Trudell H. Guerue, Jr. ‘74
Dartmouth College Oral History Program
Dartmouth Vietnam Project
November 16, 2016
Transcribed by Karen Navarro
HARRIS: Hi, this is Sara Harris [’18]. Today is November 16th, 2016. It is 11:00 a.m. I am in Rauner [Special Collections] Library at Dartmouth College in Hanover, New Hampshire. And today I’m interviewing Trudell Guerue on the phone for the Dartmouth Vietnam Project. First of all, I want to thank you so much for speaking with me. To start off, I just want to ask you some biographical questions. Where and when were you born?
GUERUE: July 18, 1947. Rosebud, South Dakota.
HARRIS: And what did your parents do?
GUERUE: I’m not sure what my dad was doing or I’m not sure what my [mother] was doing. They were divorced when I was two, and left me and my brother. We were raised by our grandparents.
HARRIS: Your maternal or paternal grandparents?
GUERUE: My paternal grandmother and my step-grandfather.
HARRIS: Okay. And what were their names?
GUERUE: George Running Horse and Elizabeth Ptesanwin Spotted Tail.
HARRIS: And you mentioned you had a sibling?
GUERUE: I did. I have one brother, one full sibling. We called him “Babe.” His name is Milton.
HARRIS: And what was your childhood like growing up in Rosebud?
GUERUE: Incredibly happy. We had no idea how poor we were, but we had horses, we could roam all over the prairie, we could find food all over the prairie, and it was, geez, idyllic.
HARRIS: Was there a strong sense of community where you were growing up?
GUERUE: Yes, there was. There really was. And as poor as our population was, everybody looked to each other, and I’m the absolutely luckiest man I know for having that.
HARRIS: Uh-hum. You mentioned your population. Could you talk a little bit about your tribe or the reservation history?
GUERUE: Sure. My great-great-grandfather was a man named Spotted Tail. He was probably the greatest chief of the Sioux ever. His nephew was the more well-known one. His name was Crazy Horse. Crazy Horse’s mother was my great-great-grandfather’s sister. So I grew up with all of these legends. My grandmother’s brother was in World War I. Their father was in the very, very last raid on another tribe, and that was in vengeance for their taking a young woman from our tribe and killing her as part of their great tribal ceremony, tribal religious ceremony. So, I come from a warrior background. And I am not ashamed of it.
HARRIS: What was your daily life like on the reservation? You mentioned being in the prairies. What activities did you do?
GUERUE: Well, we rode horse a lot, because there’s nothing like riding horseback. I mean, you can go places and go fast. The freedom of being on a horse is just amazing. It’s not English style horseback. When you’re riding like we did, usually bareback, you became part of the horse. And, you know, sometimes the horse stopped and turned and you fell off. But it was just an amazing sense of freedom.
HARRIS: Did you go to high school on the reservation?
GUERUE: I went to Todd County High School [Mission, SD] for three years. For my first four years I went to He Dog Day School [Parmelee, SD], and then I went to Mission Elementary School for the next four years, and that’s when I went to Todd County High School. And it was there that I found out years later that a friend of mine—she became a friend of mine, she’s much older than me—had submitted my name to this program that people were looking for out east, and it was the New England Headmasters Association and the Dartmouth College and the Kennedy Foundation. They realized that they had to do something about educating young black people, because they could see what was fomenting, the trouble coming. And so, they wanted to start a program to get primarily black kids into the prep schools. And I was thrown in as an afterthought. I was the only Indian, and then very lucky at that. Sargent Shriver, Kennedy’s brother-in-law, was the guy in charge, and I was picked by Vermont Academy [Saxtons River, VT] to go to school there, for which I’m absolutely grateful. We just had our 50th year reunion. And I don’t know what else to say about that. I’ll listen to your questions.
HARRIS: That’s really interesting. Just to go back a little bit to your childhood on the reservation, did you say your great-grandfather was in World War I? Or your grandfather?
GUERUE: That was my grandmother’s brother.
HARRIS: Okay. And what was his name?
GUERUE: Stephen Spotted Tail.
HARRIS: And what perception did you have growing up of current events, or just your perception of the American government?
GUERUE: I got the Weekly Reader. I don’t know if you remember that? But the Weekly Reader was this little thing they put out to grade schools, and I learned about all the things that were happening all around the world. It made me—and I realized I was never going to be able to experience any of that, because I was an Indian boy on the reservation. There was no chance. So, when I read about all this stuff, I was just astounded. All these things that were happening in the world. I remember when Richard [M.] Nixon was possibly going to be dropped as a Vice-Presidential candidate, and how [Dwight D.] Eisenhower came back and saved him. I remember the first men in space. You know, these things that were just totally fabulous to me. They were incredible, not possible to me. So I just read and worshipped from afar.
HARRIS: Do you remember hearing about the civil rights movement?
GUERUE: Oh yes, I do. Oh yes, I do.
HARRIS: What was your reaction to that?
GUERUE: What did these young black men do to deserve that, simply by being black? And when I went in the Army and I was down South, and I saw how real it was, I… Martin Luther King was a godsend. Even though he was killed, he was a godsend. That changed this country.
HARRIS: Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. Do you remember the day he was assassinated?
GUERUE: Yes.
HARRIS: In 1968.
GUERUE: Yeah, I remember when Kennedys, both Kennedys were killed. And I realized then that the world had basically lost hope. When I was in the ABC [A Better Chance] program I got to know a lot of black guys. I had never met any before, although I do have a black grandmother. She’s not genetically related to me, but she was my step-grandfather’s step-sister. And she would be more Indian than I will ever be. But yeah, I remember those times. I remember the incredible grief that was taking place at that time. You know, how could someone be so mean to kill such a good man? That went for them. That went for the Kennedys. That went for Martin Luther King. They were good men. And they were part of my life.
HARRIS: You mentioned you felt like the events of America and the world were out of your reach. Did you ever feel resentment towards the American government because of the poverty on your reservation?
GUERUE: Actually, no, I didn’t. I felt that, yeah, they took my country, but at that point I didn’t have any resentment. I knew that we Lakota and the other tribes felt very strongly about serving. We wanted to serve the country. We were going to defend our land. And I don’t know of any other way of saying it, but it’s our land. We don’t have much of it anymore, but it’s still ours. And frankly, that’s how I feel now.
HARRIS: What was the official name of your tribe?
GUERUE: Say again?
HARRIS: What was the official name of your tribe?
GUERUE: In English it’s called a “Burned Thigh.” In Lakota it’s called Sičhą́ǧú, “Burned Thigh,” Lakota.
