A collection of photo illustrated war and post war vignettes, short stories, war nightmares, war poetry and travel writing by a Vietnam combat medic. Site includes war related videos and documents. There is some harsh language.
Launched on April 5, 2025, The Hands Off protests are a series of nationwide demonstrations against the second administration of President Donald Trump. Hands Off protests occurred in over 1,400 locations across all 50 states, drawing an estimated 3-5 million participants.
Just a few people stood near the platform, waiting for the commuter rail at Salem Depot. When the train pulled in a few minutes later, more passengers than usual were aboard. Two stops later, due to track work we switched to buses. It was then that I realized these two or three hundred people carrying hand held signs were headed to the Boston rally.
From North Station I took the T to Park Street, expecting a 1/4 mile trek to Boston Common, but outside, hundreds of protestors, young people, old people, many holding placards, were milling about. Due to the slow moving buses I’d missed the rally. What to do? I decided to walk half way up Park Streets grassy hill to watch the protesters trudging by. Looking past them, I saw hundreds and hundreds more, a thousand people at least, coming this way.
I joined the marchers heading uphill toward the golden domed State House. Soon they began to chant, “This is what democracy looks like!” and “Hands off! Hands off!” At the top of the hill I saw hundreds more protestors from converging from Beacon Street, and we marched, chanting, moving downhill now, all in a good mood, orderly, no drunks or trouble makers, quite a few geezers from hippie time. Plenty of young people too. People held American flags, or papier-mâché props; here and there protesters wore colorful costumes or masks. Nearly everyone held a cardboard sign. “Be Gone Elon!” “No Kings! New Election!” My favorite phrase? “Where do I begin?”
About a half mile on a guerilla marching band came up behind me — trumpets, tubas, sax and drum blaring. As they passed by I put my hands over my ears. I kept looking for a familiar face, but all faces were familiar.
I saw an old guy wearing a Veterans for Peace cap standing on a curb. I figured I’d talk to him, though first a woman I recognized. I was mistaken, and after small talk I asked the guy if he’d been in Vietnam. He said yes. I said, “What unit?” He said First Cavalry. That was my unit too. I said “What battalion?” He said First of the Seventh. Same as me again. I said, “What company?” He said Charlie. I was in Delta. I asked, “What year?” He said ’65. Me, ’70. I asked, “Were you at the battle of Ia Drang?” He said he was lucky. He’d left Charlie just before it started. He was a medic, he said. His replacement was killed. He didn’t ask about me but I was stunned by the parallels between us.
With the noise from passerby, the cheers echoing from down the line, it was hard to hear, but we kept talking. After the war my fellow vet went to France, where he picked grapes, then sold newspapers. One morning while selling papers on the Champs Elysee he spotted a man he recognized. “A bearded guy,” he said, “with long hair. With an Asian woman.” He asked the bearded man, “Are you in the Beatles?” Before John could answer, Yoko said, “We’re in the Beatles.”
After two years in France he returned home to a job on a moving van. While delivering furniture to Harvard he asked a clerk about enrolling. An administrator invited him to his office. “Were you in Vietnam?” the admin asked. “Yes,” he said. He was accepted, though two years later he dropped out, earned a degree elsewhere, and taught English. He retired 12 years ago. His name was John St. George.
For half an hour I stood and watched people, twenty abreast, marching nonstop down the wide street, their crude or colorful signs streaming past: “Trump is Stupid!” “We Are Not Divided!” “Democracy Is Not for Sale!” When it started to rain — it had been drizzling — I headed back to Park Street, where I saw a woman holding a large cardboard sign about Gaza. In a loud screechy voice she taunted the marchers heading home. “What about Gaza? What about the genocide in Gaza? Nobody said anything about Gaza!” she screeched. She was right, but today was all about Trump.
Two hours had passed. I hadn’t eaten except for two slices of bread. What to do? I took the T to my favorite Japanese restaurant in Brookline. At Trader Joe’s I bought an organic candy bar. At Brookline Books I bought two literary magazines.
