by Dr. Julie Ganschow, ACBC Certified Biblical Counselor
I’m the youngest child in my family, and there’s quite an age difference between me and my siblings, one of whom is my only brother.
I have very few memories of him from my childhood. I barely recall when he took his girlfriend to the prom, and I have only vague memories of my parents leaving pizza on the stove for when he’d arrive home from his late-night job.
I can still recall that sleepy morning when I said goodbye to him from the warmth of my bed. He was standing in the hallway in his green army fatigues. I only knew he was headed to a place called Vietnam, which worried my mom and dad. I was too young to understand their concerns. I had no concept of the Vietnam conflict. I only knew my big brother was going away.
There was great excitement and relief when letters arrived from Fort Benning and later from Vietnam. His letters gave no details of his experiences, just general information about his buddies, the heat, and his hope of coming home. His letters always included a note for me, which was exciting as a nine-year-old.
A party was planned in his honor when we received notice that he was coming home. He had served his tour of duty, and I was excited as I helped my parents prepare for the event. In an uncharacteristic gentle tone, my dad told me, "It’s best that you don’t ask your brother about the war." I didn’t understand why, but I was burning with curiosity about what he’d done over there.
When we went to the airport to pick him up, it was late at night, and there were not many people in the terminal. Looking back, I realized the absence was a mercy. It wasn’t until later in life that I learned that people had spat on returning Vietnam veterans and called them "baby killers" and other harsh responses. I’m so grateful my brother was spared that ugliness. I still grieve for those who weren’t.
When my brother entered the terminal and greeted us, he picked me up and held me. And as we rode down the escalator, still holding me, he put his Army hat on my head. I was thrilled! My brother was home safe and sound.
While many combat veterans joined groups that connected them with others who understood the war mentality and wanted to talk about their shared experiences and feelings, what they’d had to do to survive the war, my brother wasn’t one of them. He had quickly moved on with his life, seemingly determined not to be defined by his time in Vietnam but to be an observer. I later learned he was far more.
After finishing college, my brother entered his career and became highly successful. He had married his high school sweetheart, they had a family, and he never spoke of Vietnam. If he’d had a few beers, he might refer to his buddies, his platoon, his experience eating rattlesnake, or the random way he was selected to go to Non-Commissioned Officer School. Even those mentions were very rare. He told no war stories around a campfire; we all knew enough not to ask. He didn’t get angry or mean; the subject was closed, not to be discussed. He didn’t have a substance abuse problem, wasn’t abusive, and didn’t appear to struggle with post-trauma distress. He seemed to appreciate every day and appeared undisturbed by things that typically bother most of us, even though he had surely seen the worst. He just seemed glad to be alive and on with his life.
In 2021, he acquired a rare, fatal blood cancer, likely due to exposure to Agent Orange,[1] and that’s when I learned a little about his time in Vietnam. In some of our conversations, he gave me glimpses into the jungle, especially when he learned his cancer was acquired, not genetic.
He described how Agent Orange had been mixed with oil so it would stick when sprayed onto foliage. He spoke of walking through and laying in defoliated zones with the mixture dripping from the trees and what was left of the bushes. He mentioned drinking water contaminated with Agent Orange when that was the only water there was.
I had the privilege of being my brother’s stem cell donor for the transplant that was to save his life. He often said I was his hero. The process was time-consuming and unpleasant, and he often asked me, "Why are you willing to do this?" My reasons were simple. By that time, some fifty years after Vietnam, I had learned enough about what had gone on during the Vietnam War that I knew it must have been hell on earth.
My brother had served our country faithfully, and I wanted to thank him for his sacrifice. I so admired him. He was larger than life to me. I told him I would donate my stem cells because he was my hero. At the time, I didn’t know what a true hero he was.
I was a perfect match as his donor. His pre-transplant chemo went smoothly. So smoothly, he won an award for the number of laps he walked around the isolation ward! Because he was asymptomatic and his cancer was caught very early, chances were good that he’d go on to live many more years.
The transplant was a success and cured the cancer; he had beat the disease.
When he started having problems from Graft Versus Host Disease (GVFD),[2] he would kid around with me about how he hoped his new "$4.36 million little stem cell friends" I donated would get to like him. Sadly, it was the cure that killed him.