HARRIS: Got it. So, would you say the general sentiment on the reservation was this idea of kind of unity with the American government to protect the overall country? So it wasn’t as antagonistic?
GUERUE: I wouldn’t say that we have forgiven the United States government. But, it is still our land and we will protect it.
HARRIS: Did you always know that you wanted to go into the military?
GUERUE: From the time I was three or four. I had a cousin, Wilson Murray, who had bright red hair, freckles, and an uncle, Dennis Spotted Tail, and they were home on leave from the 504 Parachute Infantry, and I thought, Oh Jesus. Man, how can somebody look that good? I gotta do that someday. And I did.
HARRIS: So, what year did you go to Vermont Academy?
GUERUE: I went there the fall of ’64, graduated in ’66.
HARRIS: So, was that for your final two years of high school?
GUERUE: Yeah.
HARRIS: What was that experience like? What was it like being the only Native American student there?
GUERUE: The two loneliest years of my life. But, the most formative years of my life. And because of that experience, when I enlisted in the Army and I was in airborne infantry AIT [Advanced Individual Training], the 1st sergeant called out a bunch of names one day, one morning, and he said it was going to be a formation with the captain, and the captain informed us that we all had scores that were high enough to qualify us for Officer Candidate School. And so I went—I was one of them—and I went in to see him, and he said, “Private Guerue, I should have done this 12 years ago.” He was an OCS graduate, been to Vietnam twice, was killed on his third time. He said, “You have an opportunity here. You will take it.” And I had great respect for this man. He was a Special Forces officer. So I said, “Yes, sir,” filled out my application, and got accepted and got shipped to the artillery. I wanted to be the infantry, but too late. And I went to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, for the most miserable half year of my life.
HARRIS: What year was that?
GUERUE: ’67. And managed to graduate. Went to Germany. I spent, I think it was 11 months with the 8th Division Airborne Artillery. And finally got to Vietnam, which was my first choice anyway. And in Vietnam… I assume you’ve read the things I’ve written?
HARRIS: Yeah.
GUERUE: How did they strike you?
HARRIS: They were very powerful. More emotional than I expected.
GUERUE: That’s what it was like.
HARRIS: They really struck me, yeah. Before we get into Vietnam, just going back a little bit. Where was Vermont Academy?
GUERUE: Saxtons River, Vermont, about 60 miles down the road from Hanover.
HARRIS: And was that your first time in the Northeast?
GUERUE: Other than the ABC Program at Dartmouth. It was claustrophobic.
HARRIS: What does ABC stand for?
GUERUE: A Better Chance.
HARRIS: And you went to Dartmouth before getting accepted into Vermont Academy?
GUERUE: For the summer, yeah.
HARRIS: Okay. And what realizations did you have being in school with unfamiliar people in a new place?
GUERUE: Hummm. First of all, they were all middle class and upper middle class and real rich kids, the guys who went skiing in the Alps for Christmas. Oh, one of my classmates, his family owned a skiway in Chile. I was very, very aware that—I had not known this before, but I became very, very aware of class structure. You know, there were regular middle class people who were very good to me, and upper middle class people who were very good to me, and I got adopted on weekends. And any kind of big alumni weekend or any kind of weekend, I got adopted, and I had a chance to experience things that I had no idea would happen. Going into a… Have you ever seen a movie called Dead Poets Society?
HARRIS: Yeah, I have.
GUERUE: That’s what my school was like.
HARRIS: Wow.
GUERUE: It’s different now. Now it’s coed and not quite that closed. But, that’s what my school was like and that was just an absolute culture shock.
HARRIS: Did you go home during vacations from school, and what did that feel like?
GUERUE: Oh boy, I remember the first time I went back to South Dakota, I went back to my grandma’s house out on the prairie and my brother, and I remember my brother and I were just—we hugged and we cried. And it was on a hilltop, and it seemed so desolate, even though now that’s exactly what I want. I want that desolation. But a week or two before I was sitting up watching my—looking out my window towards the dining room, and there was this most incredible snowfall, these great big snowflakes that were as big as half dollars, and they were so big they just floated down, and they couldn’t come straight down so they wobbled down. And I thought, Oh my God, this is so beautiful. So, yeah, that was my introduction to New England, and so back to South Dakota.
HARRIS: Did a lot of the people at Vermont Academy go into the military?
GUERUE: You know, my class was 69 people. At least a dozen of us went to Vietnam. And way back when, the myth was that only the black people were getting killed in Vietnam. I know that’s not true. I know that’s not true. With the guys in my class who went to Vietnam, fortunately not one died. I’m the one who got messed up. But, they were there. They were all able to make it back. And I know that from the classes ahead of us, too, and the classes behind. I used to follow everything in the alumni magazine. No, the prep school kids, they did their part, and I think, actually I think in disproportionate numbers. I think there were more of them that did it than the rest of the population.
HARRIS: What was the name of the first training base you went to?
GUERUE: I went to Fort Bliss, Texas. We were there for two weeks and they sent us from there to Fort Lewis, Washington, for basic training. And after basic training I went to Fort Gordon, Georgia, for airborne infantry AIT, and then to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, for Artillery Officer Candidate School, and then to Fort Benning, Georgia, for parachute school.
HARRIS: And that was all during 1966?
GUERUE: From ’66 until I graduated from jump school in ’67.
HARRIS: You mentioned earlier recognizing the racial discrimination in the South when you were in training. Could you talk a little bit about that?
GUERUE: I think things are different now. I’ve been down there a number of times since. In fact, I was there last summer. But, I remember when I went down there for training that if you were black, you were in deep shit, unless you went in your own part of town.
HARRIS: Was your training group diverse?
GUERUE: Oh yeah, oh yeah, geez. Whites, blacks, Indians, Chicanos, Koreans, Japanese, Chinese, Europeans, Germans. And I have to tell you that I think that the Army is the best organization that this nation has ever had in terms of racial equality. Absolute best.
HARRIS: Did you ever experience discrimination as a Native American in the South?
GUERUE: No. They mostly thought I was from a South Seas island. [laughter] They had no idea what I was.
HARRIS: So, within the bases, though, you never really experienced discrimination? You felt like things were very egalitarian?
GUERUE: That is absolutely the correct word. People were good to me. People didn’t look down on me. And when they found out that I was an Indian, they went out of their way to make me comfortable. Other than the fact that I had brown skin and black hair, they had no other way of finding out who I was. I clearly wasn’t black or Oriental. And most of my friends were white guys, but a lot of my friends were black guys, too. And they would give me crap about being an Indian. They would “Tonto this” and all that kind of stuff. But, never ever was it denigrating. It was always in jest, and I think that that’s, I think that’s important.
