Time hasn't completely healed Betty's wounds, and talking about her son can still bring a tear to her eye. Marine Corps Lance Corporal Pulliam was 21 years, two months and one day old when he was killed in Vietnam on Mother's Day 1967. The unit, however, had another, more grim label as well. "Ho Chi Minh told them that he was going to kill them all, so just consider themselves dead walking, so they called themselves ' The Walking Dead '," Pulliam, the new national president of the American Gold Star Mothers Inc., said. " That was the story told to me." The then Vietnam president had indeed labeled the unit "Di bo Chet", The Walking Dead, for its actions in a valley near the Song Nu Yi River in 1966. Thirty-nine years since her son's death, Pulliam still barely gets herself through Mother's Days. Her membership in the American Gold Star Mothers, however, has provided her some comfort. Founded in June 1928, American Gold Star Mothers Inc., is an organization of mothers who have lost a son or daughter in the service of the United States. Back home in Kansas, Dale enjoyed hunting and fishing and played high school football and basketball before graduating in 1964. From there it was on to junior college, where he completed a semester before deciding to join the Marine Corps. He was proud to be a Marine. After boot camp at Camp Pendleton, California, he was sent to Vietnam, where he was wounded just two months before his death in Da Nang. While she will never forget her loss, Pulliam, at age 80, has continued to live her life with verve. At 65, a granddaughter convinced Pulliam to run a two-mile race with her on the Fourth of July. She ran her last race in 2003, and between the first race and the last she collected 30 medals and trophies. Pulliam also has served many volunteer hours, working with veterans and serving on the Gold Star Mothers National Executive Board for the past four years. She currently serves as the group's national president and plans to raise public awareness of American Gold Star Mothers during her term. Active in organizations that honor veterans, Pulliam works with a group whose efforts make sure homeless veterans have a dignified burial. She also is a member of the Patriot Guard, a motorcycle organization that attends military funerals at the invitation of families, and rides with Rolling Thunder motorcycle group every Memorial Day weekend in Washington. One past volunteer activity in particular left a lasting impression on Pulliam. Members of Wichita Vietnam Veterans, a group no longer active, called her "MOM" and got a hug from her every time they saw her. One day, Pulliam learned from one of the veterans' wives why those hugs were so important to them: they represented her forgiveness that they had come home when her son hadn't. She made sure not to miss one of them after that. In 2004, Pulliam was among six Gold Star Mothers who traveled to Vietnam to hold a memorial service for their children. In the years since he left the home where Betty and Leonard Pulliam raised him, a tree has grown to become 3 feet wide. Dale attended Derby schools but transferred to Clearwater High School his junior year so he could play more sports. He graduated with Clearwater's Class of 1964. In Betty's living room, where Dale put his arm around her before going to war in 1966, hangs a picture of Dale wearing his Marine dress blues. His face resembled his mother's, but his eyes were darker than her. His eyes could talk. Dale was friendly and never met a stranger. Betty didn't know until after he died that Dale had sent a letter to his older brother Stanley, a Marine who had returned from sea duty near Vietnam. Dale wanted Stan to know his wishes for any funeral arrangements. He realized he couldn't ignore the possibility of his death. In March 1967, Dale wrote to the friend: "Our company really got hit hard last week; we killed 700 Viet Cong in two days but 200 of our men almost the whole outfit was wounded. I was so scared I couldn't believe I was over here seeing so many men die for no reason." And in his last letter to the friend, dated on 1 May 1967, he wrote: "We are in mountains again and are moving every night to keep from getting surrounded. God will watch over me." Two weeks after he wrote the letter, as his unit moved toward an enemy position in Quang Tri Province, enemy mortar fire hit Dale the mortar man. At her home, Betty pulls out the letter, its paper still crisp, its ink signature still vibrant. Betty has carefully kept the letter along with snapshots Dale sent home. There's Dale strumming a guitar. There's Dale cradling a black and white puppy rescued from a burned village. He wrote about how he fed the pup his "C rations." He carried the vulnerable animal for miles. As she looks through the pictures, Betty, a woman with good posture and silky white hair, begins to softly cry. One day after Betty received word of Dale's death, a postman delivered his clothes and other personal items in two large boxes. Inside one was his Purple Heart. He had been wounded by shrapnel in his arms about two months before he died. They patched him up in the field and sent him back out. She also received a watch he wore in one of the pictures, looped into his vest. The watch bears an indentation, as if something struck it. After his death she felt compelled to remain strong for her family. Although she talked openly about Dale, she tried not to cry in front of others. When she had time alone, the tears flowed. She was a stay-at-home mother and wife and tried to stay busy and positive. She would tell herself, "Thank God, I still have three children." Art became an outlet. She took a painting class and created luxurious landscapes that hang from her walls. She wishes she had had a support group. None were available to her in 1967. In 1971, she joined Gold Star Mothers, whose members have lost sons or daughters who died while serving in the military. The group became part of her identity, part of her coping. She is working to have a Gold Star Mothers monument erected at Wichita's Veterans Memorial Park. She serves on the group's national executive board.
