I went looking for The Truth, not available in 1968. Still the same bundle of guilt and grief, rage and despair, who had thrown a dinette chair through a (closed) living room window in '68, I went looking for The Truth, and possibly for someone to blame (other than myself). After years of "Forget it - and forget him. Nobody cares anymore, you idiot." and much worse, there was still no peace, and no forgetting, and no end to the pain - and still no explanation. I knew Bruce well - he would not have made a mistake. He saw and heard everything long before others did, his reaction time was instantaneous - he was very fast and very strong. I had seen him keep his head and know what to do while I froze in panic. Bruce would not have made a mistake. I didn't understand. I also knew that prisoners of war, Marines, were abandoned in Vietnam, and I never knew what was in the box that supposedly contained Bruce. And so, I went looking for The Truth.

What I found are some of the surviving men of Golf Company, who have won my respect and my heart. What I found is that Bruce died in the company of better men than most of us ever get to live in the company of.

What I found is that the loss of Teague was taken personally, and the events of May 16, 1968, are remembered as clearly as if they had happened yesterday. What I found is that some good men survived and made it home, only to have their lives destroyed by their memories.

What I found is that Bruce's friend Jim, who identified what was left of him, picked him up and put him in the chopper that took him off Go Noi Island, has never forgotten him. At least my memories of Bruce are happy ones. His memories are worse than nightmares.

And The Truth about what happened that day? Bruce had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He never had a chance. He had made no mistakes. The Marines near him had made no mistakes. It didn't even matter. Three companies of Marines assaulted the well dug-in, heavily fortified regimental headquarters of a hardened NVA regular Regiment. I don't know how the survivors stand it. It's a credit to them that there were any survivors of that day at all. I don't know how they live with the memory - but I'm humbled by the strength and dignity with which they carry it.

At least two are haunted. And still, they did all they could to help me understand. They were tolerant of my naive questions, respectful and kind. Finally, I was among friends - Bruce's friends. Not one of these men told me to let it go. Now I know if they could have helped Bruce survive and make it home, they would have given whatever it took. It was not possible.

I want to tell them, "Thank you so very much. Now I understand. It means so very much to know who it was that killed him, at least by unit, and that the enemy responsible was felt to have been killed - if not that day, then the next, and that my Bruce really was recovered the next day. I never was sure that Bruce was in the box until a Marine I could trust, who was there, told me. Now I finally have the truth. Bless your precious, beautiful hearts - and welcome home."

Winter of 1966

We were so right together - him with his hair too long and me with my dress too short.

Fall of 1967

Marine Corps graduation, Platoon 2023, San Diego.

When you thought of Bruce, "innocent" was not the first word that came to mind. But he was innocent, and idealistic, and trusting. He believed that good would prevail over evil, that the good guys in the white hats were supposed to win. He had faith in his country, and in God. Bruce was as innocent as they made them.

He was so very quick and light,
And jumped back over the fence to see,
What could be keeping me,
And tried various ways of helping me over the top.
Finally, laughing so hard he could no longer lift me,
He admitted defeat and walked all the way around,
With me, and for me,
He slowed his steps.

Nothing got by Bruce.
We proceded along the sidewalk,
Past the parked cars
Up the steps and into the auditorium.
Waiting there later, I could only say
This is what I remembered.
But he would say -
We walked past a maroon '64 Pontiac,
A white '59 Chevy Impala, a black '57
Ford Fairlane, a blue '61 Ford Galaxie,
And that we went up 14 steps
Or however many there were-
- He would know -
In front of the auditorium.
And he would also say -
That the clouds were like cotton
And a pair of blue jays were circling a nest,
Which they had built in an unlikely place,
And were noisily defending it.

He was happy and confident.
I would worry
And he would smile and laugh,
And he would pull me along
Until I was smiling and laughing with him.
We were one thing.
A here-they-are-now thing.
(A where-have-you-been thing),
But he was ninety percent of us.

He was quality.
He came from people well respected and admired.
He was loved and knew who he was,
Firstborn son of a proud family.
He had a future, and I had.......
...... None of the above.

He was sincere, genuine, honest and true,
He was rock-steady, all or nothing.
I was like smoke blown on the wind,
Here and there and sometimes -
Not there at all.
I knew how to survive,
But he knew how to live.

He gave ninety percent,
But saw me with forgiving eyes,
And understanding heart,
And kissed my face with tenderness,
And held me with gentle arms,
As if I was something precious.

And his life was blown away
As if he was worth
Less than nothing.

Los Angeles National Cemetery

Of all the explanations for why we bring what's left of them home, the lines from "A Bivouac of the Dead", written in 1847 by Theodore O'Hara, say it best -

"Sons of the dark and bloody ground
Ye must not slumber there,
Where strangers' steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil -
The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field.
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast,
On many a bloodied shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead
Dear as the blood ye gave;
No impious footstep shall here tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps."

Bruce's footstone is at the base of a tree, and there is just barely enough room for me to fit, sitting against the tree, between the tree and the footstone. The tree keeps the sun and rain off me, (except when it rains sideways) and the trunk kind of wraps around. From the rest of the cemetery, from three sides, no one can even tell that I'm there, and they leave us alone.

My Bruce ........

At the Esso plant with the guitar he borrowed from Jim - Spring, 1968.

His friend Jim, who arrived in country together with Bruce, was wounded and sent home 6 weeks after Bruce was killed. This is a frame from an 8 mm film taken at Namo Bridge. He keeps up Bruce's grave, and is a good friend to me.

Bruce with Ron Shaller

Bruce Teague, Panel 61East, Line 20
Ron Shaller, Panel 52West, Line 16

"Believe I cared for you, because I did.
Know I grieve for you, because I do.
Trust that I'll remember, because I promised.
Watch over me - I've not forgotten you."

A Gift

"This memorial web page is part of a registered and copyrighted web site, but this is not meant to apply to Bruce's friends, his brother Marines or those who also loved him."

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