The James M. Floyd Memorial, 1986

On September 17, 1969 SP4 James M. Floyd’s life ended. The obituary notice stated he was survived by his parents, Mr. and Mrs. W.T. Floyd Jr., one brother, Tom Floyd, four sisters, Mrs. Gloria Craig, Cathy, Pam, and Nancy Floyd, and a grandfather, W.T. Floyd Sr.

What we have left from his tour in the Army is in the bottom of my parent’s bureau. The Army gave us very little information about my brother’s death. The “Military Authority” told us his helicopter crashed into a mountain and we stopped asking questions. Once his body and belongings were delivered to us, the Army’s correspondence ended.

His funeral was with “full military honors” and the Army paid the expenses. We were given the American flag that draped his coffin. I never tried to understand the war, nor did my family. What we had at stake in the war was gone and there was nothing left to say — this may be why we stopped asking questions. My parent’s bottom drawer contains: my brother’s medals, letters he wrote home, sympathy letters from various governmental officials, a bundle of photographs, an Army uniform and a death certificate. In the absence of my brother we acquired a bottom drawer containing his fragmented, personal history of Vietnam. Knowing that many families have this same bottom drawer, I began to think about what the drawer represented to me.

In 1985 I reopened the drawer. I looked at my brother’s box of history and tried to remember what happened to my family 16 years ago. I was only 12 when he was killed and 18 when the war officially ended. I remember the anger I felt about form letters, disguised as sympathy letters from various government officials. I also remember the reactions my family had to the preacher at my sister’s church who spoke of the GIs in Vietnam as killers. By re-reading my diary I remember the confusion I felt because I only cried once. I thought it meant I didn’t love him.

I’m disheartened with what is being said about the Vietnam War today. The latest barrage of movies blatantly distorts what most of us remember by de-emphasizing the horror, grief and disillusionment of that era. These heroic fantasies of Vietnam will be our history tomorrow. That which is not recorded will be lost and forgotten. The anger and the sorrow I felt at 12 is back. I want to remember the effects of Vietnam because the results, no matter what the justification, are devastating. I’m reopening the drawer in order to develop my brother’s story. This is his story as seen through my eyes. Because I want you to remember.

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