The Write to Heal: Our Minds are Still There (Episode 4)

Check out our show notes for more information about their backgrounds, along with a link to their digital stories. We hope you enjoy this conversation about the power of storytelling to inspire connection and healing. And do stay to the end because we have a provocative writing prompt we're inviting you, our listener, to sink your teeth into.

The first to die of seven siblings, technically, as the youngest, she should have been the last. This death was unexpected and unnecessary. I still wonder could she have been saved and could I have saved her? Seven of seven had to be a lucky baby. Seven was, after all, a lucky number. I was the first of the siblings to hold her, kiss her, feed her, change her and love her.

Her name was Cassandra Arlene Ashby. Such a big name for a small baby. Seven kids under the age of ten would have had a hard time saying that name. And so our grandmother with her knack for giving out cool nicknames named her Whammy because Grammy said she was wild, wild, wild, all day and all night. Unless she was being held and I took that great honor for myself.

Whatever I did, she did. We were inseparable. We walked alike, we talked alike, and we looked alike. We went to the same schools and colleges. We partied and we drank. We both aspired to become teachers. She did. I didn't. I went into the Army instead. We separated and came back together. When I was discharged, we separated again.

When we each got married, we came together every chance we got. She drank more. I drank less. The longer we separated, the more she drank. We separated for ten years because of her cruel husband. She had a dirty little secret. A week before she died, her son called me and asked: “Auntie, why is mother dear trying to drink herself to death?”

She had cirrhosis of the liver, and so she died. Suddenly, a final separation, unforeseen, unimaginable, a death that could have been prevented.

Hey, that's not fair, we are flying on a military plane, sitting backwards facing our duffle bags. You could see all the wires and cables. Everyone I had known going to Vietnam flew on commercial planes with cute flight attendants; our flight attendant was called Loadmaster and he definitely was not cute.

We flew and then flew some more. It was a dark, stormy night - a lot like the mood inside. The pilot did not help the mood. As we were bouncing around in the storm, he came on the intercom and said, “We are having plane trouble and we are going down. We'll be landing on Wake Island.” As the plane landed, all I saw was runway, water and a raging storm.

There were cots set up for us to sleep on for the night in a big open hanger. I don't think there was much sleeping. They worked on the plane all night and at dawn, we got on again to land on Guam. There they worked on the plane another four hours - and off we go again. After a while, the pilot came back on his intercom: “We are now in Vietnam airspace and we'll be landing at Bien Hoa airbase in the Republic of Vietnam when we stop. Get your ass in gear, grab a duffle bag and get off my plane quickly. The Viet Cong like to welcome new arrivals to Vietnam by mortaring the runway as they land.”

We came straight down, hit the ground hard, bounced a few times, and rushed down the runway. Made a quick turn and stopped. The pilot started yelling. “Get your crap off my plane now!” When that plane door opened, everyone paused. The sudden thick sticky humidity, heat, and stink came in and hit us with a slap. Damn, is this what it's gonna be like the entire year?

They herded us onto another bus, but this one's a little different. It had wire over all the windows, like a prison bus. I yelled out to the driver, “Hey, driver, are we soldiers or prisoners? What's with the wire on the window?” He yells back: “Stupid, it’s so when we go through a village, they can't throw grenades in the window!” That comment really struck me. I'm now in a real combat zone.

Looking out the bus, everybody was wearing black pajamas. “How do you tell 'em apart?” I yelled up to the driver again. “Hey, driver, all are dressed the same. How do you tell the good guys and the bad guys?” A little irritated he yells back: “It's easy - if they point a rifle at you, they're probably bad guys.”

I know how they felt. We made that long trip to Vietnam and the war. Our bodies came home, but our minds are still there on that long trip.

Everyone there worked with almost instinctual quietness. Even the desert heat seemed to pause out of reverence for the loss. Then a woman screamed, and broke the silence. Doctor, doctor, she screamed in Arabic as she ran at me, cradling a limp toddler. Thrusting the child into my arm, she began to tell me that when the trucks wrecked and exploded, her daughter was struck by one of the trucks.

The little girl's neck was snapped and her skull crushed. Her already cooling body rested limply against my chest. Her mother frantically pulled on me and begged me to help. The girl's father came walking up slowly and the look on his face told me that he had accepted what his wife had not - that their daughter was gone and he had to hold his grief at bay to help his wife.

When he got close enough to me, he gestured for me to pass the child to him. I complied. The mother shrieked and sobbed - words had escaped me to this point and all I could say with my trembling voices was “I'm sorry.” He nodded and clasped my shoulder and put his hand around his wife. They turned and walked away. Twenty-one people gone that day - and all I could mutter was two words.

I'll always carry that experience with me, but I don't have the same guilt I did as when I first came back.

At that time, and you know, I think like Mark was saying, your perspective changes now. You look back at everything fifty years later and you go, wow, there was really more to it than that. And then you get to talk to other veterans about it and they understand where you are coming from, what your feelings are, and I always say it's just a wonderful validation of who you were and who you are now.

It's something you can't explain. It’s just beyond most civilians’ comprehension that we have the brotherhood or sisterhood - that we understand even if we didn't go through that exact same thing - but we understand.

No happiness, no joy. That the whole military experience has broken them down. But I have learned through the arts, just by doing, you know, working with you, June, that veterans have a talent that's within them. They're not necessarily the greatest writers or the greatest artists or the greatest musicians, but they have or we have something in us that we need to express. And to be able to express it in a beautiful way, I think changes people's perception of what a veteran is and what veterans’ experiences are. They're not all bad.

Take a moment to jot down whatever comes to mind. No need to edit yourself. Just let it flow. And if you're willing, we'd love to hear your thoughts and writings. You can share them by sending to artistsoapbox@gmail.com; the subject heading The Write to Heal.

The Write to Heal: Soldiers Deep Dive into Storytelling is a production of Artist Soapbox in partnership with June Guralnick. This series is dedicated in memory of David Brave Heart, who's inspiring music graces our introduction and closing sections with additional music by Louis Wilkinson. The intro montage is sound engineered by Royce Froehlich, with post-production by Jasmine Hunjan and Tamara Kissane.

For more information, including the list of writers who contributed to our opening montage, please see the show notes. Catch us on social media, or visit our websites at artistsoapbox.org and juneguralnick.com.