Over there, over there,
Send the word, send the word over there
That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming
The drums rum-tumming everywhere.
So prepare, say a prayer,
Send the word, send the word to beware -
We'll be over, we're coming over,
And we won't come back till it's over, over there
In 1917 this was part of a popular song most Americans know. It was used within the context of US propaganda during the first World War. But, being the propaganda that Over There is, the song leaves out an important truth. More below.
In those days they called it "Shell Shock." A crude, off-hand way of saying Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. As in, "Hell, soldier, get on back in there, you just got a temporary case of Shell Shock."
In 1968 my brother was drafted into war. I walked into his room the night before he left, unsure of what to say, or how to act. After all, this was my big brother. He introduced me to the Beatles, to Bob Dylan. I was twenty, active, and I hated the war. I had been in personal agony over the Kennedys' deaths, and our dog Sammy had died not long before. I was in deep personal turmoil.
I stood there at that door, the door I was always eager to burst into, with news of this or that or the other thing. News of our baseball team winning our game, or with news of Christmas morning, or, more recently, with news of a particularly good beer I'd had.
I shook my head and just opened the door. George was sitting on his bed--neatly made--with his head in his hands, crying.
George. Did. Not. Cry. I'd seen him take a fastball right in the ass without a yelp. When dad was at his drunkest, screaming and breaking things, George was always the one that comforted me, not the other way around.
I stepped into his room and tried to form words. I couldn't, so I just sat beside him on the bed and cried with him.
War changed George. He was never the same sensitive, funny man I remember. He would never speak to me at length about the war. Much the same way as I never spoke to George about the time I spent in jail for refusing the draft. I never told him that dad called me a coward for refusing. I never told him that dad made fun of me to his buddies. Called me a dirty hippie. A commie dirtbag.
Meanwhile, at home, attitude about the war changed with protest. Students burnt their draft cards. People stood en mass to protest this injustice. Those with courage stood to fight when they were told, those with courage stood against the useless war over there.
Over There. Over There. Who's to say when it's over, when it's over. over. there? George sure didn't have a say as to when it was over over there.
Over there.
Over there George went mad.
I saw it in his eyes when he came back from over there.
I saw the pain, the torture his mind put him through--that our government put him through.
I heard him say horrible things that he'd never say otherwise, after coming home from over there.
Over there.
George would sometimes awaken, sweating, shaking, screaming. George would sometimes become enraged for no other reason than he had not tied his shoes properly. George, who had never cried before, often awoke in tears. George had frequent bouts of severe anxiety and depression. Several times he tried to kill himself.
I found him in his room one time with his wrists cut, sitting on the bed, crying, waiting to die.
All because he went Over There.
Over There.
What we don't hear from Over There is how our men and women return from there. In what condition. Because once they come home, they return in another condition. They come home from war.
Over there, where we can't see, where we don't hear, they give their minds and lives, and over there, they give more than we can ever understand.
And of all the memories of George and how he returned angry, confused, scared, with PTSD and unsure of his future, the memory that still sticks is George, the night before he left, crying in his room, as if he knew fully and understood what he was about to go through over there, for his country.
Then, as now, public opinion grows sour of our ventures "over there.":
Month Percentage who agreed with war
August 1965 52%
March 1966 59%
May 1966 49%
September 1966 48%
November 1966 51%
February 1967 52%
May 1967 50%
July 1967 48%
October 1967 44%
December 1967 48%
February 1968 42%
March 1968 41%
April 1968 40%
August 1968 35%
October 1968 37%
February 1969 39%
October 1969 32%
January 1970 33%
April 1970 34%
May 1970 36%
January 1971 31%
May 1971 28%
And then, as now, we ask our brave men and women to fight for a country--right or wrong. But those that fight over there have families. Brothers. Mothers. Sisters. Fathers. And it is not the government that has to live with the consequences of those that fight for America over there.It is the families of those that are over there.
So, if we Won't Come Back Til It's Over Over There, who's is to say when it's over? And is it worth the mental and physical harm our troops withstand? And is it worth the tattered memories of lives changed and a nation divided?
Until we answer that question and act boldly, we must prepare, say a prayer. Cause we ain't comin home til it's over. Over. There.
UPDATE: George is now a software engineer and happily married. He still will not talk about his time in Vietnam, and still bears the scars of battle, and the scars on his wrists, which are also a casualty of war. He still takes medication for anxiety and depression, and is active in assisting Vietnam veterans that have fallen through the cracks. God bless my brother, and all our brave troops that are currently serving Over There.
As a youngster my brother was a hero in my eyes. He is still the same hero now. I love you, George. :)