Waiting for the subway I ate the candy bar and snuck on the T without paying. Back at Park Street I walked to a cafe, took a well earned piss, found a table, sipped an espresso. Afterward, I took the T to North Station, where I boarded a shuttle bus, then caught the train to Salem. I walked a quarter mile to a restaurant and had a $10.00 smoothie. A Tahini Date Shake, if you must know. Rested and refreshed, I walked home. Like the war in Vietnam, I’d been part of something larger than myself. Only this time for a cause worth fighting for. ________________
top photo: 2/9 Marines move into the safety of a 4th Marines perimeter on 30 July 1967 after their foray into the Demilitarized Zone led to a running battle with NVA. Photo – U.S. Marine Corps History Division
Medic on the March
Launched on April 5, 2025, The Hands Off protests are a series of nationwide demonstrations against the second administration of President Donald Trump. Hands Off protests occurred in over 1,400 locations across all 50 states, drawing an estimated 3-5 million participants.
Just a few people stood near the platform, waiting for the commuter rail at Salem Depot. When the train pulled in a few minutes later, more passengers than usual were aboard. Two stops later, due to track work we switched to buses. It was then that I realized these two or three hundred people carrying hand held signs were headed to the Boston rally.
I joined the marchers heading uphill toward the golden domed State House. Soon they began to chant, “This is what democracy looks like!” and “Hands off! Hands off!” At the top of the hill I saw hundreds more protestors from converging from Beacon Street, and we marched, chanting, moving downhill now, all in a good mood, orderly, no drunks or trouble makers, quite a few geezers from hippie time. Plenty of young people too. People held American flags, or papier-mâché props; here and there protesters wore colorful costumes or masks. Nearly everyone held a cardboard sign. “Be Gone Elon!” “No Kings! New Election!” My favorite phrase? “Where do I begin?”
About a half mile on a guerilla marching band came up behind me — trumpets, tubas, sax and drum blaring. As they passed by I put my hands over my ears. I kept looking for a familiar face, but all faces were familiar.
I saw an old guy wearing a Veterans for Peace cap standing on a curb. I figured I’d talk to him,
though first a woman I recognized. I was mistaken, and after small talk I asked the guy if he’d been in Vietnam. He said yes. I said, “What unit?” He said First Cavalry. That was my unit too. I said “What battalion?” He said First of the Seventh. Same as me again. I said, “What company?” He said Charlie. I was in Delta. I asked, “What year?” He said ’65. Me, ’70. I asked, “Were you at the battle of Ia Drang?” He said he was lucky. He’d left Charlie just before it started. He was a medic, he said. His replacement was killed. He didn’t ask about me but I was stunned by the parallels between us.
With the noise from passerby, the cheers echoing from down the line, it was hard to hear, but we kept talking. After the war my fellow vet went to France, where he picked grapes, then sold newspapers. One morning while selling papers on the Champs Elysee he spotted a man he recognized. “A bearded guy,” he said, “with long hair. With an Asian woman.” He asked the bearded man, “Are you in the Beatles?” Before John could answer, Yoko said, “We’re in the Beatles.”
After two years in France he returned home to a job on a moving van. While delivering furniture to Harvard he asked a clerk about enrolling. An administrator invited him to his office. “Were you in Vietnam?” the admin asked. “Yes,” he said. He was accepted, though two years later he dropped out, earned a degree elsewhere, and taught English. He retired 12 years ago. His name was John St. George.
Two hours had passed. I hadn’t eaten except for two slices of bread. What to do? I took the T to my favorite Japanese restaurant in Brookline. At Trader Joe’s I bought an organic candy bar. At Brookline Books I bought two literary magazines.
Waiting for the subway I ate the candy bar and snuck on the T without paying. Back at Park
Street I walked to a cafe, took a well earned piss, found a table, sipped an espresso. Afterward, I took the T to North Station, where I boarded a shuttle bus, then caught the train to Salem. I walked a quarter mile to a restaurant and had a $10.00 smoothie. A Tahini Date Shake, if you must know. Rested and refreshed, I walked home. Like the war in Vietnam, I’d been part of something larger than myself. Only this time for a cause worth fighting for.
________________
top photo: 2/9 Marines move into the safety of a 4th Marines perimeter on 30 July 1967 after their foray into the Demilitarized Zone led to a running battle with NVA. Photo – U.S. Marine Corps History Division