Vietnam Warrior Missing in America

Hello Wall

We sent our children off to war

They knocked hard upon death’s door

Too many friends come back no more

Tears for the warriors of yore

Off they went to the rigors of war

Where bullets and shrapnel savagely tore

Back home now, but not as before

Tears for the wounds of sad, sad war

To the heroes who were put to the chore

A heartfelt Thank You and more

Now, because you were not thanked before

Blessing to the heroes of yore

V.E.Galt

For all those who served their country with honor when times were quiet and especially to those who served in times of unrest, I salute you. I hope your country and its people treat you with the respect you deserve. Mostly, I sincerely hope you can look in the mirror and salute yourself.

V.E. Galt

MISSING IN AMERICA

May 5, 1976

$50,000 REWARD

My name is Dr. Jack Wilton. I am offering this reward to anyone who has information that will help me discover the whereabouts of my son, John.

He disappeared one year ago today, shortly after the fall of Saigon. He left his journals for me to find and now I am publishing them in the hopes that someone can help me find my son. John was distraught over the fall of Vietnam. He felt he had somehow failed his men, his country, and the people of South Vietnam. I had thought he just needed some time to think things out and get his head straight. However, I haven’t heard from him since his disappearance. His problems were evidently much more serious than I had realized.

John is a Vietnam combat veteran who suffered significant trauma, both physical and psychological. His physical wounds would be the most easily noticed.

His entire left middle finger is missing. If you should see him without his shirt, three major wounds would be visible. All the wounds are from an AK-47 and are prominent. They look like impact craters, much like the ones you see on the moon. The wounds are approximately an inch to an inch and a half in diameter. One of them might be visible if he were wearing a short-sleeved shirt. It would be on his right arm three to four inches below his shoulder. There was significant damage to the humerus, tendons, muscles and nerves, leaving him with diminished use of that arm. It is weak and he can’t straighten it out completely. He has occasional tremors in the arm and hand caused by the nerve damage.

The other two wounds were to his chest. The one on his right side is about five inches below his collarbone. It penetrated his right lung. The one on the left is higher and closer to his left shoulder.

These wounds have healed and cause him little discomfort. However, the serious wounds are psychological. They called his problem Shell Shock after WWI and Combat Fatigue after WWII. Now it’s called Stress Response Syndrome tomorrow there will probably be another name for this condition. What it is called is of no importance. What is important is that it is a serious problem. I am extremely concerned for his well-being and safety.

John is five foot ten and was a slight one hundred and seventy-five pounds when I last saw him. His eyes are blue and his hair is light brown.

The wounds I have described would most certainly be unique. If anybody sees a person with such wounds, you have found my son. I will be more than happy to pay the reward to anyone who can give me any lead that helps me find my boy.

Some other information that may be helpful. When John went missing, he was driving a red 1971 Mustang convertible with a white top.

He took most of his personal possessions with him when he left, including his passport and his rifle. The passport hasn’t been used anywhere in the world. I’ve had that checked out through some personal sources I have at the State Department. Likewise, the car has not been registered or seen since John went missing.

John is an avid shooter, but not a hunter. He learned to shoot in Vietnam and enjoys target shooting, especially at long range. He might be found at a gun range that is equipped for target shooting at a range of five hundred yards or more.

I filed a missing person’s report with the Houston police on May 9, 1975. They have information on how to contact me, or you can contact me directly at:

Dr. Jack Wilton

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THIS CONTACT INFORMATION IS NO LONGER VALID

Current contact information as located at the end of Dr. Pamela Wilton-Harris’s addendum to John’s journals. The instructions will only be understood by my son John Lee Wilton VI.

Introduction to the Journals of

United States Army

Lt. Colonel John Lee Wilton

John wrote these journals at the suggestion of his VA support group counselor as he explains at the beginning of the journal.

John was always thorough and rather than a simple description of his experiences in Vietnam, he wrote an autobiography.

I have decided to publish his journals in the hopes someone might recognize him and let me know if he is okay. I have waited a year to publish the journals because he indicates he planned to do something that was illegal. I would have understood if he had completed the mission he had prepared for. However, after a year it is clear he has abandoned that undertaking.

I have transcribed John’s writings to the best of my ability. His once fine script is difficult to read now. The injuries to his arm and a fondness for scotch that he developed in Nam have destroyed his handwriting. I do believe I got everything correct. I left nothing out nor did I censor anything. Everything is intact, both the good and the bad.