HARRIS: Did you feel any class tensions during training?
GUERUE: No. Absolutely no, because, yeah, there was only problem I had with a guy who I was with in basic training. It was a white guy. And we eventually as lieutenants had a big fight and I beat the crap out of him. But when I got blown up in Vietnam, he came to see me, and I think that he came to see me out of good will. So, no, I never—I can’t say that I ever felt that. There were people who were clearly, clearly had more money. But the Army is a great leveler. You can’t dig a foxhole with someone who thinks they’re better than you. You can’t dig a shithole with someone who thinks they’re better than you. And when you’re under fire, the person next to you is the same class as you. It’s an incredible leveler, and I wish people knew what the Army does. The Army is the greatest leveler in our society. Look at, you’ve got women pilots off the ground. You’ve got women who are company commanders. You’ve got that young woman who lost both her legs and one of her arms and she’s now a major figure in our politics. Those kinds of things are, they come from the military. The military has to make do with what they’ve got, and they do.
HARRIS: What was your experience training in Germany?
GUERUE: Oh boy. Oh boy. First of all, I was commissioned when I was 20 years old, and so when I went to Germany in this artillery battalion, this airborne artillery battalion, I couldn’t hang around with the guys that were my rank, because they were so much older than me and much more sophisticated. And I couldn’t hang around with the guys that were my age because they were so much lower ranking than me. So, I ended up buying a car. Oh, what a wonderful car, geez. It was a hot shit bright pumpkin orange Mustang convertible, ’65. So I drove all over the Taunus Mountains and all over the area where I was. Thank God the Germans loved it.
But I ended up spending a lot of time by myself. And I’d go into guest houses and various places and there would be, people just loved my car, and as a result liked me, too. But it was also another very lonely time because I didn’t—I was separated from my age group and I was separated from my rank. But I had a good time. I had a wonderful time. I’m so glad I got… I didn’t want to go to Germany. I wanted to go to Vietnam. And so, when I got sent to Germany, I was not very happy, but once I got there, there was no choice. And I was a paratrooper, so, geez, what more can you ask? But it again was another one of those experiences in life that molded me, that made me, had a great deal of making me who I am. Now, I may not be worth a hell of a lot, but I’ve had some fun experiences.
HARRIS: What year were you in Germany?
GUERUE: ’67, ’68.
HARRIS: And you’ve mentioned a few times about wanting to go to Vietnam. What was your perception of the Vietnam War before going there?
GUERUE: There was a war on. There was a war on and I’m Lakota, I’ve got to get there. And I was very, very disappointed. After graduation from OCS, I volunteered for Vietnam, and they gave me orders for Germany with jump school. But I was still disappointed. I wanted to go to Vietnam. When there’s a war on, we Lakota go. That may sound—
HARRIS: Do you remember hearing about—No, continue. Sorry.
GUERUE: I’m sorry, Sara, I missed what you said.
HARRIS: Do you remember hearing about the Tet Offensive?
GUERUE: Yes. Yeah. I was sorry I was not there.
HARRIS: When did you find out you were going to Vietnam?
GUERUE: October. I think it was October ’68, and I arrived in Vietnam—this is the 16th, isn’t it?
HARRIS: Today is the 16th, yeah.
GUERUE: I arrived in Vietnam on November 16, 1968. This is a big day. And if I had my way, I’d have been there a lot earlier.
HARRIS: What did your family think of you going to Vietnam?
GUERUE: They were probably very fearful. My father was in World War II. His youngest brother was killed in Korea. I had two cousins who were in Korea, one of whom was shot up very badly, and another uncle in World War II. And, but it’s just accepted. That is what our men, and now our young women do. We do it. This is our country. This is our land. And if we don’t fight for our land, who will?
HARRIS: Did you have any fear before going to Vietnam?
GUERUE: Say again?
HARRIS: Were you scared at all before going to Vietnam after hearing about the big losses during the Tet Offensive?
GUERUE: Oh, no. No. I had no fear at all. In fact, I felt very strongly that I was not doing my job, that I should have been there. But I will tell you this. The night before I left my reservation… we have a harbinger back on my reservation. Just walk up this road and she would cry, mourn, just mournfully. Nobody ever saw her. She would go up to the hospital and when someone was dying, she would go into the next room and cry and cry and cry. And the night before I left I was at one of my aunt’s house. I wanted to go see one of my other aunts who lived about a straight line distance, about nine miles, but road distance 25, and I said, “I’m going to see her.” And the in-laws said, “Well, there’s a bed downstairs. Why don’t you sleep down there?” I went back out and I got my little ‘64 Triumph, turned on the motor, and it was too cold, it wouldn’t go. So I said, “Well, I’ll jump start it.” And I pushed down and I turned the key on, and it didn’t go, didn’t go, didn’t go. Got to the bottom of the hill, and we were at the very, very end of the hill before the canyon, and I heard this woman crying. I mean, she was just wailing. And I thought, Oh, boy, something’s really wrong, she’s crying like that. So I got out of my car, picked up the hood, wiggled the wires, went around and kicked the tires, and all of a sudden the hair went up on the back of my neck, because she was now crying behind me down on the crick. And I realized that she was telling me that I was gonna die. So I pushed the hood down, didn’t even latch it, and turned the key on and it turned on by adrenaline, I drove right back up to my aunt’s house and I said, “Can I stay here?” And I’ve never told anybody, but I didn’t think about it for five years. Because she was telling me that I was going to be killed. And I was. And she, boy, I wonder, I wonder who she is and what had caused her to have this duty?
And yeah, I knew when I was going to Vietnam I was going to be killed. And I was. And I spent 14 months in the hospital. During those 14 months I was on an operating table 16 times. And they were not fun times. And I’d get some kind of strength and start to be able to walk around again, and then you go back in and they say on Friday what you can do, and Monday they come in and give you the shots that dry you out, and you go in line and you say “hello” to your friends who are also in line, and wish them luck. And every now and then some of them didn’t get back up, and you’d go in not knowing whether you were going to come back or not. I had a doctor, the first one in Japan, whose honesty I really, really appreciated. This was the first surgery after Vietnam. And he came to see me, and I could barely see him. And he said, “We’re gonna do this and this and this and this.” And he said, “You may not come back.” And oh boy, I appreciated that honesty.
HARRIS: Sorry, just to back up a bit to look at your Vietnam experience. Where did you go when you went on November 16th?
GUERUE: I came into Bien Hoa Air Force Base.
HARRIS: And what was the name of your unit?
GUERUE: I waited there for about three days, and I went to the 173rd Airborne Brigade, which is where I really wanted to go.
