Who Are Our Fathers?

Ted Engelmann

Throughout my adult life I have used photography as a way to work through the wounds and scars from the American War in Viet Nam.1 I first took photographs during the war as a way to remember where I was in 1968–1969 and process what was happening to me and to the land. My first return visit to Viet Nam was in February 1989. In Sai Gon I encountered Amerasian children and adults, literally coming face to face with the human legacy of the war. One photograph in particular stuck with me: that of a mother and her two sons, obviously fathered by two different American soldiers. (See figure 1.) Since 1989, I have been traveling and living part time in Viet Nam making photographs of the land, people, and places. In May 2006 I returned to the small village of Lai Khe, the site of my 1968 wartime base camp. By rephotographing images I made in 1968, I unexpectedly finally found the healing I had been seeking. The war will always be an important part of my life, but it no longer dominates my life.	1
Figure 1. A mother and her two Amerasian sons sit in front of the Palace Hotel, Sai Gon, Viet Nam, March 1989. The mother is holding up her Orderly Departure Program (ODP) card, indicating that she and her sons are eligible to leave the country. Original photo is in color. Photo by Ted Engelmann. Courtesy Ted Engelmann.
During my last year of high school, my family moved to Johnstown, New York, where my father helped establish a community college. As a result of the move, my senior year was difficult. Without plans after barely graduating, I realized I needed to enroll in the local community college, where my father was the director of admissions, to obtain a student deferment from the draft. Any young man without a deferment was a prime target for the draft, and we all knew the next stop was Viet Nam. My first college semester was a flop. With a high school diploma, I could still avoid the draft by enlisting in the air force for four years, get some training and education, and, I hoped, gain some maturity. On a chilly morning, February 7, 1966, my air force recruiter, Sgt. Albert Vrooman, drove me to the induction center in Albany, New York, where I raised my right hand and enlisted in the U.S. Air Force.	2
In March 1968, after a year of training and a year at Robins Air Force Base, Georgia, I was assigned as an air force sergeant to a forward air control team at the small village of Lai Khe, about 60 kilometers north of Sai Gon. Lai Khe was the base camp and headquarters of the Third Brigade, First Infantry Division, the Big Red One of World War II fame. My job was to support tactical air strikes. I usually worked in the brigade tactical operations center, but at times I would sit behind the pilot in a two-seater O-1E Bird Dog spotter plane or work out of a specialized jeep that had a pallet of various types of radios (UHF, VHF, HF, FM) instead of a back seat, which allowed me to communicate with the air force, army, and our direct air support center in case we needed more fighter-bombers.	. . .