Vietnam was once an ugly, never-to-be-forgotten war zone where young Americans died at a much-too-rapid pace. Soldiers trudged through steamy jungles where ugliness was seen up close and personal. A different kind of torture plagued their friends and families back home. Devastating news reports triggered fear as we watched actual war footage on television sets across America.
An unexpected knock on the door brought instant agony to the next of kin. Would men in uniform show up at our front door? Would our soldier come home in a body bag? Hearts were shattered inside homes as that all-too-familiar script was shared: “We regret to inform you of the death of…”
During that era, I was a teenager attending high school in nearby Iowa City, Iowa. This university town was a cesspool of young people vehemently opposed to the war…and who wasn’t? Even staunch supporters of our military and our country weren’t fans of the war…but protests never bring peace.
My eyes were opened to the ugliness of war and to the ugliness of those who oppose war. I saw downtown businesses destroyed as explosives shattered storefront windows. Draft dodgers left our country at an alarming rate rather than stepping up to serve. Protestors defiantly sat on asphalt streets in front of buses full of draftees headed to Des Moines to be sworn in. Somber goodbyes were made even more heart-wrenching by those who blocked those buses.
Hatred was spewed across our great nation by protestors shouting PEACE. What an oxymoron!
On the other side of the world, the exhaustion of weary soldiers was further exacerbated by reports of riots and chaos back home. Those serving on the front lines were betrayed daily by those they were fighting to protect. Returning vets – those fortunate enough to survive the battlefield – were met with hostility rather than accolades; protests rather than parades.
Maybe they weren’t the fortunate ones, after all. Was it worse to be met with blatant disrespect or draped in an American flag? I really don’t know. It was indeed an ugly era. The atrocities of war devastated so many families – mine included. Let me introduce you.
My mother was the oldest of eight children born and raised in rural Iowa. Before her youngest was out of diapers, Mama was married and pregnant with my brother. By the time her brother outgrew the crib, my brother needed it. Then I came along. Pictured on the left are my parents, Glenn, and me.
Grandma Camp died much too soon, leaving Grandpa to raise their youngest four – Reva, David, Jim, and Jack – alone. The older four were on their own by then. Mama helped with the little ones as much as she could while raising her own.
Pictured with me are my uncle, Jack and brother, Glenn, with Reva, Jim, and David behind us.
The six of us were quite a menagerie. Stairsteps, just two years apart. My aunt is ten years older than me. Glenn and our three uncles are in between Reva and me. We all were (and still are) close, almost like siblings.
Then came a knock at Grandpa’s door in February 1969 and we were five!
James Dale Camp was mortally wounded by shrapnel when his unit came under heavy enemy fire in an ambush. Soldiers dove into their bunkers that night. For Jim, it was too late. My uncle bled out in the arms of a fellow soldier.
[That, in itself, is another story, because forty-some years later I met that soldier. We talked and remembered and cried together. I’m so thankful. I think each of us healed a little bit that day. Stay tuned for that crazy story!]
But, back to 1969.
In September of that same year, David was drafted. As a recent engineering graduate of the University of Iowa, we were sure he wouldn’t have to serve on the front lines. Yet when his orders came, we were numb. In six short weeks, David would be with the infantry in that steamy war zone. The U.S. Army had spoken.
An overwhelming sense of helplessness blanketed our whole family, along with fear, anger, grief…and a tiny little spark of faith. The faith of my mom and Reva who believed all things were possible with God (Luke 1:37). They knew the power of effectual fervent prayer (James 5:16). So, they prayed in earnest. Continually. Separately. They prayed the same seemingly impossible prayer:
Please, God! Don’t send David to Vietnam!
Two sisters, miles apart, were crying out to the Lord in unison. Never before had either one written to a congressman or president. However, God prompted them to do so, and they obeyed that divine nudge (still unaware the other was doing likewise).
God knew the plans He had for David (Jeremiah 29:11) and was already working on his behalf even before those prayers were spoken or letters were written.
I’ll never forget the day God answered their prayers…by phone. Remember when phones were firmly attached to the walls of nearly every home in America? Big, colorful, clunky phones with ridiculously tangled cords? Well, one afternoon ours rang.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Mama listened intently as I stood nearby, trying to figure out who was calling and what was said because my mom began to lean heavily on the countertop. The expression on her face was intense. Her voice quivered. Her hands shook. This was no ordinary call.
When she hung up, tears flowed. That call originated in the White House in Washington, D.C. and they had news to share. (My aunt got a similar call.) Because of a new law passed in June 1969 and because Jim was killed in action in Vietnam, David would NOT be sent to Vietnam. David’s superior officers, of course, didn’t know his brother was a Vietnam casualty and David was unaware of this law, but his orders were changed as soon as the paperwork was done. Praise God!
David did serve overseas during the Vietnam era, but was NOT assigned to a combat zone and returned safely when his tour was over. That law wasn’t passed because of the prayers of my mom and aunt; however, if they hadn’t prayed and acted on God’s prompting, this family story could have ended much differently.
Is there anything too hard for God? No! Nothing! Absolutely nothing! (Jeremiah 32:17) Not even a last-minute deployment change. And, we are forever grateful.
Epilogue: Written a week ago, this post prompted today’s conversation with my uncle, David. That conversation led to this epilogue.
We lived through this same time in history, yet his perspective of the on-campus protests is unlike mine. I realized I wrote from a 14-year-old’s perspective. Now, I do not discount the ugliness I saw – it was very real. My youthful perspective was heightened by my love for my uncle, Jim, so I saw those protests as personal attacks on him. If my reality seems harsh, I’m sorry. That’s not my intent. My words are simply my own gut-wrenchingly honest and felt emotions of that time.
David also added a few details to the story – details worth mentioning. I knew the deployment change took place within a six-week window of time, but I didn’t know how and when David first learned of the change.
Picture this: A group of soldiers in Fort Polk (LA) sat on the ground in a circle. I’ve been there and imagine the dusty ground, blanketed with a gazillion dry pine needles, with tall trees towering overhead. Those young men had completed basic training and their bags were packed. They were awaiting the arrival of a bus to take them to an airplane. Those guys were headed for war. Some would never see a pine tree again.
As they waited, an officer approached calling the name of a certain soldier. David W. Camp. What now? Why me? What were the thoughts running through my uncle’s mind? I don’t know. But every good soldier does as he is told – right? So David followed along as they walked to the office of his commanding officer (CO). It was there he was shown a letter detailing his new orders; orders that didn’t include Vietnam.
God is never too late!
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