She learned to live with Dale's death. She survived breast cancer, survived heart problems. Betty's husband, Leonard, a World War II Army veteran who survived the Normandy invasion, endured his son's death as well. He retired after 31 years at Boeing, where he worked as a tool and die maker. Health problems resulted in his leg being amputated. But Betty was proud of him because he didn't give up. With one leg, he would get on his motorized scooter, reach down with a short-handled rake and gather any debris that blew onto his lawn. Leonard died in 1998. Dale remains a tangible part of his mother's life. Standing in her living room, Betty stoops by her fireplace and picks up a sturdy teddy bear. It was Dale's bear. She brings the bear out around Christmas time. Even 37 years after Dale died in combat, she still has questions. And what happened to his dog tags? She never got them. A few years ago, Betty heard about other mothers traveling to Vietnam so they could see where their sons died in the war. At first, Betty didn't like the idea. She thought it would bring back bad memories. She wondered if such a trip might make her feel animosity toward whoever killed her son. But she has decided to take the journey and just received her passport. She thinks the trip may give her the closure she has yet to feel. The lack of closure, Betty says, has to do with never getting to see Dale's body. His casket remained closed. For a while after he died, she hoped it was all a mistake. She couldn't help clinging to a desperate belief that it wasn't Dale's body that had come home. Dale was supposed to return in September 1967. Maybe he would still walk through her door as the maple tree started to drop its leaves. But September came and went, and she knew: Dale would never walk past the maple tree in the front yard again. The maple tree kept growing without him. Betty had an unsettling dream about his homecoming. In the dream, Dale walks down her sidewalk with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. In the dream state, she tells Leonard to hurry up and hide a telegram announcing Dale's death, so she could shield her son from his own death notice. Now, she believes it might rest her mind to see the land where Dale last walked this world. Where he sweated under forest canopies, where he stared at starlit skies that reminded him of his back yard, where he saved a puppy, where he gave his life. He was a posthumous recipient of the Purple Heart, National Defense Service Medal, Vietnam Service Medal, Republic Of Vietnam Campaign Se Medal. Dale was killed in action and is honored on Panel 19E, Row 123 of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. He was killed by Vietnamese mortar fire on Mother's Day 1967. In addition to his parents, Dale left a brother, two sisters and their families.
