In 1953, I was born into an America that was as humble as it was strong. We were proud of our heritage, but considerate of those who came before us and made our place in the world possible. It was a time when we did not boast of greatness, we demonstrated it. I was happy and felt blessed.
Within a decade my contentment was replaced by a deep and perplexing fear of something I barely understood. It was big, red, and epidemic. Its name: Communism.
Against this backdrop of hemorrhaging red evil, stood a far off and little-known country named Vietnam. It was there that the red disease would be arrested, and its poisons neutralized.
Naïve and immature, I believed as I had been taught. If not stopped in Vietnam, Communism would take over Southeast Asia and gain a foothold on the world. It was known as the domino theory, and the survival of America and its democratic values hinged on keeping the dominos from falling.
Killing was wrong, normally. But Commies were red and, as was said, one was better dead than red.
A Vietnam Memorial of One 