The Vietnam War ended 50 years ago.
The memories – along with emotional and physical scars – remain.
Approximately 2.6 million Americans served in Vietnam, including roughly 300,000 Black people who accounted for 16% of all U.S. troops. While Black service members were highly represented among the enlisted ranks they made up just 2% of officers.
In 1965, when President Lyndon Johnson ordered the first large-scale deployment of combat troops, Black people made up 31% of ground battalions, disproportionately higher than their 11% representation of the U.S. civilian population. In that same year, they suffered 24% of Army fatal casualties – the result of engaging in combat at a higher percentage than their white peers. Civil rights activist Martin Luther King Jr., who referred to the imbalance as “a white man’s war, a Black man’s fight,” lobbied for the end of racist military policy and mistreatment of soldiers by white officers and enlisted personnel.
In 1970 – two years after King was assassinated – the Defense Department required officers who failed to act against discrimination be relieved of command. It also moved to increase the ranks of Black officers in all branches.
For veterans who live in Charlotte, the war is an opportunity to share their experiences, which includes their fight against racial discrimination in the field and struggles to adjust upon their return home.
Larry E. Byers Sr. faced adversity before deployment: he had one kidney. He took a physical thinking he would be disqualified for service, but the doctor stuck two needles in his arm and passed him for duty. He was put on a bus for Fort Bragg on Sept. 5, 1969, for advanced individual training.
Byers’ first order of business was learning how to break down and reassemble M14 rifles. When he was sent to Fort Knox, Kentucky in November, Byers worked on M16s for six weeks before going to Seattle, Washington, and ultimately Vietnam.
“It was hell,” he recalled.
Byers spent his days digging foxholes and slept in them at night, rifle at the ready. That routine was shattered when a land mine exploded under his tank. The injuries led to his discharge on Dec. 23, 1971.
When he returned home, a doctor confirmed what Byers already knew: he shouldn’t have been in Vietnam. After multiple rounds of treatment, he was given a drainage bag. Byers insisted he didn’t need it but was told he wouldn’t live long without one.
At one of his final visits, Byers’ doctor suggested he not seek treatment if there were issues. The patient was confused.
“Don’t come back here,” Byers recalled. “Go straight to the undertaker.”
Carl Gamble always wanted to be a pilot. When he picked cotton alongside his mother, Ora, in Madison County, Alabama, he could spot Air Force fighter jets flying overhead. The journey to becoming a pilot was far from easy, but Gamble always kept in mind his
mother’s words: “You can be whatever you want to be. Believe in yourself, trust in your faith and work hard.”
As a student at Tennessee State University, Gamble was a member of ROTC and commissioned as an Air Force first lieutenant upon graduation in 1965. As an officer with a degree in aviation technology, Gamble was close to achieving his dream.
There was a detour, however.
Gamble was diagnosed with astigmatism, which would prevent him from flying. Another exam the summer after graduation revealed his original diagnosis was incorrect, but it delayed his pilot training, resulting in a year as a transportation officer.
Gamble was faced with greater challenges. During a mission in 1969, the C-47 Skytrain he was piloting over the Thu Bôn River was hit by a Viet Cong gunner. The transport was struck by a .50 caliber bullet that went through the engine and left wing. Gamble squirmed with anxiety, anticipating another hit.
Gamble landed the burning plane and everyone aboard survived. After taking a final look at the destroyed plane, all he could think was, “To God be the glory.” He was awarded the Air Force’s Distinguished Flying Cross for his act of heroism.
“That’s why you never let anybody tell you no,” Gamble said.
Years after he was discharged, Gamble was inspired to share his story with young people interested in aviation. In his 2016 memoir, “My Blue Yonder,” there’s a dedication.
“To my dearly departed marvelous mother, Ora, for steadfast support and encouragement of my childhood dream to fly.”
Arthur Griffin was commissioned an Army second lieutenant on April 1, 1969, and sent to Fort Benning, Georgia, for jungle warfare training before deployment in 1970 with an infantry unit.
Being an officer during that time required soul-searching, Griffin recalled. There were reassurances that he was up for the task, but he also watched television reports of soldiers returning home in body bags.
“I’d never gone to war before,” he said. “So, there was certainly some apprehensions.”
After King’s assassination, national events were reflected in the military. Griffin, a Mecklenburg County commissioner and former Charlotte-Mecklenburg school board member, dealt with racial tension, homesickness, and staying alive. With racial strife at home and fighting abroad, he felt two wars. One in America, the other in Vietnam.
When he returned home in February 1971, Griffin, like other veterans, tried to blend in. It was difficult to reconcile what was in the news and the rationale for going to war. There was a notion that Americans were defending their country as well as South Vietnam from communist North Vietnam, but that wasn’t the reality.
Veterans never forgot their experiences, which proved to be a burden. Griffin understood and supported veterans who struggled with mental illness and substance abuse. He considers himself fortunate to manage his emotions. He’s grateful for service, and the opportunity to return home.
“I’m glad I’m back,” Griffin said. “I spent 11 months, 27 days and six hours in Vietnam. I don’t regret that experience.”
Nasif Majeed was an ROTC student at North Carolina A&T State University, where he graduated in 1967.
As an Air Force pilot, he commanded a B-52 aircraft with the 17th Bomber Squadron. At 25 years old, Majeed didn’t realize the stakes of responsibility that came with leading a crew, and deploying munitions while piloting a plane against hostile targets. If he didn’t handle his job correctly, there wouldn’t be a second chance.
“Pressure makes diamonds,” said Majeed, who went into politics and today represents Charlotte in the North Carolina House of Representatives. “So, you have to learn how to adjust.”
Along with learning how to adapt, Majeed dealt with discrimination. The man who shared living quarters with him during training moved out
due to not wanting to be around somebody like him. During pilot training, white instructors gave him poor grades that left him on the verge of failing.
When Majeed couldn’t figure out what he was doing wrong, he went to his colonel for a review. After a conversation with his instructors, the grades were administered more fairly.
When Majeed was discharged in 1973, he realized there were no unwounded soldiers. He saw them eating out of trashcans and struggling to find housing. Majeed understood there was a sliding scale of how people are affected by the war.
“By the grace of God, and not to my skills, I didn’t get shot down,” Majeed said.
Marvin Price thought being the only surviving son in his family would keep him out of the military. Instead, he was drafted and inducted into service on Jan. 24, 1968.
Once he arrived in Vietnam, Price had trouble adjusting.
“I didn’t even know what I was doing over there,” he said. “I’m 20 years old. I’m just beginning to live.”
Price excelled in his work with the 327th Transportation unit, which he estimates included about 200 Black soldiers. While they looked out for one another, he noticed the difference in attitudes compared to their white counterparts.
In the field, white soldiers would express a desire to get “hit,” Price recalled, wanted to go “looking for war.” For them, combat meant fighting for their country. Black soldiers took a different approach.
“It kind of made you mad when they would say that,” he said. “Our mindset was totally different. We didn’t even feel like we had a country.”
Price said his tour was a “great experience” because he saw how people lived but asked himself: are you going to let Vietnam overtake you, or are you going to take Vietnam? Upon his discharge in 1970, Price quickly saw how many Americans perceived the war and those who fought in it. He was called “baby killer” and eventually opted out of wearing his uniform.
Price also came home to combat-induced stress. Heavy rain caused him to immediately reach for his gun. He’d also seek shelter from what he thought were explosions.
Decades later, Price returned to Vietnam for reconciliation with the events and memories that shaped him. That 13-day trip not only checked an item off his bucket list, but it also finally closed an important chapter of his life.
“I had to do that to get that release that I wanted,” he said.
