On the corner of Washington Avenue and University Parks Drive in my hometown of Waco, Texas, the Vietnam Veterans Memorial begins with a quarter-circle concrete wall consisting of six vertical sections. The memorial extends into a tree grove on a northwesterly walkway, lined with 64 trees, one for each local servicemember who lost their lives in the war. An empty tree ring recognizes those still missing in action.
Three pavilions are located among the grove, each marked by a pillar inscribed with words designed to tell the story of the war. The first reads, “Before the Vietnam War, We Were Whole.” The second reads, “The Vietnam War Brought Destruction and Turmoil.” The final column reads, “The Sacrifices of Those We Honor Make This Hallowed Ground. Let Us Strive to Reunite and Heal.”
Before the Vietnam War, We Were Whole.
After walking past the grove toward the trail that leads into Cameron Park, if you look right and across the Brazos River, you’ll see what is arguably the most stunning structure in the city. It includes a series of slanted metallic planes that resemble the profile of a Navy ship, with a 9-foot-tall bronze statue of a sailor standing at the ship’s bow. The statue honors Doris Miller, Waco’s most celebrated World War II hero.
Miller enlisted in the Navy in 1939 as a mess attendant, one of the few specializations available to African Americans like himself at the time. On the morning of December 7, 1941, shortly after he served breakfast to fellow sailors aboard the USS West Virginia in Pearl Harbor, the Japanese attacks began.
In the early moments of the attack, Miller carried numerous wounded sailors to safer locations on the ship, including the captain, who later died from a shrapnel wound. Later, after minimal instruction on how to fire an anti-aircraft machine gun, Miller manned the weapon, reportedly striking Japanese aircraft. His heroics were memorialized in the 2001 film Pearl Harbor, in which he was portrayed by Cuba Gooding Jr.
Within days of the December 7 attacks, many service members who fought valiantly, such as Mervyn S. Bennion, who also served on the West Virginia, were named in U.S. newspapers and official documents. Miller’s actions, however, were attributed to “an unnamed Negro mess attendant.” It wasn’t until months later, and after the diligent reporting of African American journalists with the Pittsburgh Courier, that Miller was named.
In May 1942, Miller was awarded the Navy Cross, but only after a pressure campaign by the Courier. The Pittsburgh paper also called on the Navy to allow him to return stateside for a war bond tour, running a photo of Miller with a caption that said the Navy felt he was “too important waiting tables” to return home, as other servicemen with similar résumés were allowed to do so. The efforts worked, with Miller allowed to return home for a couple of months in late ’42/early ’43.
While many white service members with wartime résumés similar to Miller’s were given lower-risk assignments after major battles, he was reassigned to the escort carrier USS Liscome Bay in the Pacific. On November 24, 1943, the ship was attacked by Japanese torpedoes and sunk, leaving only 272 survivors.
On December 7, 1943, on the two-year anniversary of the attacks on Pearl Harbor, his parents were informed that he was among those presumed dead.
Before the Vietnam War, We Were Whole.
Though purely speculative, had Miller returned home after the war, he likely would have come back to the East Waco neighborhood where his statue now stands. Along Elm Avenue, he would have encountered thriving Black businesses, churches, and restaurants forming the commercial and cultural heart of the community, one that carried a smaller-town energy reminiscent of Beale Street in Memphis or Deep Ellum in Dallas. He would have rubbed shoulders with students from, and maybe even attended, Paul Quinn College, a thriving HBCU.
But he also would have looked across the Brazos River and seen a different city—one where post-war resources were poured into schools he would not have been allowed to attend, restaurants he would not have been allowed to walk into, and neighborhoods he would not have been able to sign a mortgage to move into. It would have been almost 20 years after returning before federal law meaningfully enforced his right to vote, the same year that the U.S. first sent soldiers into Vietnam.
In 1990, he would have observed the groundbreaking of a memorial to Vietnam War veterans, one that would eventually hold a stone pillar that reads, Before the Vietnam War, We Were Whole. Had he continued to live into old age, it would have been another 27 years, in 2017, before he would have seen the beautiful memorial built in his honor.
How and when we tell our stories matters as much as the stories we tell.
The people of our city who lost their lives in Vietnam deserve to be honored and for their stories to be told, but not at the expense of truth. Like Doris Miller, they didn’t leave a country that was “whole,” nor would they have returned to one. Telling the truth about that reality neither redeems nor diminishes their sacrifice, but it does bring us closer to being set free.
- About the Author
- Latest Posts
Senior Editor at Good Faith Media.