Grateful American: A Journey from Self to Service(27)

Overall, Arthur helped me understand the challenges that many of our Vietnam veterans and their families have gone through, challenges very similar to those of Lieutenant Dan. Arthur’s experience of falling into the shadows upon returning from war, struggling not only with the memories of combat, but with the alienation he felt from a divided nation and a government that had let the Vietnam veteran down, is part of what fuels my mission today, and I will always be grateful for his service to our country.

Moira’s oldest brother, Mac Harris, made a big impression on me. He was a highly decorated officer and received the Silver Star, Bronze Star (with two Oak Leaf Clusters), Purple Heart, Army Commendation Medal, and Vietnamese Cross of Gallantry. From 1975 to 1978 he taught at West Point. He was promoted to major, served as a tactical officer, and was on the faculty of the Department of Behavioral Sciences and Leadership. He then attended Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, as a postgraduate student. Upon his completion of the course in June 1981, because of his extensive knowledge, experience, and army-wide reputation as the authority on creative leadership, he was promoted to lieutenant colonel and selected to head the Center of Leadership and Ethics at Fort Leavenworth. There, one of his larger accomplishments was to write the new United States Army manual on leadership, known as Field Manual 22-100. He spent eighteen months researching, writing, and creating a manual that represented a positive and practical philosophy of leadership. His work soon became used as standard doctrine throughout the entire United States Army, and for his exceptional work on FM 22-100, Mac received the Legion of Merit Medal, given for outstanding service and achievement.

Years later, I met General Vincent Brooks, who would eventually rise in rank to become a four-star general and the commander of the United States Forces Korea. A one-star when we first met at a fund-raiser for a 9/11 memorial we were building at the Pentagon, General Brooks told me he’d gone to West Point in the late ’70s, graduating class of 1980. I asked him if he knew Mac, and his face lit up, beaming with admiration. Mac had been one of his teachers. I also met General Curtis “Mike” Scaparrotti, who also became a four-star general and was Supreme Allied Commander Europe of NATO Allied Command Operations. He had gone to West Point as well, class of 1978, and he too knew Mac. Both of these incredible leaders told me how much they loved, respected, and admired him.

I learned so much about the Vietnam experience from Jack, Arthur, and Mac. In 1981, as a result of the new perspective I was gaining, I looked for a play to direct about Vietnam. I pored over all the theater magazines that described plays in various cities around the United States, and all the while continued to talk about the war with these family members whose wartime service and coming home had inspired me to tell our veterans’ stories. I subscribed to Drama-Logue, the unofficial newsletter of the Los Angeles theater scene, and I stumbled across an ad for a play called Tracers, written and performed by Vietnam veterans about their experiences before, during, and after the war. A light bulb clicked on. This was exactly what I was looking for.

I flew to Los Angeles and saw the play at the Odyssey Theatre. The play was foulmouthed and blunt, darkly hilarious and grim, but powerful. Much of the play consisted of oral history, with characters pouring their hearts out, describing and reenacting the things they went through overseas. In one horrific scene, in pantomime, the veterans tried to reassemble the pieces of fellow soldiers who’d been blown apart. Torsos were matched to legs. Hands were matched to arms. The play brimmed with passion and tragedy, and I was deeply moved by it. Tracers made me trace the years of my life when I didn’t think about Vietnam and I didn’t understand. The next night I returned and saw the play again.

On February 20, 1981, I typed a two-page letter addressed to the entire “Tracers Ensemble” in care of director John DiFusco, the Vietnam vet who conceived the play, cowrote it, and owned the rights to it. The letter ended with this plea: “I feel the play should be seen. It should be seen and experienced by others like myself. I want Chicago to understand. It would be a great achievement for our ensemble of non-veterans to bring to Tracers what you all did. It would educate the actors as well as the audience. If and when you are ready, please consider Steppenwolf. Thank you for bringing Tracers to us.”

John DiFusco had never heard of Steppenwolf. He wrote back and said, “No, sorry; it’s a play both written and performed by veterans, and we feel it should always be done by veterans, so we’re not letting anybody else do it.”

So I waited. Time passed, and the show finally closed in Los Angeles. I called again and repeated my request for Steppenwolf to do the show in Chicago, but the answer stayed no. Every so often I reached out and asked for any updates on the play. I didn’t press hard. I simply asked, particularly because the play wasn’t being done anymore. It was just sitting, waiting, unused. John still felt very reluctant to let anyone else do the play. He insisted that it was a play by veterans, and only to be done by veterans. Still, I kept calling.

In the summer of 1981, our revival production of Balm in Gilead was running at the Apollo Theater, so I asked John DiFusco if he’d like to come to Chicago and see our work. We flew him out on our dime, and he saw the play. It was filled with rawness and craziness too, and after seeing Balm, John changed his mind. Balm had given us credibility in his eyes, and convinced him that we would put everything we had into Tracers. At last, he decided to take a chance with Steppenwolf. In late 1982, he granted me the rights, and I started assembling the cast for our 1983–1984 season.