Vietnam: Closure after 40 years

After 40 years and 3,000 miles of highway, I found myself standing at the doorstep of 85 year old Eleanor Kitchen.

by Randy Ark, Staff Writer

On June 7th, 1969, 40 years ago, Eleanor’s son David died in South Vietnam. It was mid-morning in Lai-Khe, when Jesse Fugate approached me with red, tear-filled eyes. Something was wrong, and although in Vietnam there are many possible reasons for tears, this time I really had a bad feeling about what Jesse was going to tell me. I wasn’t wrong. Trying to steady his voice, he told me that our buddy, David Crilly, had accidently shot himself in the head with my .45 caliber pistol. He went on to say that those who found him had placed a pillow tightly on his wound to try to slow the bleeding. David was taken to the base hospital in a jeep where he was soon pronounced dead.     

Thoughts and images swirled through my head as I tried to comprehend all that had just happened. David was only 18 years old; he had just written a letter to my sister, Nora; he was a happy-go-lucky kid from California who lifted the spirits of those who shared our bunker. What was he doing with my pistol, and why hadn’t I unloaded it, as was regulation when leaving it unattended? What would his mother think happened — and what would she be told? How would all this be reported?

Readers may recall from the article by Megan Gildow in the News and Sun last December 7th that after 39 years, thanks to the efforts of Stewart Resmer and a relative of David’s, I was able to make contact with David’s mother. It is now eight months later, and after many emails and phone conversations I was about to meet Eleanor Kitchen face to face for the first time. This moment would be the beginning of a new relationship and the end of a long search.

I cannot describe my feelings as I exited the car and stood facing the steps to Eleanor’s lovely, mountain-view home. I was finally here in Walnut Creek, California, and was so glad that my wife Sharon and my daughter, Kara, were with me on this trip. They had both heard me speak of David many times over the years, and both knew of the guilt I carried concerning the loaded gun that I had left unattended in our bunker that morning. No amount of counseling could ever relieve me of this oversight and its consequences. After a full night of combat activity, I suppose I was glad to just take off my gun and lay it on my bunk. I have thought of David nearly every day since.

I squared my shoulders and straightened myself and walked up the steps to meet the family. Eleanor was the mother of nine children, and I had known one of them.

I knew they had been looking forward to my arrival, and I had just called twenty minutes earlier and spoken with David’s sister Lori, so being afraid of a welcome was not an issue. Apparently, I was just excited.

Reaching the top of the steps, I first saw two of David’s brothers, Dennis and Donie, followed by Eleanor and Lori. There were hellos, handshakes, and hugs, but I embraced Eleanor the longest. Her eyes sparkled, and she was still a beautiful woman at 85 years of age. I could feel her love and compassion as we hugged, as if she were once again holding her son. The brothers’ handshakes were firm, and their smiles friendly and thankful: thankful for themselves and for what this meant to their mother. Lori hugged me lightly and said, "We are all so glad that you are here."

We spent the entire day with David’s mother and siblings and our conversations were interspersed with laughter and tears. There was reminiscing and the asking and answering of questions. David’s brothers and sister pored over old photo albums, letters, and documents to help me appreciate some of  David’s pre-military history. At one point, Eleanor escorted me to the hallway and showed me a display case with all of David’s medals encased there for others to see. She asked me what each medal signified and listened intently to my explanations. In the center of this display was a black and white photograph of David who, for me, will remain eighteen years old forever. How painfully I wished again at that moment that David had never picked up my pistol.

Our visit with David’s family seemed more like a reunion. I could not have felt more comfortable or more welcomed. Eleanor made a point on at least two occasions of telling me that I need not feel any regret or remorse over what had happened to David, and that everything happens for a reason. She was so sweet and so caring.

Two days later, I met David’s brother Donie at St. Peter’s Cemetery in Fresno. He took us straight to David’s grave, where we placed two flags and some flowers. It was a special moment for all of us there. Donie, like me, suffers from the effects of Agent Orange, and we connected at that gravesite on the common ground to which only veterans are privy. Donie and his brother Dennis had both been in the military and served with distinction. I am proud to know them.

I love this family, and if anything good can be said of David’s tragedy, it would be that I was able to acquire another family and that I was able to help Eleanor, as well as myself, toward closure and peace. May God watch over them.

Randall W. Ark

Me and Eleanor Kitchen