HARRIS: Why did you want to go there?
GUERUE: They were the only paratroopers in town.
HARRIS: Could you describe a little about where you were living, what the conditions were like? Did you feel under constant threat?
GUERUE: [laughter] Living conditions? Every night my RTO [radio telephone operator] and I dug a hole in the ground four feet deep, three feet wide, six feet long. We filled it in in the morning. We ate out of cans. We didn’t get changes of clothes for weeks at a time. I would sleep on my rubber mattress, and I would put my jungle blanket over my face until finally the stench drove my face out, and then I would wait there until the mosquitoes start chewing me to shreds and then I’d put my face back under.
The C-rations were healthy, but after a while you learned, you just over and over and over, get which one is which one. And they had something called LRPs [Long Range Patrol Rations], and they were freeze dried and they were much better, because those you could heat up water, which you did with a piece of C-4, and make a really good, pretty decent meals. As a matter of fact, every Thanksgiving I think about my Thanksgiving of ’68. I was with a company that we were the bastard children of the battalion, and so we were always the last ones to be taken care of. And I had a company commander who was a turd, and his field 1st sergeant would always give him the LRP rations, which were freeze dried, so they didn’t weigh much, and we always had water.
So we were coming out and we were left out as usual on Thanksgiving Day of ’68. And I had one LRP left. It was a chicken stew LRP. And my RTO had nothing. And my RTO was kind of pissed at me because everything had been socked in with the weather, and they could finally only get one—enough ships to bring in and everybody else except one team. So I told the old man, the captain, I said, “I’ll stay out here with these guys because I can bring in artillery if necessary.” And my RTO was not happy with that, but he stayed. So, Thanksgiving dinner for Smitty and me was a—and it was, thank God, during the monsoons, so there’s a lot of water. We collected all the water and these bags, they stand up about a foot. And I had some spices that my mom sent me. So we had a chicken stew LRP for Thanksgiving dinner.
And then the next day they took us up to An Khe, and had this wonderful, wonderful dinner. Oh, there were 20, 30 turkeys, beautifully cooked. And all of the NCOs came out from this reserve battalion, and they asked for those of us who were eligible for our Class 6 cards, which were cards to go to the liquor store. You had to be a certain age and a certain rank. They took their own money and they bought us wine and whiskey and beer. But none of us could eat because our stomachs had shrunk so badly. So, yeah, every Thanksgiving I think about my RTO.
HARRIS: You said the name Smitty. Is that the name of your RTO?
GUERUE: Yeah. His name was James R. Smith, from Wyandanch, New York.
HARRIS: And what does RTO stand for?
GUERUE: Radio telephone operator. He carried my radio.
HARRIS: Got it, thank you. You mentioned the An Khe base. Was that the general location you were usually at? Or did you move around a lot?
GUERUE: I’m sorry?
HARRIS: Were you generally stationed at the An Khe base or did you move around a lot?
GUERUE: No, we were rarely there, rarely. We were always out in the woods, always out in the woods. I don’t think I spent…
HARRIS: In what regions-
GUERUE: Go ahead.
HARRIS: No, I’m sorry, continue. You don’t think you spent…
GUERUE: I doubt that I spent more than two weeks in the rear.
HARRIS: In what regions were you in the woods? In South Vietnam?
GUERUE: We were in what’s called II Corps, but we were primarily in the Central Highlands, from Tuy Hoa out to Ban Sang.
HARRIS: And what time of missions would you do?
GUERUE: Kill and destroy.
HARRIS: Could you describe a little bit about what that experience was like, what a typical day was like?
GUERUE: Mostly boredom. When you found somebody, you did your best to kill him. They did their best to kill you. It was… It’s interesting, but it became normal, even though later on for most of us it became… Geez, last night I woke up and I walked around the house just to check, just to check to make sure things were okay. I know people who are just absolutely jittery. I think I’m one of the relatively normal ones. But, you learn to live with tension, and the tension is not just any old tension. The tension is, someone is gonna try to kill you.
HARRIS: How many people were in your brigade?
GUERUE: During my brigade’s existence in Vietnam… they have been reactivated now. They’re now in Italy. They’ve been to Iraq, Afghanistan, Poland, all over Africa. But, during my time with the brigade, when the brigade existed, there were about 40,000 of us that went through there. One in five got a Purple Heart. That means one in five either got wounded or killed.
HARRIS: When you were there, was the brigade very close? Did you feel strong solidarity?
GUERUE: I’m a Sky Soldier. I am a Sky Soldier. That is the greatest thing I can say about myself. I’m a Sky Soldier. That’s who we are. Make sense?
HARRIS: Yeah, definitely. Before you were seriously injured, were there other incidents you can remember of very close calls, almost life and death, when you were scared?
GUERUE: I wasn’t scared but I had a necklace shot off my neck. And then, about 10 minutes later the son of a bitch that did that killed my recon sergeant. You may not want to write this down. I have that killer’s scalp.
HARRIS: Did you ever feel any hesitation or ever have any moral questioning of America’s role in Vietnam while you were there?
GUERUE: Absolutely not. Absolutely not. And I still don’t. We slowed China down. We slowed Russia down. And the Chinese and the Russians were there.
HARRIS: Did you feel like that was a general sentiment within your brigade? Was everyone very—had a strong conviction about America’s role there?
GUERUE: You know, I can only speak for a few people, mostly my fellow officers, but I’ve gotten to know lots and lots and lots of other men through our reunions, and they would do it again. Without hesitation. I would.
HARRIS: Can you talk about the day you were injured and what you remember?
GUERUE: Did you read my paper?
HARRIS: Yeah.
GUERUE: I remember the flash. I didn’t hear it. I didn’t feel it. And I remember twirling around. I remember landing in the sand and sliding down, and I was thinkin’, My God, so this is how it is to die. I just hope it doesn’t take too long, because I don’t want to hurt. And I saw the tunnel. I got almost to the end of it, and something pulled me back. And I am no longer fearful of death.
HARRIS: What was the situation that you were in that day? And what day was it and where were you?
GUERUE: It was June 5, 1969, about 4:30 in the evening. And we had come in and surrounded this—come in at night and surrounded this fishing village called Kin Gaow. And we heard that, learned that there was a—the local Viet Cong district chief was having a meeting with all of his staff. And so, we were gonna catch them, which we did. And we came in in the morning, very early morning, and went out and dug a grid on the sand and put all of the males in squares. The riflemen watched them so they wouldn’t talk. And then they, what they called the White Mice, and Vietnamese MPs [military police], called them White Mice because they wore white helmets. They came in and they knew who the district chief was. They also knew that his sister lived in this one village, in this one hut. And they beat the shit out of her. I can hear her, I can hear them hitting her from 150 feet away. They hit her, then he yelled back and then he yelled at her, here again, and finally she told him where he was, underneath her hut. So he dug into it, and broke into their tunnel, and there were some rounds exchanged. We killed one or two of them, and they were getting their stuff out, and we got into their arsenal.
