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Monday May 12,2008

Grief Denied - A Vietnam Widow's Story

by Pauline Laurent

It's a beautiful Sunday afternoon in May -- Mother's Day, 1968. Spring in the midwest is sprouting with life and possibility. The peonies are shooting stalks through the rich, black soil in the flowerbed. After morning mass at St. Joseph's, I am sitting in the shade of the big sycamore in Mom's backyard.

My husband, Howard, has been in Vietnam since March. He thought it would be best for me to stay with my parents while he was gone. Princess, our black German shepherd, is my constant companion. She lies at my feet as I glance through the Sunday paper. I notice wedding announcements, department store sales, ads for restaurants, and upcoming movies.

Nestled in the back pages of a remote section of the paper, I spot an article about a battle in Vietnam. I avoid reading about the war, but this article found me. The action described in the article involves Howard'' unit ? 3rd Battalion, 39th Regiment, 9th Infantry Division.

The Command Post is in a Buddhist Pagoda, 20 yards from a tiny Catholic Church, which serves as the medical aid station. "They hit us hard all last night with mortars and rockets," said Maj. Booras. "Two soldiers from Alpha Company held out during a three-hour attack on a little bridge across a feeder canal. I don't even know their names but they are up for the Silver Star. We've been lucky so far -- only four killed and 14 wounded in the battalion."

Howard is dead. I know it. I don't know how I know, I just know. I can't breathe. Tears are coming. I'm trembling inside and out. Mom comes out into the yard and asks, "What's wrong?"

I show her the article and whisper, "Howard is dead."

The potatoes fry in their usual pool of lard, lard rendered from the hogs my uncles and brothers slaughter every January. Mom stands over the stove, stirring the potatoes and turning the blood sausage frying in an adjacent skillet.

Princess greets me after I return from my job at Scott Air Force Base. My father sits in his favorite chair, watching the evening news and waiting for dinner to be served.

Something draws me to the front windows. An ugly green sedan with the words, "U.S. Army" printed on the side of the door is parked in front of the house. Two men in uniform sit inside the car, looking down at the paperwork on their laps.

The room starts spinning, my hearing becomes muffled, and reality is slipping away from me. Princess barks as Mom walks to the front window to see what's causing the commotion.

"They're coming to tell me he is dead."

"Please God, let him be wounded, not dead," I say.

The men continue to sit in the car. Hours seem to pass before they get out, straighten their uniforms, and head toward my door. I put Princess in the basement -- she doesn't welcome strangers. I come back to open the door and see two men standing before me with the same terror in their eyes that I'm feeling inside of me.