[Music]
Hi, I'm Bob Parsons, founder of YAM Worldwide, Parsons Xtreme Golf (PXG), and
godaddy.com. This November the 10th marks the 246th
birthday of the United States Marine Corps, followed by Veterans Day on
November the 11th. Each year, we pay tribute to these anniversaries by
partnering with the Semper Fi Fund to provide financial support for wounded,
critically-ill and injured members of all branches of the U.S. armed forces and
their families. Last year, thanks to donors like you, we met our goal,
raising more than 20 million dollars. You can help by visiting TheFund.org.
Give what you can and The Bob & Renee Parsons Foundation will match your donation,
dollar for dollar, up to 10 million dollars.
Throughout history, our country's military members have always stepped up
to protect and serve. And while every war has its casualties, they don't all occur
on the battlefield. This year, we honor our veterans by shining a light on a
subject that only now is starting to get the attention it deserves – PTSD.
I have first-hand experience with PTSD and it dates back over 50 years to when I
served as a Marine Corps rifleman during the Vietnam War.
But first, a little background. I was a terrible student as a kid. I failed the
fifth grade and didn't do much better in all the other years. When I reached my
senior year of high school, me and a buddy joined the Marine Corps after graduation.
We reported to Parris Island for boot camp and eventually were
trained as rifleman. Six months later, at the age of 18,
we were sent to fight in the Vietnam War. I served with Delta Company First
Battalion 26Marines. My unit operated in Quang Nam Province where there were rice
paddies as far as you could see. Our job was to protect the small farming
villages that were scattered throughout and to keep the north Vietnamese from
taking the villagers' rice to feed their troops. To do this, we set up one ambush most
every night. When I first got to my unit, they were located on top of hill 190.
I learned shortly that my squad was ambushed a few days earlier. They took
five casualties, four of which were fatal. To a man,
those killed and wounded were the most senior men in the squad.
I was one of their replacements. A marine named Barry George, who at that
time had been in country only six weeks and just turned 19, became the new squad leader.
Barry, who is a dear friend of mine to this day,
turned out to be one of the finest marines I've ever known.
So, even though it didn't seem like it at the time, with him our squad was in good hands.
After meeting with the squad, I went and sat on one of the walls at the top of
the hill and looked down at the valley. The colors
there were intense and beautiful but as striking as those colors were,
I didn't see them because my mind was completely focused on how I was going to survive.
I kept thinking, "How am I going to live through this?
Nobody in my squad has been here very long and to boot, the Marine Corps tour
is 13 months, not 12 months like the Army, Navy, and Air Force." Sitting there on that wall,
trying to picture how I'd still be alive 13 months from then,
the whole situation seemed impossibly dark and insurmountable.
But then something unexpected happened. As I sat on that wall,
my thoughts slowly shifted from, "How am I going to survive?" to more than
likely, this was where I was going to die.
I eventually accepted the worst outcome as inevitable and when I accepted what
was my probable fate, I relaxed, and
felt at peace, the darkness let go of me and I was able to think. And then,
I really saw and appreciated those incredible colors at a valley
surrounding hill 190 for the first time. Then, I made myself two promises:
First, I would do everything I could to do my job as a U.S. Marine;
Second to that, I would do what I could to be alive for mail
call in the morning. And because I accepted the worst
possible outcome as inevitable and never looked further into the future than the
next morning's mail call, what initially seemed like an overwhelming situation
became something I could deal with and from then on,
I was fine. That very first night I joined my squad,
I went on my very first ambush. I got my first grizzly
taste of combat. A marine by the name of Ermel Hunt was
hurt horrifically by a north Vietnamese hand grenade.
We called them chicoms. I hadn't been with the squad for four
hours when that happened. [Music]
Just after that, I noticed a Marine named Larry Blackwell was losing his cookies
in the adjacent rice paddy and then just was standing there, looking down,
apparently in shock. The Huey MedEvac chopper coming in to pick up Ermel was
going to land right on Larry Blackwell. The moment I saw this, I ran and pushed
Larry out of harm's way. We both tripped over a rice paddy dike and
went ass over apple cart into that nasty rice paddy water.
Had the MedEvac helicopter landed on Larry, it most certainly would have
killed him, but because I saved Larry's bacon that
first night, he was alive later and probably saved mine. The next night,
our point man, a Marine named Ray Libsy, hit a trip wire walking on a rice paddy dike.
It triggered an explosion that mangled Ray's legs.
There were no MedEvac helicopters available that night
and I helped carry him about what seemed like a mile to the MedEvac point.
Other nights, the only combat we saw was us fighting to stay awake while lying in
ambush in those rice paddies and night after night
that's the way it went. I did every job I was asked to do.
I carried those awkward heavy machine gun ammo canisters.
They weighed about 17 pounds, had metal straps to cut into your hands, and were
pain-in-the-tail bulky. Of everything I did there, that was,
without a doubt, the most painful. I walked tail-end Charlie. It's the
safest but creepiest position in the squad, walking last, always looking over your
shoulder for an enemy soldier sneaking up on you.
I also carried a radio. It was also bulky – weighed about 25
pounds, had an eight-foot antenna, and because it was the squad's only form of
communication – there were no cell phones back then –
carrying the radio was like wearing a sign that said,
"Please shoot me first." Eventually, I started walking on the
point team, which was how I was wounded. On that night, I was walking second point
when we were moving through a village in the dark.