One of our guys was down there throwing it out and I was standing right beside him with my FO team, and I sent my recon sergeant back to check in on the radio net and I realized he was kind of a dumb ass, so I sent my RTO, who was real new but also straight, a good guy, sent him to check in. And in the meantime I was standing beside all this stuff. There was about oh, geez, a foot-and-a-half of munitions, grenades and blocks of C-4. And I thought, I’d better check on my RTO because he’s new, too. And I turned to walk away and I looked down, and the guy was throwing the grenade, and it wasn’t Chinese. It was too well made for it to be Chinese. And it was not the same color and sizes as ours. And it went off, and landed right—and when it went off, it set off everything else besides my [inaudible]. And that’s when I knew that I was dead. It was a very enlightening experience. I’m not sorry for it. So, now you know how I died.
HARRIS: How did you get help after that happened?
GUERUE: One of our company RTOs saw a flight of helicopters going by, going back to our base camp. He called them in and they came in right away. I was the worst one hit. There was a sergeant across from me who was killed, but they weren’t concerned about him. But they put me on a poncho, and this is on a beach, now, a sand beach, and they carried me to the helicopter, and I remember being sandblasted, literally. Threw me on the helicopter and took me off. And I don’t remember then. I woke up at some point down at what we called B-Med, which is our medical unit. And I remember looking at them. I really didn’t care. I was drowning in my own blood. I just didn’t care. And I remember one guy, somebody cutting off my boot, and I really, really—my left foot, and it was just, it was mangled. It looked like I had two knees. And then he slid off my watch off my left wrist, and it was blood caked. I’ve got it. They sent it back to me. [laughter] And then, whatever they did to me there, they sent me out to Quy Nhon, and that’s where they started to torture me. So... That’s all I can say.
HARRIS: How did you feel when you were in Quy Nhon? Were you terrified? Did you still feel this—you were saying that you felt like you didn’t care—this kind of indifference?
GUERUE: Yeah, that’s correct. That’s the way I felt. I felt that. Now, you’ve read the paper, I told about the black guy who called me a baby. If I could, I would still, even today, have shot that son of a bitch.
HARRIS: For the interview, since the people listening won’t be able to necessarily read your papers, could you tell that story for the recording?
GUERUE: Which one again?
HARRIS: What you were saying about the incident of someone calling you a baby in the hospital?
GUERUE: Sure. Oh, sure. I have no idea why—I knew that I just hurt like hell. My belly was on fire. My arms were—my elbows were broken. My hands were all messed up. My leg was having spasms. And I wanted to know, I kept asking, “What time is it?” I have no idea why. And finally this, I assume a medic came up to me, and he said, “What’s your unit?” and I told him, “A Company 2nd 503rd, 173rd.” And then he said, “What’s your rank?” and I said, “1st lieutenant.” And he said, “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself for acting like a baby?” I’d like to see that guy now. I’d dearly love to see that guy now.
HARRIS: What else do you remember from your time in the hospital in Quy Nhon?
GUERUE: Oh, oh boy. Oh boy. Now you’re talking difficult stuff. I remember they were washing my eyes. I was blind. And this one day, I think it was my third or fourth day there, I could look up above and I could see these squares of light, and just my right eye. And then the next day, they came in to wash my eyes again and I could see this blurry face, this nurse. And I thought, “Oh my God, I’m gonna be able to see,” because I thought I was blind. And then I woke up one day and there were all these people around me. The whole place had disappeared, just these people around me. And there were people of both sexes and all ages, old men, old women, middle-aged, little boys and girls. And they had all been men and women and girls and boys that I had been. And they stood around me and they were waiting for me to go with them. So, I had become—I have no training in this, but I had become a reincarnationist. I don’t know what that means, but these were people I had once been. And it was a very difficult thing for me to realize, because I’m about as male as you can get. But, to come to the realization that I’ve been female before, too, was disconcerting. I realize that my own—this is my own belief. I have nothing to base this on. But I believe that we go through life, people are who they are, they’re born to who they are, and then maybe later on they come back and do something else. I was probably a real shit in some previous life, and therefore now I’m paying for it, trying to learn from it. And I think I’m learning from it. Make sense?
HARRIS: Yeah. Was that the first time that reincarnation experience had happened to you?
GUERUE: No, I had a couple more. I had a couple more, but without that group of people around me.
HARRIS: When you were in the hospital in Vietnam, did your comrades visit you?
GUERUE: One of my fellow lieutenants, the one I told you about who I got in a fight with, he came, and then my major came. My major came. And he was later a colonel. And I was out at a reunion, and I knew he was there; he knew I was there. So we were at our banquet together, and his wife, Dale, said, “Bill came and said he saw, he found—you were his lieutenant, and he started crying. And so, I started crying.” The colonel is now dead, as is his wife. But, you know, we old soldiers have, we have long memories. I hope mine haven’t been too long.
HARRIS: No, definitely not. What did you do after the hospital in Vietnam? Where did you go?
GUERUE: Three weeks after I left Letterman Army Hospital, I was at Dartmouth.
HARRIS: After Quy Nhon, where did you go? Right to Letterman?
GUERUE: No, I went to Drake Army Hospital in Japan, and was there for a week, and then to Letterman Army Hospital in San Francisco [CA].
HARRIS: What month were you in Japan?
GUERUE: Oh, boy, that would have been June. June of [’69].
HARRIS: June 9th?
GUERUE: ‘69
HARRIS: And then, what dates were you at Letterman Hospital in San Francisco?
GUERUE: I got there probably the 15th or 16th or 17th of June. And I was finally released on August 17 of ’70.
HARRIS: What did it feel like when you arrived back in America, coming from Vietnam?
GUERUE: Actually there was no difference. I was in one hospital, and then I was in another hospital. I did notice that the Letterman Army Hospital, which is in the Presidio of San Francisco, is a beautiful place, which Ronnie Reagan privatized for his friends. But, the big difference I saw was that the rooms were nicer, the care was more specific, I had really, really good people taking care of me, looking after me. I cannot—when I look back at it, I look at the people who took care of me, and I think, My God, there are these saints out there. And they just took care of me. And more than that, they cared for me.
HARRIS: What were some of the physical struggles you were going through while you were there?