A small caveat; John used many military terms that were specific to the Vietnam War. I have defined the military jargon the first time it is used to make it easier to understand. What is in parentheses and italicized are my words. (My words) I hope this helps find John or at least helps someone else who finds themselves in this kind of trouble.

Dr. Jack Wilton

The Journals of

Lt. Colonel John Lee Wilton

10/09/1971

Dying young is not the worst thing that can happen to you. I would have rather died on the battlefield than live with the pain of knowing I didn’t do my job well enough. Good men died because I failed them.

I’m sure Dr. Groves would not be pleased with the way I began this journal. She thought it might help me slay my demons. I’m not so sure, but I’ll try anything at this point.

Dr. Groves would have us call her Susan. Us, being the broken refuse of that travesty called the Vietnam War. She is a psychologist and the support group leader at the VA in Houston. I go there for physical therapy and follow-ups on my surgeries. My father, through a mutual friend of ours, suggested I join Dr. Groves’ support group. She seems to think that if I pour my heart and soul out onto a piece of paper it will wash away my sins and make me whole again. I can only hope she is right, but to be honest, I don’t have a lot of confidence. It’s not because I don’t have confidence in her, it’s just there is no evidence any of the treatments she is proposing will work. The government is very good at turning men into killers, but hasn’t a clue on how to turn those killers back into civilized men.

I just can’t call her Susan. I just couldn’t do that. I suppose the reason I can’t call her by her given name is because my father is a doctor. I would never call him Jack when he’s working. I wouldn’t even call him Dad at work. When he does what he does so well, he is Doctor Wilton, even to me. I have some idea of how hard he worked to become a doctor.

She suggested that I should write the story of my life for myself and should never let anybody read what I had written. I find the concept difficult. It’s like talking to yourself. That’s what crazy people do. Perhaps she’s right. Maybe I am crazy. That would explain why I wake up screaming in the middle of the night or start shaking or crying for no apparent reason.

Note: After some consideration, I have decided to date each journal entry at the approximate date of the occurrence rather than the time they were written. Hopefully, that will help me understand what has happened to me.

So here I begin the story of my life.

09/28/1952

I was old enough to remember when my father did his residency. There were times we didn’t see much of him. Residency was an ordeal for both him and Mom. Once he finished his residency, he was a certified plastic surgeon and opened his own practice. I was almost eight then. Within two years, we were living in a fine house in the country club, right on the fairway. Dad seemed to know a lot of important and rich people. They were willing to pay anything to procure the services of the legendary Dr. Jack Wilton. I didn’t know that my father was a legend, but it seems he was, even before I was born. I didn’t learn the truth about him for many years and I only learned it from others. Dad never talked about how he came to be regarded so highly.

His practice was certainly not a nine to five job. He wasn’t home as much as the other kids’ fathers, but it wasn’t just his private practice that kept him away. He spent a lot of time at the VA and at the UT Department of Plastic Surgery, where he had done his residency. He would do surgeries there and stay at his patient’s bedside, sometimes for days. At the time, I didn’t understand. I do now.

I don’t mean to suggest he was never home. He was home as much as he could be. When he was with us, his entire attention was focused on my brother, sister, myself and of course, Mom. Even if he was gone a lot, he still spent more real time with us than most fathers.

When he was home, he was the best of fathers. He helped us with our homework, went to plays, and attended ball games. All the things a good father does. He even taught us all to play golf, alas, golf seemed to be the only thing at which he didn’t excel. None of us ever became anything but duffers. Outside of golf, he was always the best at whatever he did. It’s not like he was driven to be the best. He just was.

I can’t tell how much I learned from my father. Maybe the most important thing I learned from him was don’t go to medical school. Dad never seemed to have time for himself. His world was constantly in motion. There was his practice, his work at the VA and UT, his family, and of course, the social functions that were mandatory for a person of his stature. When he wasn’t busy with all that, there were seminars to attend or host, not to mention all the studying to stay up with the latest procedures. As a child, I thought it was my father who held the world together. In retrospect, I realize he didn’t hold the world together, it was Mom that held it together. Dad being gone as much as he was put a terrible burden on her. It wasn’t just taking care of three kids that kept her busy. She was the wife of a renowned doctor and had to play the part. There were social functions to arrange or attend. Proper etiquette was a must at all times. She not only represented herself and her kids, she represented Dr. Jack Lee Wilton. Looking back, she carried out her part with as much grace and skill as Dad carried out his.