When my brother died, he took a piece of me with him. Sometimes, the pain of loss takes my breath away.
It wasn’t until his celebration of life service that I learned the extent of his heroism. While I recalled him once saying with a laugh how he’d gotten into officer training school, I had no idea that my brother had graduated in the top five percent of his class and had earned the rank of Staff Sergeant.
I had no idea my brother had become an Army Ranger or had been awarded the Bronze Star with devices,[3] among other awards for heroism and service. No one in our family had known until we received a letter from one of his combat buddies detailing my brother’s actions in a firefight, which had saved the man’s life.
My brother and the fellow soldier had become friends during officer training school and had deployed to the same area in the jungle. The soldiers were in three teams, spread apart about 100 yards and near the edge of the demilitarized zone (DMZ). His team sat furthest left, and his buddy’s team furthest right. They had placed themselves in a night defense perimeter, and then automatic weapons and grenades started going off. Four were wounded, including his buddy, who got hit in the upper thigh and was bleeding out.
My brother led his team, crawling over 300 yards on their bellies with firefight all around them, and had laid down their automatic weapons to reach the position of their wounded brothers-in-arms.
A tourniquet was tied above his buddy’s arterial wound, and my brother called for a medivac helicopter and told the pilot, "If you don’t come now, he’s going to die." Their weapons’ fire drove off the remaining North Vietnamese. Despite losing half of his blood volume, the man survived. It was for these actions that my brother received a Bronze Star.
Ten out of every one hundred veterans of the Vietnam War are said to experience distressing thoughts and feelings as a result of their experiences, and I number my brother among them. From all outward appearances, he had not struggled with post-trauma distress, but after his memorial service, I learned otherwise.
His best friend, a Vietnam veteran, shared with us the experiences my brother never had and perhaps couldn’t. As his best friend spoke, those sitting around, listening, were transported to the hot and dangerous jungles of North and South Vietnam. We learned about the unspeakable events that occurred all those years ago—the things my brother had to do to save his life and the lives of the men in his platoon. Those memories he had kept locked inside him, never to be opened, had haunted him.
My heart is in anguish within me; the terrors of death have fallen upon me. Fear and trembling come upon me, and horror overwhelms me. — Psalm 55:4-5 (ESV)
Too many veterans and their families continue to suffer in silence the traumatic consequences of war. Perhaps you do.
Post-trauma distress is a normal human reaction to very abnormal situations. The feelings of fear and terror you may be experiencing from combat are not abnormal. While the temptation may be to deny what you’ve endured by avoiding it, burying it deep inside, or attempting to numb the pain through drugs or alcohol, we urge you to allow our biblical counselors—many of whom are military veterans—to help you and your family face what you experienced in service (2 Cor. 3:1-7). The biblical counselors of Fallen Soldiers March are here to provide help, healing, hope, and comfort through Scripture. Our counselors will show you that the Bible has so much to say that’s relevant to your struggles (Psalms 38:10,17; 69:12). They desire to help you process your thoughts and feelings of fear, anxiety, grief, guilt, and shame within the frame of God’s redemptive work.
Every military family can benefit from the help, healing, and hope provided by the biblical counselors of Fallen Soldiers March. Don’t wait. Reach out for help today.
[1] "Agent Orange is a blend of tactical herbicides the U.S. military sprayed from 1962 to 1971 during Operation Ranch Hand in the Vietnam War to remove trees and dense tropical foliage that provided enemy cover. More than 19 million gallons of various ’rainbow’ herbicide combinations were sprayed, but Agent Orange was the combination the U.S. military used most often. The name ’Agent Orange’ came from the orange identifying stripe used on the 55-gallon drums in which it was stored."
"Facts About Herbicides," U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, Public Health, https://www.publichealth.va.gov/exposures/agentorange/basics.asp, Accessed 2-16-2024.
[2] GVFD occurs when the graft cells (mine) attack the host (him), seeing his cells and organs as a threat. For more about Graft Versus Host Disease, see https://www.froedtert.com/bone-marrow-transplant/stem-cell-transplant.
[3] Bronze Star with ‘V’ Device," AMEDD Center of History & Heritage, https://achh.army.mil/regiment/bronzev-vietnam-vietnam-am. Accessed February 22, 2024.
by Dr. Julie Ganschow, ACBC Certified Biblical Counselor
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