GUERUE: Oh, boy. Oh, boy. You know, I had a colostomy and an ileostomy. I lost more than half my colon and a great deal of my intestines, so I couldn’t take a crap. I was going into these plastic bags on my side. That was the most demeaning. But I also couldn’t—it took a great deal of time… Did you read my story about my love?
HARRIS: Yeah.
GUERUE: When she came to me, I couldn’t hold a spoon in my hand.
HARRIS: For the purpose of the interview, could you explain who this woman was?
GUERUE: She was the most wonderful woman in my life. She was South Dakotan, beautiful, beautiful Norwegian girl, married, and her husband was in Vietnam. And to me… we saw each other every day, and at least once on each weekend. And I just… I had a roommate from the hospital, and we rented an apartment downtown on Post Street, real ritzy place, really nicely furnished, but no kitchen stuff. And so, she and I went down to Pier One and… [Both talked at the same time]
HARRIS: What was… Go ahead, continue, sorry.
GUERUE: I’m sorry.
HARRIS: No, keep going. Sorry. So you went down to Pier One.
GUERUE: Went down to Pier One and I bought a bunch of mugs and bowls and silverware, and we went back to our apartment, and I was putting stuff into the kitchen, and she said very softly, she said, “You know that everybody at the hospital thinks that we’re sleeping together.” And I pretended not to hear her, because I just couldn’t, I couldn’t do that to her. And when her husband came back, she brought him to the hospital and showed him around to us, and I was really glad to be able to look him in the eye, really glad, because I didn’t want her to ever, ever think bad of herself because of me.
HARRIS: When were you able to move into that apartment in San Francisco?
GUERUE: I think it was probably the seventh or eighth month that we were in the hospital. My roommate was the last man to be hit on Hamburger Hill, and that’s one of the major battles. Oh, boy, Sara, you’re making me… I’m gonna have nightmares tonight.
HARRIS: I’m sorry. I know it’s difficult to think about.
GUERUE: Anyway. Yeah, we were there for, oh, boy, we must have been living in that apartment for about four or five months. You know, whenever either of us was well enough to get out of the hospital, we would go to the apartment. And it was pretty neat. You know, just three blocks from Union Square. Very expensive. [laughter] But we didn’t give a damn. We had money. Oh, anyway. Anyway, Sara, what else?
HARRIS: What was the name of your roommate?
GUERUE: Say again?
HARRIS: What was the name of your roommate?
GUERUE: Steve Tice.
HARRIS: And when you did get the chance to be in San Francisco, what was the culture like? I know the anti-war movement was really at its peak in 1969, 1970, when you were there.
GUERUE: Well, I used to go downtown when I could finally get out of the hospital. I’d wear my uniform, on my crutches, and I would… I don’t think I was belligerent, but I was waiting for someone to say something to me so I could stick my crutch up his ass. And apparently, I was so obvious, nobody ever messed with me.
HARRIS: Did you ever encounter animosity towards you as a veteran?
GUERUE: Oh, yes. Oh, yes. But, again, it was always very sly. Nobody wanted to confront us personally.
HARRIS: Do you remember when the Kent State shootings happened?
GUERUE: Yeah, I do. I don’t remember if I was in the hospital or in Vietnam then.
HARRIS: It was May of 1970.
GUERUE: Okay. Then I was out of the Army then. Nope. No, I was in San Francisco. And I think it was a very bad thing. I actually know a friend who was at another campus, and he was grateful to be at the other campus. But, I think that there comes a point between peaceful demonstration and hostile demonstration, and if you’re gonna be hostile in your demonstration, then be prepared to bear the consequences. I think that… And I’m a lawyer. I believe in the right of freedom of speech. I also believe in the right, because it is specifically included in the Constitution, freedom of the press. I think everybody goes crazy with both of them, but they’re still rights. And I just believe them. I may disagree with how they’re expressed. As I used to tell a lot of my friends, “Yeah, you can say what you want and I’ll defend your right until you die.” But, yeah.
HARRIS: At the time as an injured veteran, how did you feel about the anti-war movement and all the criticism of America’s role in Vietnam?
GUERUE: I was incredibly resentful. My thoughts were, How dare you denigrate the death of my friends?
HARRIS: So, you said you went to Dartmouth very shortly after your time in San Francisco. Did you apply while you were in San Francisco?
GUERUE: [laughter] You want to hear a funny story?
HARRIS: Yeah.
GUERUE: Okay. [laughter] I was very lonely, and so I decided I wanted to call some friends of mine who were in the ABC program. They were the college photographer and his wife. And I called—they brought in the portable phone, which is about five-and-a-half feet long, four feet high, and about three feet wide. They brought it in and plugged it in and handed me the phone. So I called the Scotfords. And I was talking to them. That school was kind of lonesome. And Mrs. Scotford said, “Wow, you know, we just got a new president. Name is John [G.] Kemeny. And he’s starting up a program for Indians. He’s going to renew the pledge to the Indians that was made at the beginning when they got the grant.” So I says, “Oh, that’s really neat.” And she said, “Well, why don’t you call the admissions office and see what kind of information they have.”
So I called the admissions, and this young woman answered and said, “Oh, just a minute. They’re in their last admissions meeting.” And she said, “But if you hold a bit, I’ll go talk to someone.” And this guy comes on, he’s the dean of freshmen, and he said, “This is Dean so-and-so,” And I says, “Well, I’m Captain Guerue. I just heard about this program and I’d like to get some information.” And he said, “Wow, we’re in our last admissions meeting. Can I call you back tomorrow?” So I said, “Yes, sir.” The next day they brought the big portable phone down again, plugged it in, and said, “There’s a phone call for you.” And it was the dean. And he said, “This is Dean so-and-so,” and I said, “Yes, sir, this is Captain Guerue.” And he said, “Can you make it this fall?” And I said, “Yes, sir.” He said, “Okay, we’ll send you an admissions application.”
HARRIS: Wow. Had you thought that you wanted to go to college before that conversation?
GUERUE: I had no idea what I wanted to do. But once that conversation was made, I knew where I was going. And, you know, I took the long convoluted way of getting through school, but the fact that it all began in the ABC program, and then through Vermont Academy, which made possible my commissioning as an officer, and then got me into Dartmouth, I am the luckiest son of a bitch I know.
HARRIS: What was your view of Dartmouth from being there during the summer for the ABC program?
GUERUE: Oh, geez. Oh, geez. Talk about the idyllic life. Total peace. Total opportunity. I don’t know any other way to describe it.
HARRIS: Do you remember how you felt when you found out that you were accepted to Dartmouth?