Charlie Company
1st Battalion
9th Marines
" The Walking Dead "
3rd Marine Division
Fleet Marine Force Pacific
She learned to live with Dale's death. She survived breast cancer, survived heart problems. Betty's husband, Leonard, a World War II Army veteran who survived the Normandy invasion, endured his son's death as well. He retired after 31 years at Boeing, where he worked as a tool and die maker. Health problems resulted in his leg being amputated. But Betty was proud of him because he didn't give up. With one leg, he would get on his motorized scooter, reach down with a short-handled rake and gather any debris that blew onto his lawn. Leonard died in 1998. Dale remains a tangible part of his mother's life. Standing in her living room, Betty stoops by her fireplace and picks up a sturdy teddy bear. It was Dale's bear. She brings the bear out around Christmas time. Even 37 years after Dale died in combat, she still has questions. And what happened to his dog tags? She never got them. A few years ago, Betty heard about other mothers traveling to Vietnam so they could see where their sons died in the war. At first, Betty didn't like the idea. She thought it would bring back bad memories. She wondered if such a trip might make her feel animosity toward whoever killed her son. But she has decided to take the journey and just received her passport. She thinks the trip may give her the closure she has yet to feel. The lack of closure, Betty says, has to do with never getting to see Dale's body. His casket remained closed. For a while after he died, she hoped it was all a mistake. She couldn't help clinging to a desperate belief that it wasn't Dale's body that had come home. Dale was supposed to return in September 1967. Maybe he would still walk through her door as the maple tree started to drop its leaves. But September came and went, and she knew: Dale would never walk past the maple tree in the front yard again. The maple tree kept growing without him. Betty had an unsettling dream about his homecoming. In the dream, Dale walks down her sidewalk with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. In the dream state, she tells Leonard to hurry up and hide a telegram announcing Dale's death, so she could shield her son from his own death notice. Now, she believes it might rest her mind to see the land where Dale last walked this world. Where he sweated under forest canopies, where he stared at starlit skies that reminded him of his back yard, where he saved a puppy, where he gave his life. He was a posthumous recipient of the Purple Heart, National Defense Service Medal, Vietnam Service Medal, Republic Of Vietnam Campaign Se Medal. Dale was killed in action and is honored on Panel 19E, Row 123 of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. He was killed by Vietnamese mortar fire on Mother's Day 1967. In addition to his parents, Dale left a brother, two sisters and their families.
Charlie Company
1st Battalion
9th Marines
" The Walking Dead "
3rd Marine Division
Fleet Marine Force Pacific
Time hasn't completely healed Betty's wounds, and talking about her son can still bring a tear to her eye. Marine Corps Lance Corporal Pulliam was 21 years, two months and one day old when he was killed in Vietnam on Mother's Day 1967. The unit, however, had another, more grim label as well. "Ho Chi Minh told them that he was going to kill them all, so just consider themselves dead walking, so they called themselves ' The Walking Dead '," Pulliam, the new national president of the American Gold Star Mothers Inc., said. " That was the story told to me." The then Vietnam president had indeed labeled the unit "Di bo Chet", The Walking Dead, for its actions in a valley near the Song Nu Yi River in 1966. Thirty-nine years since her son's death, Pulliam still barely gets herself through Mother's Days. Her membership in the American Gold Star Mothers, however, has provided her some comfort. Founded in June 1928, American Gold Star Mothers Inc., is an organization of mothers who have lost a son or daughter in the service of the United States. Back home in Kansas, Dale enjoyed hunting and fishing and played high school football and basketball before graduating in 1964. From there it was on to junior college, where he completed a semester before deciding to join the Marine Corps. He was proud to be a Marine. After boot camp at Camp Pendleton, California, he was sent to Vietnam, where he was wounded just two months before his death in Da Nang. While she will never forget her loss, Pulliam, at age 80, has continued to live her life with verve. At 65, a granddaughter convinced Pulliam to run a two-mile race with her on the Fourth of July. She ran her last race in 2003, and between the first race and the last she collected 30 medals and trophies. Pulliam also has served many volunteer hours, working with veterans and serving on the Gold Star Mothers National Executive Board for the past four years. She currently serves as the group's national president and plans to raise public awareness of American Gold Star Mothers during her term. Active in organizations that honor veterans, Pulliam works with a group whose efforts make sure homeless veterans have a dignified burial. She also is a member of the Patriot Guard, a motorcycle organization that attends military funerals at the invitation of families, and rides with Rolling Thunder motorcycle group every Memorial Day weekend in Washington. One past volunteer activity in particular left a lasting impression on Pulliam. Members of Wichita Vietnam Veterans, a