain was detained as a POW. It's the second museum stop we've made in the past 24 hours. Yesterday, after we arrived in Hanoi, we made a stop at the Army museum. Hundreds of school children, all wearing red scarves tied about their necks, were herded in and out and around us.

Our most noble leader, Dick. S., captured the attention of a handful of students when he demonstrated to the kids how a gun works. Girls giggled and boys snickered as Dick held up two fingers and did a round robin rat-a-tat-tat. 

But that was the only light moment in the tour. 

The museum itself is dirty, run down, and smells something akin to a cat litter box in a hot attic. 

The displays are purely propaganda. Mostly black and white photographs, with poor grain quality, showing smiling victors and downtrodden Americans. Most of the lighting comes from windows. Much of the English translation is pathetic. For instance, one photograph of the fall of Saigon reads: "American soldiers flee Saigon in a plain." One display had the word annihilation spelled "annhilaten."

At both museums the history of Vietnam could be loosely translated to: "The French and American bastards defeated by our cunning ways."

One really distressing photo showed American war protesters of the 1970s. The caption below it read: "American progressives protest the American aggressors in Vietnam."

Across the street, in a round robin park, was a statue of Lenin that loomed taller than any nearby tree. Our guide claimed that it is the only remaining statue of Lenin left in the world. Another said Vietnamese people laugh at the statue because Lenin has one hand outstretched and another in his pocket. A social comment on how communism works in this country and others. 

There was little mention of the American soldiers held at the Hanoi Hilton. Only two rooms of photos. Ninety percent of which would make you believe the soldiers received good treatment. There was a photo of two soldiers receiving gifts from home. Their smiles posed. Another of a group of fellows cooking in the kitchen. They too are smiling. Yep, soldiers loved KP duty apparently. Shoot, I think life at the HH may have been the next best thing to home, according to the displays. 

In the courtyard yellow mums are placed around a Buddhist symbol for happiness and skeletons of despondent soldiers were etched into marble. 

A guillotine stood nearby. A remnant of the French domination over Vietnamese, they claim. Underneath a shining gold star, etched in pink marble was a dedication to the freedom of the people and socialism.

"It says 'To the faithful, unyielding and glorious, forever and ever ... Long live Vietnam,'" our guide, Viet, explained.

Viet is a nationalist. He served with the Vietnamese army. A requirement for all men 18 in this country. He honors Ho Chi Minh and considers him a good father to the country. Viet's father fought with the North Vietnam Army (NVA). His father's brother fought with the ARVN (Army of the Republic of (South) Vietnam). His uncle was held for 20 years in a reeducation camp following the war. Apparently, he was a slow learner. Viet said his uncle and his father continued to debate the war issues from two different perspectives. In Vietnamese culture, nothing is stronger than the brotherhood between men, Viet said. But this war drove his father and his brother apart.

"The biggest impact of the war was the way it destroyed families and relationships," Viet said.

And divided a great nation, I might add. No one knows that better than Vietnam veterans and their families.

I received an e-mail today from a girl in Fort Benning, Georgia. A daughter like me, whose father died in Vietnam. 

"I felt alone and ashamed growing up," she said. "I just wanted to thank you for giving a voice to our story."

As we sons and daughters walked through the Hanoi Hilton, I grumbled to someone about the propaganda of the joint. 

"The victors always get to the write the history," he said. 

Maybe so, but what is so terrible obvious to me is that in this war there were no victors. 

We were all losers. 

We are continually reminded that the Vietnamese lost millions of soldiers to America's 58,000. 

Somehow that fails to comfort me. 

Whether you are American or Vietnamese, it hurts to lose a father. If he was a good father, as ours were, the pain is all the more intense. We children know how much our soldier fathers loved their wives, their mothers, their sisters, their brothers, their children, their buddies and their dogs. 

As we've traveled around this beautiful country, we couldn't help but think of those being deployed to Iraq today. And of the thousands of children who may have to grow up without their daddies, be they American, British or Iraqi soldiers. 

Then, like the Vietnamese, we too may be offering our sympathies face-to-face with yet another generation of children scared by war.

What a pity, what a pity, indeed. 