GUERUE: They had rejected me when I applied from Vermont Academy, so when they accepted me, just word of mouth, I immediately contacted my headmaster and his wife and told them. They were ecstatic, completely ecstatic about it, and they, yeah, they’re Dartmouth people, too. And they were very disappointed when I went into the Army, which is unfortunate because I thought that was the best thing I ever did. But, now I’m not sure what’s right, what is, but now I’m one of them. Now I’m privileged to be considered one of them. I’m not one of them. But some of them think so.
HARRIS: When you went to Dartmouth in the fall of 1970, what was the state of your injuries?
GUERUE: Actually I was in pretty good health at that point. I had a dropped foot. My left leg is badly injured. My right hand looks relatively normal, but I’ve got an older nerve damage on that side. I was not totally disfigured, but my middle fingers on my left hand are gone, as is the last joint of my little finger, and my left thumb is in good shape. So, I came in looking relatively normal. And I had regained quite a bit of health, so I was… Nobody gave me shit.
HARRIS: Were you nervous about going to Dartmouth?
GUERUE: Not at all. I was so pleased. I was just ecstatic. I was so pleased.
HARRIS: What was your experience once you got there? Was it as idyllic as you expected?
GUERUE: Well, no, because I came in with, and I didn’t realize it, but I had a terrible chip on my shoulder. And it wasn’t because of Dartmouth, it was because of society in general. And then when I got to Dartmouth, we were—I think I sent you a copy of my letter to the editors which I didn’t send. We Indians were not, we were not accepted. There was a great deal of animosity about us, and so I came in with animosity from the country in general as a Vietnam vet, and then animosity as an Indian at Dartmouth College. Fortunately, and I had the good sense to go to Middlebury College [Middlebury, VT] one summer to renew my Russian, and I met a girl from Smith [College, Northampton, MA] and I ended up going to Smith a lot. So I…
HARRIS: What were some of the… Sorry, continue.
GUERUE: Okay. Well, so I spent a great deal of my time down at Smith College, which probably was the most positive part of my academic career, not that it was a career, but I got away from the—I had a chance to get away from a great deal of the Dartmouth animosity towards the Indians, and there was a great deal of animosity. What’s his name, Morton, Mort something or other, one of the, oh, he’s a big guy with one of the news networks, he was one of the guys who really, really didn’t like us. And they were just the alum.
All right, here’s a story that you probably don’t want to write. I took off the year after my freshman year because I realized I was so screwed up that I needed to get away. During that year, an old man from one of the classes of the ‘20s came up to the Indian office, which was on third floor of College Hall, opened his pants and pissed all over the floor, and said, “That’s what I think of you Indians.” Had I been there, that man would have gone out the window. That’s how strong things were.
HARRIS: Wow. That’s shocking to hear. Can you describe other experiences of discrimination you had from the students, professors or alumni?
GUERUE: I would rather not. I’m sorry, I’d rather not. That one burned so hard, it wouldn’t be fair to anybody else.
HARRIS: Yeah, it’s okay. I read that you were the first class of Native Americans. Do you remember how many other Native Americans there were your year?
GUERUE: Well, there were 15 of us in that class and there were six or seven in the previous four classes. And we were really, really close. We were very, very tight because we knew that we were—we had only each other. And we knew that most of the rest of the school didn’t want us there. So we ended up with our own little reservation. [laughter] Think about that.
HARRIS: How did you feel about the Dartmouth mascot using Indian symbols and stereotypes?
GUERUE: Actually, one of the things I liked most about Dartmouth was that Mohawk warrior. As a matter of fact, I had one made in Thailand. I’m looking at it right now. I never felt the way that the young Indians felt. And I say “young.” Some of them were older than me, but I was a hell of a lot older than them. I always thought that the Dartmouth Indian symbol was a beautiful thing, and I don’t say it publicly, but it wouldn’t bother me if it came back.
HARRIS: What was your experience with the anti-war movement on Dartmouth’s campus?
GUERUE: They didn’t like me. I used to wear my field jacket with my patches, my Airborne patches, my parachute wings, and my railroad tracks as a captain. And I was 22 years old when I got those tracks. I used to wear that around town just to piss people off.
HARRIS: Would people react strongly to you?
GUERUE: No, they stayed away from me. They stayed away from me. They knew that I was—
HARRIS: Do you remember hearing about. Sorry, they knew that you were…
GUERUE: Go ahead.
HARRIS: Sorry, you said they knew that you were…
GUERUE: I was looking for confrontation. I wanted people to say bad things. I wanted them to say bad things about my service. But I think they were aware that it would not have been good for them if they had said those things. Isn’t that awful?
HARRIS: Yeah. Do you remember hearing about the Parkhurst takeover and other protests that happened the year before you got there?
GUERUE: Oh, yeah. I thought, Those fools.
HARRIS: Did you build a… Sorry, keep going. That was my bad. What did you think when you heard about the protests?
GUERUE: Those fools. Those fools. And I still feel that way. Those fools. There are other ways of doing things. There are other more constructive ways, and the stuff that was going on back then was not constructive. And it got politics involved, of course, but it was not constructive.
HARRIS: Did you form any relationships with other Dartmouth veterans that had been to Vietnam?
GUERUE: I was the only one there. There was a guy, a Marine, ahead of me about two classes and I’d see him now and then. But he was an anti-war demonstrator and I had nothing to do with him.
HARRIS: Do you remember in 1973 when you found out about the US withdrawing from Vietnam?
GUERUE: I was at the Indian house all by myself watching TV, and I cried.
HARRIS: Do you remember what the sentiment was on campus when other students found out?
GUERUE: No, and I don’t give a rat’s ass.
HARRIS: You said you became really close with the other Native American students. What was some of your experiences at Dartmouth? What did you study? What did you guys do in your free time?
GUERUE: [laughter] Well, as I told you earlier, the grenade that was coming up out of that hole at me was too well made to be Chinese, therefore it had to be Russian. It was bigger and different colored than American grenades. So, when I was going to Dartmouth, I had to—everything was set up with the VA [Veterans Administration], and I had to declare a major, so I declared Russian, because I wanted to understand these people. And so I spent my—I majored in Russian. And thank God, I met this woman at Smith, and I never—I hung around a lot with my fellow Dartmouth Indian students, but I spent most of my time from my second year on at Smith, and so I never got really, really involved with the Dartmouth Indian—I don’t know what the right word is—but I just didn’t get involved with them. I spent all my time trying to get away from everything. The issue of Russia, thank God, is now resolved in my mind. I think that they’re still a danger to the world. The Chinese are a bigger danger. And Smith College is a much happier place to be. Thank God I found them.
