Honoring My Grandfather: A Decorated Vietnamese Veteran’s Legacy
One of my fondest memories of my grandpa, a decorated Vietnamese veteran, oddly enough, has to do with me turning twenty-one. Finally able to purchase alcohol, I naively went to the closest mini-mart to grab him a case of Heineken. At the time, I thought that’s what made him happy. Now, looking back, I realize there was so much more to understand about him.
He passed away recently, and although he lived a long life, his death still haunts me. I can’t believe he’s gone because I was always so used to him being there. But I refuse to let his death define who he was.
A Humble Beginning
My grandpa was a humble man with a humble beginning. Orphaned at a young age after losing his mother to an artillery shell, he still managed to speak four languages fluently. During my teen years, I would often visit him, listening to his life experiences and war stories, soaking them in. A big part of who I am today is because of him.
A Soldier’s Life
Growing up without many male role models, my grandpa naturally filled that role. He fought in the Indo-French War as a paratrooper for the French, before joining the South Vietnamese Army, jumping out of airplanes, and doing dangerous recon missions behind enemy lines.
He told me that he jumped out of planes at least 50 times. Despite injuries and the loss of countless comrades, he never spoke about those experiences to anyone, except me. I was his golden grandson, the oldest, and the one who resembled him the most.
The Hidden Battle
It wasn’t until later that I realized he likely suffered from severe PTSD. The signs were there: the double-bolted doors, the chairs pushed against potential entrances, as if he were imprisoning himself.
As a platoon leader, he survived an ambush that wiped out his entire unit, thanks only to locals who saved him after he was shot through his lower jaw. That twist of fate likely spared him from being purged when the Communists took over.
Strength and Silence
All my life, I thought he was perfect—a symbol of strength and resilience. But in his later years, I saw a broken man, weighed down by guilt and trauma. He drank heavily—something I didn’t understand until I faced my own battles with alcoholism.
It wasn’t until after his death that I understood the truth: he carried the guilt of surviving when others didn’t.
A Lesson in Survival
Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor, wrote:
"When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves."
I think my grandpa fought that battle every day. He carried the weight of survival, and it shaped him in ways I couldn’t comprehend at the time.
Sometimes the strongest people are the ones who fight silent battles and never show their scars. My grandpa survived the war, but the war never really left him.
perished, his life was spared, as if the universe knew that a soul like his didn’t deserve to be erased.
Broken Doesn’t Mean Weak
My grandpa taught me that broken doesn’t mean weak. His story reminds me that healing doesn’t always look heroic, sometimes it’s just surviving another day.
I will honor him not by mourning endlessly but by living a life that reflects his resilience, humility, and courage.
Because sometimes the greatest tribute isn’t just remembering the dead, it’s choosing to keep living fully, for them and for ourselves.
“This post is dedicated to my grandfather’s legacy. May it remind us all that even broken souls can be strong.”
If you’d like to see more of his story, I created a video tribute on my YouTube channel you can watch it directly below. Thank you, and consider subscribing if it resonated with you.