My Father's Vietnam Page #9

never thought I'd talk to anybody about this."

I've never talked

about this before."

So remember that Dad,

and many people,

they don't talk about themselves

unless they're asked.

I'll talk about myself

whether you ask or not.

Dad's introverted, so if you

look at type he's an introvert.

He generally needs

to be drawn out.

And so when people say, "How was the

war?" They want you to say "Fine."

And they might say, you know, "What was

the best thing that happened to you"

or the worst thing

that happened?"

But if you sit down and say, "I want to

know what was the hardest thing about it?"

or "What was the best thing

about it?" or "What elated you?"

Those, I believe are the things

that he's willing to talk about.

But you need to feel the interest

when you're somebody that has

his particular type, and I would think

that'd be true of almost anybody.

It's not a conversation I ever have.

No one's interested.

You're interested.

Would you be interested if your father had

not had a similar type of experience?

Would you be asking these questions

and things? Maybe you would...

but this starts out with you wanting

to know more about your father,

and what his experience was,

and what was going on at the time,

and how did he deal with all this.

Was that the thing

that started you?

I mean, if you hadn't had that connection would

it just have been something that happened

in history, and you

wouldn't be here today?

I'm really glad you're here and I'm

really glad I have a chance...

to talk about Ring. I'm just

thrilled that I have a chance to...

let this out.

I'm talking to you today because

of the way you presented yourself

as someone who's got a serious interest in

putting together a little piece of history,

some people that

are intertwined somehow,

and if there was something I could

say that would add to that,

I'd be happy to do that,

although I've never had a conversation

like this with anybody else before.

When David graduated from Paris

Island, and he was a young recruit,

Paris Island, eyes like

deer in headlights.

We brought him home,

and we passed through airports,

and it was obvious that we were

parents and he was a Marine.

And people came out of the crowd to

shake his hand, to pat him on the back.

The respect was overwhelming,

and as a parent it just

made us immensely proud.

And I'm sure that that's

what Mr. Bailey felt.

But the pride and the respect

for my son is wonderful.

Is wonderful, you know,

and I see it and

I hear it all the time.

People say, "How's your

boy doing? Where is he now?"

And I always say,

"Thanks for asking.

Thanks for asking because

we're very proud of him, too."

I have to say

it's been interesting.

I have run into some

people in the last few years,

and not just when you go in

and see a doctor at the VA,

because they're all primed to say,

"Thank you for your service."

That's kind of part of

their mantra down there.

But I have run into other people

and it's caught me quite off guard

when somehow they've found out...

And I'm not sure, I can't point

to a specific conversation...

But when they find out that I was in

Vietnam and I was in the infantry,

and very sincerely

they say, "Thank you,"

and... it catches me off guard.

Just saying it now has kind of...

because nobody ever said that.

And I didn't realize anybody

really thought about it.

It's kind of unnerving because I don't

think I did anything to be thanked for.

It could have been anybody.

It could have been anybody going, anybody

being killed, anybody surviving.

The difference between somebody wounded,

being killed, not being hurt...

A couple of inches,

a few seconds in time.

When my son is in harm's way...

Barbara and I live

with a level of fear.

Every car that comes clown the street, I

look to see if it has government plates.

That's hard.

[Soren] Because you know

what that looks like?

- I do.

- Those shoes.

Oh, shiny. Shiny, shiny shoes.

How do they get them so shiny?

Three or four months into the

tour, I was noticing the ringing,

and the inability to understand

people when they're talking.

And I went to Chu Lai and

they tested my ears and said,

"You've got a hearing

loss in the mid range."

The nerves are destroyed.

It's not temporary.

The middle range is where

the consonants are formed,

which means you're going to have trouble

understanding people when they talk.

Here are some earplugs,

"so if you're gonna be in a situation where

there is loud noise, wear your ear plugs."

[Soren] My father took this

picture in Vietnam in 1970.

Seconds later he took this one.

When he first showed me these prints, he

asked me if I could tell the difference.

I pointed out the obvious, or what had become

obvious to me during the making of this film

after pouring through

hundreds of others like it.

The barrel of the 155mm Howitzer

is recoiled in the second picture,

and you can see the dust

rising from the ground

under the weight of the

gun's thunderous discharge.

He asked me if I noticed anything else

and I couldn't think of anything.

So he pointed to the people

in the second shot and said,

"They're all holding their ears.

I was holding a camera."

[Elizabeth] You know, you think back on your life

and what are the things you wouldn't change?

I think this is one of the

things that he wouldn't change.

It was phenomenal for him in the

best way and the worst way.

[Soren] My father has often asked

me why I'm making this film.

As different as we are,

we share this story,

this presence like

the ringing in his ears.

My wife Carrie and I even

named our firstborn son Loring,

after both Loring Baileys, junior and

senior, who meant so much to my father.

And I suppose the journalistic process of making

a documentary has brought me closer to him.

But in this picture, he still looks about

as far away from me as my namesake,

Soren Peter Sorenson I, born over a

century before me in Denmark in 1871,

pictured here at 17 in his

Danish military uniform.

On the train from

Jackson to Chicago

Providence is yet

to be revealed

Standing on the platform

by my window

Soon you will be

swallowed by the fields

A sudden blur of trees

A sudden blur of trees

Rushing through

the delta veins

On the train from

Jackson to Chicago

Licking all the wounds

that never healed

Turn around Turn around

Now you're at

the end of the line

Don't look down

Don't look down

You're standing

on the shoulders

You're standing on

the shoulders of giants

Every day the shadow

of my father

Is painted on the walls

and on the floors

It stretches out across

the open water

And crashes on

the sandy eastern shores

Searching in the dark

Searching in the dark

Looking for a clue

to what's been lost

Now I see the shadow

of my father

On the shoulders

of the one that came before

Turn around Turn around

Now you're at

the end of the line

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