The Last Reader

A Week With Veterans Learning How to Speak

Jay Snyder

I attended the Veterans’ Writing Project in Washington D.C. in the summer of 2013. It was held for seven days at George Washington University by the organization founded by Ron Capps, a veteran Army Lt. Colonel. For the selected veteran writers, it was free. The purpose was to encourage veterans to write about their war experiences. Forty of us were divided into small groups: drama, video, poetry, non-fiction, creative non-fiction and fiction.

I chose the fiction group, taught by a writing instructor from Johns Hopkins University. There were six of us in our group experienced in middle east wars and the war in Vietnam. Air Force, Army, Marines. Two of us were Vietnam war veterans. We stayed in college dorms, studied together in college classrooms, and dined in the student cafeteria. It was an intense event. Some of us were asked to read our stories to an audience of project donors on the last day.

In our small group I got to know Jay Snyder, a platoon leader who wanted to write about his life in Vietnam, based on the letters he had sent home during a 13-month tour. We talked about his tour that involved him being shot in the back. We were careful with our questions in the beginning.

We asked him about the letters he had written to his girlfriend (now his wife). I asked him when did he read his letters. He said “about a month ago”. I didn’t tell him when I read my letters saved by my parents. (Never.)

He told us he’d been shot in the back. I asked him whether or not he thought “this is it?” He said, “no, I didn’t plan on dying in Vietnam.” He said he sent one of his dog tags home to his girlfriend, and the 2nd one he always left it at their base camp. I wondered, to myself, how they would identify his body. “I didn’t think I’d need either one of them,” he said, anticipating my unsaid curiosity.

We all worked on our stories, their stories and mine. Near the end of the week, our instructor asked Jay if he would read his story. He agreed. Then, I was asked. I agreed. Our group, the fiction group, was assigned a table. Before we gathered in the room, I talked with a marine who was also asked to read his story. He said he couldn’t read his story because he couldn’t write one. I told him that the first step would be to listen to some good ones.

When I got a copy of the program, I saw that fiction was the closing group. Jay was the last reader; I was the one before.

I’d had experience reading to a crowd. I was comfortable. As I left the dais, I caught a glimpse of my friend, the marine, nodding to me. I smiled and nodded back. That was enough for me.

Jay then took the stage and showed the strength of an army 2nd lieutenant, speaking to his men. I knew his story about refusing to die in Vietnam. He told it well, his voice steady, but cracks appeared in his voice. “Every one of my…men….who expressed a fear of dying…in Vietnam… did.”

Jay said, “I survived Vietnam, but I’m left with the thought…because I spat on dying…did someone have to take my place?”

He folded his written story and returned to our table among the buzz of the audience.

He sat down across the table from me; I reached toward him and formed a thumbs up with my fist.

He returned my smile…reached over the table…grabbed my hand…and held it.