Summer of '69: Daniel McBride

McBride, 61, a warehouse receiving clerk, grew up in Farmingdale.

Our generation of boys, growing up on Long Island and watching stupid war movies, we thought we would go to war and make a big change. I studied at Oklahoma University, thinking I would come home and be a gym teacher. But I dropped out after a year. I went to Vietnam gung ho, thinking we were going to help people; we were going to end Communism.

In 'Nam, I was in the central highlands, maintaining radio equipment for the Army. God was with me the whole time. I was scared a few times, but we didn't take any direct hits. While I was there, I started to wonder what we were doing there? Why are all these kids getting killed and injured? They made us believe we were doing the right thing, but we weren't helping anyone.

There were seven guys from my school, Farmingdale High, who got killed in Vietnam before I went over. Before leaving (for the war), I went to a naval hospital in Brooklyn to visit my cousin, who grew up in Queens and moved to Merrick. He'd been injured after mortar fire hit his Army truck. His body was all twisted, but he was one of the healthiest people in the hospital.

The official death count of Americans was more than 58,000, but what about the tens of thousands of guys who turned to drugs and drinking when they got back? The guys who struggled because they couldn't escape the thoughts of 'Nam?

It took me 10 years to get over Vietnam. My cousin never did. He took his own life. A few years ago, my son said he'd been contacted by a Marine recruiter. I told him, 'You join the Marines and I'll never talk to you again.' He didn't join.