Karen Spears Zacharias 
 

Karen Spears Zacharias is the daughter of SSG David Paul Spears,  KIA, July 24, 1966. A freelance reporter and columnist, she resides near the Umatilla River in Pendleton, Oregon.
"Hilton"® is a registered trademark of Hilton Hospitality, Inc.
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Copyright 2003 Karen Zacarias. Karen Zacharias grants permission for this letter, in part or in whole, to be reprinted provided she is properly attributed and notified. Email will be forwarded by webmaster@VirtualWall.org

It took nearly an entire day of driving from the Central Highlands to reach the site for Kelly Rihn's father. ( SP4 Joel D. Coleman)

The day had started out emotionally when our guide, Viet, encountered two veterans in the Pleiku hotel. One served with the 25th Infantry during 1967-1968. Another who served with the Marines during 1965-1966. Since my father served with the 25th Infantry, Viet had pulled me out of the hotel lobby and into the restaurant.

"Come with me, Karen," he said. 

"Okay, okay," I replied, unsure of what Viet wanted from me.

When he introduced me to the veterans, tears welled up in their eyes as they studied the picture of my father hanging from my neck. 

"I'm so sorry," they both said. 

"I'm so glad you made it home," I replied, giving them each a hug.

Then, they told me they were making their first trip back to Vietnam, to see the places that had haunted them for years. They brought gifts for an orphanage. And memories to share with me. 

"When was your father killed?" asked the Marine from Wisconsin.

"July 24, 1966," I replied.

He looked quickly at his buddy. His chin was quivering underneath his light gray beard. His buddy spoke for him. 

"He was injured on July 23, 1966."

The Marine's head dropped to his chest. I wrapped my arms around his waist and we both wept. The dustoff carried him from the battlefield with another Marine. A dead one. 

For years, he's searched for the family of this fellow comrade-in-arms, he explained. Without any success. Finding me gave him the chance to know that the families survived. 

It wasn't easy. Not for any of us. The veterans who returned, the widows who lost their life-long companions or the mothers and fathers who lost their freckled-faced sons, or for the children who lost their beloved daddies. 

We kids looked to our mothers to teach us how to soldier on in face of such loss. We watched as they struggled to pick up the pieces of their lives. We savored the stories they told us about when our fathers courted them, the day they married, Daddy's favorite fishing holes, his first car, and that not-so funny time he got drunk and lost the rent money in a poker game.

The best thing this trip has given us kids is the chance to create another story with our fathers to share with our loved ones.

Kelly Rihn will ( daughter of SP4 Joel D. Coleman) talk about how the guide stopped at Bong Son and walked us over a dirt hill to show us the air strip the soldiers based at An Khe used. 

"Your dad probably flew his last mission from here," Dick S. told Kelly.

It would be another hour drive, however, before we reached the site where Kelly memorialized her dad. 

Construction work on the road kept us from traveling up the mountain, to the site of her father's camp. So, Kelly picked a spot at the end of a berm between rows and rows of rice paddies. Nearby, a worker stood knee-deep in water and tossed fertilizer from a wicker tray, while school kids lined the dirt road, staring at the funny Americans. 

On a rise at the end of the berm, Kelly placed flowers and a photo of her two daughters. The girls are learning of their grandfather in the same fashion that Kelly did, by the stories that others tell.

For kids like Kelly, who were just babies when their fathers died, they have no memories of their own to share.

Kelly cannot remember the sound of her father's voice. But each day that passes, she feels the presence of his love. 

She felt it there in that mountain valley. We all did. 

Especially when a black butterfly hovered near her, looking over her shoulder, the way a father might. 

Karen Spears Zacharias 
 

Karen Spears Zacharias is the daughter of SSG David Paul Spears,  KIA, July 24, 1966. A freelance reporter and columnist, she resides near the Umatilla River in Pendleton, Oregon.
Copyright 2003 Karen Zacarias. Karen Zacharias grants permission for this letter, in part or in whole, to be reprinted provided she is properly attributed and notified. Email will be forwarded by webmaster@VirtualWall.org

Friends and Family:

Made it to Singapore in time to hear Bush announce plans for war. 

This is the Tuesday that lasts 48 hours. Most of them on the plane. Thanks for your prayers. 

We are all exhausted but looking forward to sharing our trip with family and friends. 

Hugs,
ksz
 

Karen Spears Zacharias is the daughter of SSG David Paul Spears,  KIA, July 24, 1966. A freelance reporter and columnist, she resides near the Umatilla River in Pendleton, Oregon.
Copyright 2003 Karen Zacarias. Karen Zacharias grants permission for this letter, in part or in whole, to be reprinted provided she is properly attributed and notified. Email will be forwarded by webmaster@VirtualWall.org