MY TURN
BY ROBERT J. BRUDNO
Newsweek June 1, 1998
Unfinished Business
I think it's time for anti-Vietnam War
Americans to recognize the pain they
caused.
TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO, OUR
POW'S CAME HOME FROM North
Vietnam.
They looked better than anyone could have
imagined, after what they had endured.
Only months later, Air Force Capt. E. Alan
Brudno committed suicide; he was the first
to die. It was national news. How could
anyone give up just when he had won his
freedom after more than seven years of
unspeakable torture? As his brother, one
who feels the pain of his loss as deeply today
as when it happened, perhaps I can provide
some of the answers. Suicide never has
simple causes, but his story reveals some
unfinished business from the Vietnam War.
This young American flier had nothing to
be ashamed about. Posthumously, he
received the Silver Star, two Purple Hearts
and other medals. He took the worst the
North Vietnamese dished out, His fellow
prisoners said he was "hard-core, tough ...
he often mocked his captors and kept his
honor ... he was one of us." He was one of
the POWs who were paraded through
Hanoi, called war criminals and subjected
to incredible physical abuse. For his first 2
1/2 years of captivity, he was allowed to
send no letters. His family did not know
whether he was even alive. Later, he
courageously slipped into one of his letters
(we received fewer than 20 in 7 1/2 years)
that the "problem with fags (burning
cigarettes) on his skin" had cleared up a bit,
thus providing the first evidence that our
POWs were being tortured, That treatment
was mild. On many occasions he was beaten
senseless or hung from the ceiling by ropes
tied to his arms, which were trussed
together behind his back until his shoulder
blades touched, leaving his arms paralyzed
long thereafter. The pain is impossible for
us to imagine, yet he held out hope for his
return with honor.
He went to Vietnam in September 1965
because he was told to. He did not go bomb
churches and hospitals, or because he hated
the North Vietnamese, or because he was a
killer. He went because his country asked
him to, as it would have against a Hitler or
a Saddam Hussein. He was not some
hot-shot, macho Top Gun. He actually
joined the Air Force to become an
astronaut. Thirty days after he arrived in
Southeast Asia, he was shot down. He
survived until his release in 1973, because of
his love of country, love of his wife and
family and his belief that he sacrificed so
much for something. But a warning of what
awaited him came before he even set foot on
U.S. soil. Someone close to him said to me,
"He has to know that the war was wrong."
After the euphoria of his release wore off,
he realized that a lot of the propaganda that
had accompanied his torture sessions was
true. His own countrymen went beyond
being against the war; many supported
those he understandably viewed to be the
"enemy." This was not some philosophical
or political concept for him. The enemy
were the people who had beaten some of his
comrades to death. His idealized image of
what would follow his return began to
crumble. I begged the person who set out to
tell him that he "needed" to know the
"truth" about the war to not do so, or at
least to give him some time. I said he had to
believe what he endured was worth it
somehow. Despair, then selfdoubt, then a
feeling of failure set in. Then disaster
struck.
He became a victim not just of the North
Vietnamese, but of the inability of so many
in his own country, during that horrible
war, to separate the war from the warriors.
Many returning soldiers before him were
spat upon and branded as murderers, often
just after surviving their own harrowing
experiences. No wonder there was a
"Vietnam Syndrome." Like my brother,
few wanted to go to war, yet Americans on
the left did not respect their sacrifice,
because it somehow conflicted with their
passionate antiwar beliefs. Draped in the
freedom of speech this country provides,
self-righteous and designating themselves as
true patriots, they waved the Viet Cong flag
and justified their silence over the
treatment of the POWs by saying that all
that has to be done to help the POWs is end
the war. Unfortunately, that took a while.
Today, many antiwar protesters proudly
claim that they were right about the war, in
part as a result of Robert McNamara's
belated admission that he was wrong.
Whether the war was right or wrong, these
were our boys. They deserved our support
whatever the cause, whatever the result.
The antiwar movement has yet to recognize
the pain and heartache that it caused. My
brother had no say in the politics that sent
him to war. The lack of appreciation for
what he had done, combined with the
rationale of those who gave aid and comfort
to the enemy, helped destroy the will to live
that had kept him alive for all those years.
All that was needed then was for the most
vocal American antiwar spokespersons, the
ones Hanoi was clearly listening to, to say
that while they believed the war was wrong,
our POWs must be treated according to the
Geneva Convention. History has now
documented Hanoi's great sensitivity to the
swings of American public opinion. For
years, my family and I begged these leaders
of the left to do this, but to no avail. To do
so would have been "pro-war" somehow.
As a result, the North Vietnamese had years
of free rein to torture and kill our men.
When the POWs' families were finally able
to get attention in 1971 and 1972, the
treatment dramatically improved. For
many of the POWs, unfortunately, the
damage was done. This is the unfinished
business of that war. Few Americans who
were silent then have acknowledged much
responsibility for the consequences of their
actions on the home front. Whether the war
was right or wrong, then or now, is
irrelevant.
Years ago, I tried to get my brother's name
added to the Vietnam Memorial wall. I was
told that I could not, because the wall was
for servicemen who were killed in Vietnam
or died later from wounds received there.
Technically, I guess, Alan
Brudno was mortally
wounded back here.
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"My War : My Secret"
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