Coming Home

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If there is one defining thread in my father’s story after Vietnam, it is the silence. Not the silence of indifference—he was not indifferent to what he had seen or done. It was the silence of a man who had seen more than he was allowed to talk about, more than most people would ever understand back home, and more than he ever wanted to relive out loud.

Much of his war lived in the shadows, and not only because combat is traumatic.
It lived in the shadows because it was required.

My father was not in the Special Forces.
He was a MACV-SOG operator.

He did not wear a Green Beret or claim to be one.

But during his second tour, as an American advisor to ARVN Airborne units, his operations and missions overlapped with some of the same regions, same targets, and same operational needs as MACV-SOG teams. 

SOG missions were:

• cross-border
• classified
• deniable
• restricted
• sealed for decades
  

Their operational footprint cast a long shadow over many other units operating in those same contested areas.

My father’s advisory work and Air Cav strike coordination required him to understand the battlefield not only through American eyes but through the tactics and patterns of the Vietnamese units he fought with. Those ARVN Airborne units often operated adjacent to, or in support of, missions that touched the SOG pipeline—whether through intelligence requirements, air support, reconnaissance overlaps, or operational timing.

Vietnam veterans came home to a nation divided. The media vilified the war. Politicians used it for leverage. College campuses erupted. Protestors targeted soldiers instead of strategy. It was not like the homecomings of World War II.

Vietnam veterans—especially those in advisory or high-intensity roles—learned quickly that the safest choice was silence.

No one wanted the truth.
No one wanted the nuance.
No one wanted to hear about ARVN units who fought bravely or Air Cav pilots who risked their lives every day.

No one wanted to hear about the complexity of calling artillery in a triple-canopy jungle.
No one wanted to hear about classified missions, hidden operations, or shadow units that didn’t officially exist.

So they said nothing.

Combat advisors walk a different road. They:

• operate inside foreign units
• learn foreign battlefield culture
• absorb trauma without the camaraderie of an American platoon
• fight alongside men whose stories would never be recognized
• return home with no one who understands what they just lived through
  

Trying to explain it would have only cheapened it.

So he held it inside.

It wasn’t that he forgot.
It wasn’t that he didn’t feel.
It wasn’t that he lacked pride.

It was that the memories came with weight—weight carried alone.

He returned from a second tour in a war that had broken friendships, governments, and national unity. He returned from missions that could not be discussed, from firefights no one recorded, from alliances no one documented, from casualties no one back home even knew existed.

He returned from a world where men bled together but were separated forever by silence.

As the years passed, the public’s relationship with special operations shifted. Books about Navy SEALs, Rangers, and Delta Force hit bestseller lists. Podcasts and documentaries emerged. The Gulf War and the War on Terror reintroduced America to the realities of elite combat.

Vietnam veterans—especially those tied to SOG-adjacent missions—finally began speaking publicly. Their stories were powerful, heartbreaking, and long overdue. For many, it was the first time they’d shared anything at all.

Men like my father watched from the sidelines.

He had the scars, the stories, the experiences—but he never sought the spotlight.

He stayed silent because it had become a habit.
He stayed silent because that was how he protected himself.
He stayed silent because the war had trained him to bury what he carried.

His silence shaped his relationships, his emotions, and how he interacted with the world. It shaped how he raised children. It shaped his marriages. It shaped how he handled conflict. It shaped the distance people sometimes felt without understanding why. It shaped the way trauma traveled through generations.

My father was not fond of soldiers that claimed Vietnam flashbacks, he cursed those that went on the news to talk about being tunnel rats or shared their horrific battle stories. As an officer he felt bound to silence and saw those that didn’t bury their memories and traumas to be weak. I know he had pride in the military and those that served but it was that hardness that I grew up with where he despised what he saw as weakness. I know I don’t have the experiences he had to judge him but over the years, I came to understand where the anger and temper came from and that it was just a byproduct of his life as it is now mine to a much lesser extent.

It was the silence of a man who served in places and roles most Americans never knew existed.

His story—this story—exists now because silence cannot be the final chapter.