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Pledge in a Rice Paddy
Charles Desmond, an African American and one of ten children raised in a mill town north of Boston, describes his childhood as one of “subsistence—living on my dad’s meager paycheck, week to week.” There were only a few black families in Desmond’s hometown, so, he says, “we didn’t have a clue about the civil rights movement. We sort of went along without a lot of racial stress.”He expected to get a menial job and go through life as his father had, selling junk for a living. But an older brother, who had been in the Army, encouraged him to take the SAT exams. He did well enough to get into Boston University and arrived there in 1965.
He was startled to find a lively culture that centered on ideas and movements, particularly the civil rights movement. He began to see that there was a world beyond the confines of what he’d known. But instead of hitting the books, Charlie Desmond preferred the life of pool halls around campus. Before long, a dean told him, “Charlie, take time off to decide what you want to do with your life.”
Shortly after he dropped out, the draft board came calling. He went into the Army in March 1967, and when basic training ended, he shipped out to Vietnam as an infantry squad leader. Desmond was impressed by the absence of racial tension in combat. “When someone next to you helps determine whether you live or die, a different race or culture isn’t the issue.”
Fighting north of Da Nang, near the DMZ, Desmond was in heavy combat. He performed so well that he won the Silver Star, the Army’s second-highest award for valor. He also remembers that he was in the biggest battle he’d ever seen, on April 4, 1968, when he heard that Dr. King had been assassinated.
“I was devastated,” he says. “We heard there were race riots in the United States, and the military worried about how the black soldiers would react in Vietnam.” Desmond wasn’t surprised when there were no problems in his unit. The code of mutual survival held.
Desmond had a life-changing conversation with himself while hunkered down in a rice paddy during a major battle. “It was hell on earth that day—one of the worst things ever. Death and dying all around. I’m not a very religious person, but I said, If I survive this, I’m going to turn my life around. If you don’t make the right choices in life, other people make them for you, and they may not be in your best interest.”
By the spring of ’69, Desmond was back on American soil, walking through the San Francisco airport in his uniform, when he received a welcome home: “A young woman looked at me with rage and said, ‘Baby killer!’”
More determined than ever to get on with life, Desmond remembered his rice-paddy pledge when he arrived home in Massachusetts. “I knew I was not the person I was when I left home. I was very, very focused.” So focused that he enrolled at Northeastern University, graduated with honors and was awarded a Fulbright fellowship to study in Germany.
After that, he was hired by the University of Massachusetts in Boston to run its Upward Bound program, helping poor students navigate the difficult terrain of higher education. He stayed there for 31 years, eventually becoming associate chancellor of the university. “I spent most of my career working with students who had questions like ‘I don’t have enough money to pay my bills—what do I do?’ I could help because I’d been through it.”
So what would have happened if Desmond hadn’t gone to Vietnam? “I don’t think I would have done what I’ve been able to do in my life,” he says. “My father was an alcoholic. I probably would have gotten into drinking or Lord knows what else.”
Instead, Desmond became a prominent educator. He’s been married to Phyllis for almost 30 years, and they have three children of exceptional accomplishment. One is a graduate in economics from the University of Chicago. Another is getting a master’s in architecture from MIT. And the third, a University of Virginia graduate, teaches second grade at a school in Harlem.
“I decided to write about the ’60s because I lived through them,” Tom Brokaw told Reader’s Digest. The award-winning journalist spent three years on his new book, organizing a “virtual reunion” of boomers to capture their life-altering experiences.
RD: Why are we still so conflicted about what the ’60s meant?
Brokaw: Because so many fundamental tenets of American life were challenged—many of which needed to be—and it played out in such extremes. We had assassinations. We had a war going on, with more than a thousand dying each month. It was a convulsive time of exceptional consequence. I don’t think we’ve yet cracked the code of the ’60s.
RD: So will we ever crack it?
Brokaw: Not entirely. And that’s fine—we haven’t cracked the code of a lot of things. Anyone who lived through the ’60s has such strong personal impressions of that time, and they view it through their own prism.
RD: Do you see similarities between those who served in World War II and those who served in Vietnam?
Brokaw: Yes. Both sets of veterans are reluctant to talk about the difficult times. There’s also a real bond within units. Some guys who served together are closer than blood brothers.
RD: What about the vets who suffered through rough times back home?
Brokaw: They’re still fighting their way through it. I think what makes them feel a little better now is that this country finally gets the idea that however you feel about a war, you’ve got to honor the warriors.
RD: Is there a lasting message you’re hoping the book will have?
Brokaw: The big lesson of the ’60s, the enduring lesson, is that we went through a traumatic, unsettling and deeply divisive time. But overall, this is a resilient country.
-- Maureen Mackey
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