Our point man stepped over and missed the trip wire. I wasn't so lucky. I hit and
tripped it. I received shrapnel wounds in both my legs and my left elbow from the
resulting explosion. I was MedEvaced to the U.S. naval hospital
in Yokosuka, Japan, where I spent a few months, Then after recuperating, I received
orders back to the bush. But on my way back,
through an unlikely series of events, I became a courier of classified documents.
I traveled between our units in Vietnam and operating headquarters in Okinawa,
delivering operation plans back and forth. And other than an occasional
rocket attack, I never experienced combat again. Eventually my tour was up and I rotated home.
When we came home, we soon discovered the U.S.A. was a very different place than what
it was before we left for Vietnam. To our extreme disappointment, instead of
a hero's welcome or any kind of welcome for that matter,
all too many of us were met by protesters calling us names like Nazis,
murderers, drug addicts, baby killers, and on and on.
We were even told that when we left base to return home,
we might want to leave at midnight and not wear our uniform so we didn't draw
the attention of the anti-war crowd. Me and those marines with me
who were being processed out of Mother Green wore our uniforms home and were
proud to do so. To this day, those of us who served in the Vietnam War remain the
only troops who ever fought for our country who were never welcomed home.
When I came home, I was a different person in good ways and bad.
First, the good. I accomplished things I never would have
without the Marine Corps. In spite of my horrific academic history,
after working one year as a laborer in a steel mill,
I was able to attend college at the University of Baltimore and study accounting
and, lo and behold, I graduated
magna cum laude. I also passed the CPA exam on the first try.
Since then, I taught myself how to program a computer and started several
successful businesses from scratch, most notably Parsons Technology, PXG,
and GoDaddy.com. I am proud to tell you that everything I've ever accomplished,
I owe to the Marine Corps. Mother Green taught me responsibility,
discipline, that I could accomplish much more than I dared to dream possible
and that I had a right to be proud. But not all the changes in me were good.
Before I served in the Vietnam War, I loved being around people, always felt
like I was part of the crowd. I was, for the most part, a happy guy.
But the me that came home was not the same guy.
I no longer liked being around groups of people. Everyone seemed so different than I was.
No matter what group I was with, I rarely identified with anyone,
never felt like I belonged, or even that I wanted to belong.
I wrestled with depression, had a quick temper,
and was usually on edge and was always described as one of the most intense
people anybody around me ever met. Like most of you,
I managed through it, pushing the unpleasant memories and dark feelings
back down as best I could when they started. I learned to bury myself in my
work and that, more than anything, kept me going. As the years slipped by,
I eventually became aware of PTSD. I kept telling myself I couldn't or
shouldn't have it. I didn't see that much combat – just a month.
But I now know and I'm telling you
that one month of combat, certainly for me, was more than enough.
My life then was more difficult than it should have been;
difficult for me and, sadly and regrettably, difficult for those around me. I started
my journey to healing in 2010 by getting together with the Marines I
served with in Vietnam. I linked up with them on the internet
and went to a get-together they had in Gulfport, Mississippi.
Just being around other Marines who knew firsthand what I did made such a difference.
It was a breath of fresh air. During my journey to healing,
I tried a novel and incredibly easy form of neurofeedback provided by a company
named Cereset – that helped. I also underwent psychedelic
therapy – that made a big difference. I had a few stellate ganglion block
procedures which also made a significant difference. Afterwards,
I was a different person. I felt like my old self again.
People who knew me couldn't believe the change in me. It had been 50 years since
I served in the Vietnam War and, for the most part,
I was once again like I was before the war.
I finally came home. Those of us who took up arms to serve
our country are rightly proud of what we did. It was physically and mentally
incredibly difficult. But as hard as it was to be brave,
and make no mistake – it is never easy to be brave – we stepped up, literally put our
lives on the line, and did what we were asked to do.
In the process, we saw things no one should ever have to see
and in all too many cases, we carry memories no one should ever have
to have. And we learned to endure these
unpleasant memories and the dark feelings that come with them and to deal
with our PTSD alone. And because the human brain is
incredibly adept at hiding its flaws, many of us,
we don't even realize we have PTSD. So, if you're not certain
you have PTSD, ask those closest to you –
they'll know and be happy to tell you.
If you think you're experiencing symptoms of PTSD,
on behalf of all of us, I'm asking you to step up and be brave
one more time. For us, as proud as we are, it won't be
easy to admit you need help with PTSD but this needs to happen for us to make progress.
To begin your journey to a better life,
please call the Semper Fi Fund at 866-843-7323.
If you don't want to make the call for yourself,
for God's sake, make it for your family and for your fellow veterans.
There's no doubt that many who served during that war saw
far more action than I did and I'm no hero for sure.
But I decided to lay all this out to you so you could see that if I had
significant PTSD, there's a good chance you do, too.
I know the feeling of finally coming home – it is a wonderful feeling indeed.
Now it's your turn. You deserve to come home, too.
so, please go ahead, pick up your phone, and make that call.
The Semper Fi Fund is waiting to help put you on the road to overcoming PTSD.
God bless you, Semper Fi,
and on behalf of all of us who served in the Vietnam War,
welcome home.
[Music]