My name is Kara Hackney, and I am the proud daughter of a Vietnam Veteran, Jerry Wayne Hackney.
Dad served with the U.S. Army from 1969 to 1971 with 18 months overseas; 12 months combat tour under the USARPAC and USARPAC-RVN on Vietnam and Cambodian soil. It is my understanding that he was assigned to these details as follows with his service experience more in line with infantry than it was with artillery: Battery A, 1st Battalion, 5th Artillery, 1st Infantry Division; Battery A, 2nd Battalion, 33rd Artillery, 1st Infantry Division; Battery B, 3rd Battalion, 13th Artillery, 25th Infantry Division, and Battery C, 1st Battalion, 75th Artillery.
Our family had several serving in almost every major war as far back as the American Revolutionary War and Civil War. More recently, Grandpa Benjamin Franklin Hackney, III was in WWII as a U.S. Marine and participated in the Battle of Iwo Jima. He served from 1944 to 1946 and witnessed the infamous flag raising firsthand. Grandpa Elmer Joseph Rupp also served in WWII with the U.S. Army Air Force. My Great Uncles Ivan Earl Crawford, Jr., Quentin Kermit Clotfelter and Lester Reed Young also served during WWII. Great Uncle Jack Thomas Crawford was with the U.S. Air Force and served in the Korean War. Many family members have served during peacetime and too numerous to list here.
Prior to my dad becoming drafted for Vietnam, he was a bright student at a university who went to college on a baseball scholarship and who played amateur baseball, including playing in the Connie Mack World Series multiple times. He had a lot going for him. But he felt an obligation to serve his country. Little did he know what a price he would pay for that. It was very hard for Dad to speak about Vietnam, especially the most traumatic parts. He suffered very badly from PTSD. He was actually diagnosed with it; it wasn’t just something he claimed. PTSD is very, very real. Dad was never the same after Vietnam. He would say war is Hell. He went into the war a very softhearted, innocent, joyful, playful, and athletic kid, who had seen so little, if any, of what evil existed in the world. He came from an incredibly upright and loving family. He would bring birds home with broken wings and try to help them heal. He once saved an abandoned kitty that was rolled up in a paper grocery sack in the middle of the street, clearly put there to get run over. He had that cat for as long as many of his family could remember.
Dad’s family talked about what a different man he was when he came home, just a completely different person. He told one family member once that the war really messed him up, and he was having a hard time dealing with it. He was never again the same. He may not have fallen dead on Vietnam soil, but a large part of who he was died very much the same. His heart was forever broke and his spirit torn to pieces. His innocence had been ripped away from him. Everyone remembered him as the one always smiling and laughing, making light of life and just loving every moment, and then the next moment he was thrown into a hellish war, dropped in the middle of combat, listening to bullets hit the helicopter he was to jump out of (it couldn’t completely land because it was taking too heavy of fire). He had to witness men, who he had come to love, die right before his eyes. He saw for himself the unimaginable evil of the enemy. He did things he didn’t know he could do, that he probably didn’t even want to do, things that hurt his heart. He recognized an ability to fight within himself that I don’t think he ever knew existed. His body, his spirit, his mind, his heart, were all pushed past the point of breaking. But he kept going, because that is what a soldier does.
The Army told his parents that he couldn’t even be debriefed to transfer into civilian life again because he was already too far-gone. A dark, heavy cloud hung over his soul for the rest of his life, and there was not much he could do about it. I don’t want that to make you think he wasn’t a good father, because he was. He was the best Dad in the world! He was incredibly loving, caring, and playful. He would play with us as if he were a kid again himself. And he never missed an opportunity to tell us how much he loved us and to show us so, too.
By the time Dad came home from Vietnam, America was at an all-time low of citizens supporting the war. His “welcome home” was a rotten tomato in the face, followed by protestors shrieking at him and the others, yelling, “baby killers!” Dad was so upset about that, he went into the airport bathroom and stripped himself of his uniform and threw it in the trash. Here he laid down his life for these very people who hated him for it. He knew and loved young, brave men who lost their lives fighting for these same people who threw rotten vegetables at him. It was unimaginable. He left one war in Vietnam, and came home to another “war” he wanted no part of. It made his dad cry, seeing the change in his son. Dad couldn’t even sit down at the table and hold a conversation. He constantly had to be moving, doing something, keeping himself occupied, trying to rid his mind of that terror that struck him in every silent or still moment. It was a constant battle that he couldn’t escape from, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much time passed.
But the peace I have in his passing is knowing he no longer has to live with that pain he endured every day since 1969. The last battle that he fought was against cancer, which ultimately took his life on October 30, 1997. I was only six years old at the time. I will forever miss his presence and long to have him here. But I know we will meet again.
I am looking for anyone who may have known my late father, Jerry Wayne Hackney, who I think was just known as “Sarge” or “Hack” to his fellow soldiers. There were two close buddies of his who made it out alive, “Dog” Harris and Paul Bullbear “Chief.” “Dog” was a black man from Detroit, and “Chief” was a Sioux Indian from South Dakota. Paul was known for wearing loud-colored Hawaiian shirts in combat instead of fatigues. He was an incredibly brave warrior. If any of these names ring a bell, please let me know.
I recently came in contact with an extremely kind and generous person who shared these photos of my dad, which I had never gotten to see! The first photo is Dad at base camp in Cu Chi, Vietnam, when he was in the 25th ID. The second photo was taken when he was in the 1st ID. He is on the right in the photo of him and another solider holding up the peace signs. He is second from the left in the group photo, taken on R&R leave.
A photographer myself, I love everything about photography as it freezes a moment in time to last for many years thereafter. A perfect example is my dad’s photos from Vietnam. I had searched about all my life for these because Dad didn’t bring them with him when he moved to Kansas, where he met my mom. These pictures are more precious than gold and will be forever treasured!
I have always had a passion for photography, since I was a little girl, and I am grateful to have a career doing what I love so much. I know that many photos I take will do this same thing for so many people in present day and for years to come.
~ Kara Hackney, Photographer
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My Passion Is Sharing Veteran Stories: jennylasala.com/ It is a great privilege and honor to collect these stories from our veterans and their children. These stories are their stories.
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