10/14/1959

On my thirteenth birthday, 10/14/1959, my dad and I had a serious talk. It wasn’t THAT talk, the one that every father is supposed to have with his son. We never had THAT talk. I don’t think he ever had THAT talk with his father, either. I figured he learned everything he needed to know in the back seat of his father’s Chevy. I always thought I did him one better. I learned everything I needed to know in the back seat of Rachel’s father’s Mercedes.

The talk we had was about my future. Dad explained that in many cultures, I would be considered a man now. It was time, he said, for me to start thinking about what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I immediately blurted out that I didn’t want to be a doctor. A sickness swept over me, I thought I would puke. I knew his passion was his work and I had just disrespected what he loved so much. I suddenly looked down and slumped, trying to make myself as small as possible. Then the most amazing thing happened. He began to laugh hysterically. I was flabbergasted.

When he finally got himself under control he explained to me that on his thirteenth birthday his father had asked him that very same question. He had been apprenticing with my grandfather for two years by then. He had given the very same answer to my grandfather as I had given him. He had just substituted tailor for doctor. He told me for the first time, he realized how he must have looked to his father that day. His father told him if he wanted to be a doctor, be the best doctor he could be. I think that was a seminal moment in our lives. It was the first time we had shared something together as adults.

I did get his meaning, and I started to look around at my life. Life was good. We were members of the country club with a great house, a maid, gardener and the best of everything. My sister Pam, brother Matt and I went to the best private schools. We had the best toys and the best clothes. We lived very well, in truth we were spoiled rotten, but we didn’t realize it. This was the lifestyle I was growing up in and I didn’t want it to change. I had seen how other people lived, the ones who were less affluent. I sure didn’t want to live like that. Did I mention that I was spoiled rotten?

I took a look around the country club to see what these people did to earn such a great living. There were doctors, but I had already ruled that out. A number of lawyers lived there too. I’m sorry, I was raised with too much integrity to be a lawyer. There were a couple of senators and a congressman who lived at the country club, but I didn’t want that public of a life.

My girlfriend’s father was a money manager. That didn’t sound too bad. There were a good number of business executives and entrepreneurs living at the country club. Business school sounded like my best choice. To be really successful, an Ivy League school would be best.

Once the choice was made, I needed a plan. I went to the career counselor at school. I wanted to know what would be required to ensure that I could get into an Ivy League school. The counselor made it clear grades were the top priority, but they wouldn’t be enough. They would look at school participation, things like student council, clubs and participation in other school activities. Sports were of little or no importance. Outside of school, activities that helped the less fortunate were a big plus.

With this information I built a plan. The school thing was simple. It was a thing you just decided to do. The outside activities required more thought. Who would I ally myself with? Doctors would have been a good choice. I certainly had the connections. However, that would most certainly mean going to some third-world country to help the poor. A noble cause, but let’s face it, I wasn’t trying to be noble. I was trying to get into a top-notch school. Being linked in any way with a lawyer might be considered a bad thing if you’re trying to get into business school. Businessmen were not generally recognized for doing good works. Nevertheless, from what I’d seen, they tend to do much more charitable work than anybody would suspect. Still, the only truly viable choices were politicians, even though they probably are less altruistic than anybody else. They always have some kind of charity to push, so they look good to the voters. It makes people believe they really care and they’re high profile. Bingo, that’s just what I needed.

We had a US senator, a congressman and a state senator who lived at or were members of the country club. My dad was friends with them all.

Over the next three years I managed to get volunteer positions with each of them. Senator Tower even offered to give me an appointment to West Point if I was interested. I thanked him but turned down the offer. Looking back, that was probably a mistake.

09/30/1972

If I had taken Senator Tower up on his offer, there’s a good chance I wouldn’t be in Dr. Grove’s therapy sessions. It’s funny how a decision you make sort of offhandedly can change your whole life. I suppose there’s a possibility I might have ended up here anyway.

I found my introduction to group therapy somewhat disheartening.

During the first group meeting I attended, one of the guys brought up his siblings and how he had been treated by them when he got home. He said that his two sisters called him a baby killer and would have nothing to do with him. I was disgusted, but I didn’t say anything. This turned out to be a touchy subject and the discussion became loud and angry. Nobody supported his sisters, of course. What caused the commotion was how do you handle a situation like that. Some thought he should just disown his sisters. Others thought they had no way of understanding what a shitstorm he had gone through and he should forgive them. I kept quiet because I would have told him to tell his sisters to fuck off. They had no idea what he’d been through and he didn’t need that kind of crap when he came home. I don’t suppose that would be the best solution. In retrospect, that was how I handled the situation with Rachel. I can’t say that was the best way to handle my situation, but then again, I can’t say I’m sorry either.