HARRIS: Were the students at Smith College more accepting of your background?
GUERUE: Oh, geez. I hesitate to say this, but I was an exotic person. Here I’m this Indian paratrooper officer and Vietnam vet. Holy crap. And they really liked me. They saved my life. Now, that doesn’t make sense, does it?
HARRIS: I think it does. How did you feel when you were graduating from Dartmouth? What were you thinking about for your future?
GUERUE: Well, I had been accepted at Notre Dame Law School. I was set for an internship in DC. And things are looking pretty good. I’m unhappy with the way things have turned out.
HARRIS: When you were at Dartmouth, did you experience any post-traumatic stress disorder? Were memories very upsetting to you when you were a student?
GUERUE: Oh, boy. Oh, boy. Sara, I used to drink half a bottle of Wild Turkey at night. I thought at that point it was a physical pain, but it was also emotional pain. I would study, I would read, I would write, but I was drinking half a bottle of Wild Turkey at night. And that’s back when it was just 101 proof. I am the epitome, I think, of PTSD. I know lots of guys who didn’t survive it. But, oh, boy, yeah, I know it very, very well.
HARRIS: Can you talk about your involvement in the Dartmouth community after graduating?
GUERUE: My involvement has been primarily with the Indian program. I think I sent you a copy of the letter that I wrote about the Dartmouth Vietnam staff. I’ve been—I was, and I guess, as long as I pay my own way now I can show up to be part of the Native American visiting committee. But, one of those first meetings I was at, I was at visiting committee, we were over in the government building across from Baker, and I was walking around, we were on a break, and I found this thing. It was about a three feet high obelisk, painted, was wood, plywood painted grey, and on top of it was this ugly, ugly stone. I don’t know if it was a stone or metal, but it was ugly. And beneath it was a plaque that said, “Dedicated to the memory of these Dartmouth men who died in the Armed Forces from such-and-such a time to such-and-such a time.” And I realized that—and they had their names and their class numbers listed, and there was a short blurb from Frost, and I thought, Somebody’s ashamed of these people. Somebody is ashamed of these people. You won’t acknowledge who’s Armed Forces. You won’t acknowledge where, when, only when. You won’t acknowledge what. And so I got off my—I came home and I made an eagle feather staff for those 21 men. And if there’s something I’ve done for Dartmouth, it’s for those 21 men. They died for this country. How can anybody denigrate that? I don’t know if you’ve seen it. I think I sent you a copy. But it is… You know, I don’t see them as, when I think about it, I don’t see them as me being an Indian and them not being Indians. We are Dartmouth men. Have you seen that, Sara?
HARRIS: Yeah, I have. I’ve read about that staff. Could you say what year you made that and what happened with it?
GUERUE: Oh, I made it about I would say four years ago. I don’t know the exact date, but four years ago, and then I rebuilt it for last year, because I was in such an angry mood. I took what I had with the first one, and it was not very good, and now I think it’s—now I’m proud of it. But those men, they are my brothers in arms, and I understand the monument is now somewhere out by the football field, and rightfully so. But I wish they would take off that ugly rock of whatever it is and put something up nicer. So, at the pow-wow they fly the staff, and I had a chance to dance that staff last year. But it made me feel terribly, terribly proud of those young men. Anyway, Sara.
HARRIS: I think I read that the staff was also carried in this past year’s commencement.
GUERUE: I heard that. I’m so glad.
HARRIS: In June, 2016. Yeah.
GUERUE: So glad. Those men should not be forgotten.
HARRIS: Can you talk about what you did after Dartmouth, and how your Vietnam experience shaped your adult life?
GUERUE: [laughter] Hey, you got a couple of years? Well, went to law school, went back to South Dakota, ended up as Chief Judge of my tribe, and eventually an Appellate Judge and a Chief Appellate Judge for the South Dakota Intertribal Court of Appeals, all of which left my name in tatters. Came back up here in Minnesota. I was a lawyer for Upstate Legal Services in New York for a year. Came back down here for four years, working with the Social Security [Administration]’s hearings and appeals, writing decisions for judges. And then I went to the Legal Rights Center for a little over 20 years, doing the, as I always called it, we were the bastard stepchildren of the Public Defense Corporation of Minnesota. We took the cases that they couldn’t take, or wouldn’t take. And then I retired from that four years ago. As a matter of fact, it still wakes me up. It woke me up this morning. But I like to think that I have lived up to my—oh, what’s the right word?—to the opportunities that I’ve been given. Me, this little ole boy from the reservation, given all of these incredible opportunities. And I think I’ve done a fairly decent job at giving back. Not perfect.
HARRIS: How do you think your experience in the Vietnam War has shaped how you view American politics today?
GUERUE: I think that son of a bitch who’s just been elected, draft dodging bastard that he is with his goddamned bone spurs, belittling other people, belittling veterans… Yeah. Pardon me. I have some strong views about American politics. And I think that America just missed one of the most wonderful opportunities it’s ever had of electing a woman as President. It will come. It will happen. But, when I think about this man who has been elected and his lack of decorum, his lack of courage, his lack of masculinity, he and I are the same age. I could have gotten out of going to Vietnam, too. But I didn’t. He chose to say, well, he had these bone spurs in his ankles. Really? And there are so many people like that. And they’ve got all these excuses now why they didn’t serve. That’s how I feel. That’s how Vietnam affected me. I don’t know if that makes any sense to you, but…
HARRIS: It definitely does. I think that’s pretty much all my questions. Any final reflections on the war, the impact it had on your life, on this country’s history?
GUERUE: Okay. The war had a tremendous effect on me. It physically changed me. But I think it also physically changed this country, and I think it made people feel less than happy about the government, and then we go to the extreme of what we have now. People will say, “Well, we’ll just nuke ‘em.” I don’t agree with that either. I think that Vietnam was such an influence on this country, and mostly negative. I hope we get over it. I hope we start to see good things in our military, instead of bad things. I hope people begin to see that the military is not a bad thing. In fact, it is the part of society that makes things work better than anything else, and before anything else. And you’ve got women fighter pilots, you’ve got women infantrymen, you’ve got women doing all these things that were impossible 40 years ago, 20 years ago. I think that Vietnam started all that, and I’m hoping the people will continue that. I want to know that if my daughter decides that she wants to be a Marine, she can be a Marine. And I want to know that if my son decides that he doesn’t want to be, he doesn’t have to be. Okay, Sara, that’s all I can think of.
HARRIS: Great. Thank you so much for doing this interview. It was incredibly interesting and important.
GUERUE: Okay, Sara.
[End of Interview.]