What this whole brouhaha did was make me think about my relationships with my sister and brother. They both were with my parents at the hospital in Yokohama. They came halfway around the world just to see that their brother was okay.

They were both enrolled at Baylor. My sister would be starting medical school in the fall. My brother was in pre-med. I was glad they were going to a good Texas school, not like that pansy ass school I went to. Princeton or any of those sissy schools up north would have probably thrown them out if they found out they had a brother in the military and a combat soldier, to boot.

I was not the best of older brothers. Why would they bother after all the grief I put them through? Just an example of the way I treated them, when Pamela was eight, I stuck her with the nickname Squeaker and my poor brother at six, became Mole.

Our home had the most perfectly manicured grounds. The only place you could find dirt was in the flower beds. That was his favorite playground. He always looked like he had just tunneled in from China, thus the nickname Mole. By the time he was ten he had put that name far behind him. His clothes had to be pressed and starched with perfect seams. He never got himself soiled. By the time he was at ten, he was the only kid that went to church in a suit and tie. Even most adults didn’t dress like that anymore, but Matthew always dressed to the nines.

Pam acquired Squeaker because her voice broke when she got excited and made a squeaky sound. She didn’t overcome her nickname the way Matt had nor did her voice ever stop squeaking.

When she entered high school, I had been elected president of the senior class, captain of the debate team and an officer in several other clubs. This was all part of my plan to get into an Ivy League school. It also gave me a certain status on campus. The first time I heard my sister called Squeaker, I let it be known that I would not put up with anyone calling her Squeaker. I never heard it again. I am still embarrassed that I had come up with such nonsense, especially since she was the most beautiful girl in school, next to Rachel.

Which brings me to another reason Pam had cause to hate me. I made it clear to everyone when she became a freshman that anyone wanting to date my sister had to pass an interview with me. I don’t think she had a date until I left for Princeton.

Evidently, they had forgiven me for my egregious behavior and many more affronts that I foisted upon them. Which just goes to show that they were better persons than I. If they had treated me like the sisters of that poor soldier, I would have been devastated. They always treated me with the deepest respect, even when they visited me in that trailer in Houston that I call home.

I have always been blessed with the best of families.

09/01/1971

When we moved into our new home in the country club I didn’t know anyone. Soon, I was off to a new school feeling scared and alone. As soon as I entered the classroom Rachel came up and introduced herself. My first friend in a new place. We were nine and it was the beginning of what I thought would be a lifelong friendship. As we grew and matured, we became more than friends. She became my first love, my first lover and my best friend. The time we spent together were some of the fondest memories of my youth. We went to the prom together, both junior and senior. I spent as much time at her house as she did at mine. We studied together and we played together. When my family took a vacation she came with us. When her family went on vacation I always tagged along.

It was her father, Mr. Stinton who showed me the advantages of being a businessman. His business did well. I had no real idea what a money manager was, but he made tons of money and his clients weren’t likely to die if he made a mistake. It sounded like a great job to me.

Even in high school, both families assumed we would get married and live happily ever after. My dad had married his high school sweetheart, so why shouldn’t I?

When it came time for college I applied and was accepted to Princeton. Rachel, like all young ladies of breeding went to Vassar. The schools were just a bit over two hours apart, less if I opened up the little red T-bird convertible Dad bought me for a graduation present. We often met halfway and spent a furious night in the Log Cabin Motel. It’s not like we spent all our time burning up the highways. We both spent a lot of time burning the midnight oil. Good grades were paramount and our parents would have kicked our butts if we hadn’t excelled. We both graduated on time and with honors.

I planned to go to Harvard and get my MBA. Getting accepted wasn’t going to be a problem. After all summa cum laude from Princeton was a free pass to their MBA program.

It was time for a little vacation before heading off to Harvard. We borrowed her father’s thirty-six-foot sloop and headed off to the islands of the Caribbean. Her dad had taught me to sail many years before on those extended sailing vacations. I was allowed to call Mr. Stinton, Don now that I had graduated. He told me he was looking forward to the time when I could call him Dad.

Rachel and I left in early June and planned to be back mid-August of 68. We were off to the islands. First stop Key West. That’s a long run over open water. We spent a week in the Keys just to get our land legs back and then off to Bermuda, the Turks and Caicos. We stopped at so many islands in between hurricanes, I can’t remember them all. We slept late, drank too much and went skinny dipping often. All in all, it was the most wonderful time of my life. It was these memories that sustained