group no longer active, called her "MOM" and got a hug from her every time they saw her. One day, Pulliam learned from one of the veterans' wives why those hugs were so important to them: they represented her forgiveness that they had come home when her son hadn't. She made sure not to miss one of them after that. In 2004, Pulliam was among six Gold Star Mothers who traveled to Vietnam to hold a memorial service for their children. In the years since he left the home where Betty and Leonard Pulliam raised him, a tree has grown to become 3 feet wide. Dale attended Derby schools but transferred to Clearwater High School his junior year so he could play more sports. He graduated with Clearwater's Class of 1964. In Betty's living room, where Dale put his arm around her before going to war in 1966, hangs a picture of Dale wearing his Marine dress blues. His face resembled his mother's, but his eyes were darker than her. His eyes could talk. Dale was friendly and never met a stranger. Betty didn't know until after he died that Dale had sent a letter to his older brother Stanley, a Marine who had returned from sea duty near Vietnam. Dale wanted Stan to know his wishes for any funeral arrangements. He realized he couldn't ignore the possibility of his death. In March 1967, Dale wrote to the friend: "Our company really got hit hard last week; we killed 700 Viet Cong in two days but 200 of our men almost the whole outfit was wounded. I was so scared I couldn't believe I was over here seeing so many men die for no reason." And in his last letter to the friend, dated on 1 May 1967, he wrote: "We are in mountains again and are moving every night to keep from getting surrounded. God will watch over me." Two weeks after he wrote the letter, as his unit moved toward an enemy position in Quang Tri Province, enemy mortar fire hit Dale the mortar man. At her home, Betty pulls out the letter, its paper still crisp, its ink signature still vibrant. Betty has carefully kept the letter along with snapshots Dale sent home. There's Dale strumming a guitar. There's Dale cradling a black and white puppy rescued from a burned village. He wrote about how he fed the pup his "C rations." He carried the vulnerable animal for miles. As she looks through the pictures, Betty, a woman with good posture and silky white hair, begins to softly cry. One day after Betty received word of Dale's death, a postman delivered his clothes and other personal items in two large boxes. Inside one was his Purple Heart. He had been wounded by shrapnel in his arms about two months before he died. They patched him up in the field and sent him back out. She also received a watch he wore in one of the pictures, looped into his vest. The watch bears an indentation, as if something struck it. After his death she felt compelled to remain strong for her family. Although she talked openly about Dale, she tried not to cry in front of others. When she had time alone, the tears flowed. She was a stay-at-home mother and wife and tried to stay busy and positive. She would tell herself, "Thank God, I still have three children." Art became an outlet. She took a painting class and created luxurious landscapes that hang from her walls. She wishes she had had a support group. None were available to her in 1967. In 1971, she joined Gold Star Mothers, whose members have lost sons or daughters who died while serving in the military. The group became part of her identity, part of her coping. She is working to have a Gold Star Mothers monument erected at Wichita's Veterans Memorial Park. She serves on the group's national executive board.
She learned to live with Dale's death. She survived breast cancer, survived heart problems. Betty's husband, Leonard, a World War II Army veteran who survived the Normandy invasion, endured his son's death as well. He retired after 31 years at Boeing, where he worked as a tool and die maker. Health problems resulted in his leg being amputated. But Betty was proud of him because he didn't give up. With one leg, he would get on his motorized scooter, reach down with a short-handled rake and gather any debris that blew onto his lawn. Leonard died in 1998. Dale remains a tangible part of his mother's life. Standing in her living room, Betty stoops by her fireplace and picks up a sturdy teddy bear. It was Dale's bear. She brings the bear out around Christmas time. Even 37 years after Dale died in combat, she still has questions. And what happened to his dog tags? She never got them. A few years ago, Betty heard about other mothers traveling to Vietnam so they could see where their sons died in the war. At first, Betty didn't like the idea. She thought it would bring back bad memories. She wondered if such a trip might make her feel animosity toward whoever killed her son. But she has decided to take the journey and just received her passport. She thinks the trip may give her the closure she has yet to feel. The lack of closure, Betty says, has to do with never getting to see Dale's body. His casket remained closed. For a while after he died, she hoped it was all a mistake. She couldn't help clinging to a desperate belief that it wasn't Dale's body that had come home. Dale was supposed to return in September 1967. Maybe he would still walk through her door as the maple tree started to drop its leaves. But September came and went, and she knew: Dale would never walk past the maple tree in the front yard again. The maple tree kept growing without him. Betty had an unsettling dream about his homecoming. In the dream, Dale walks down her sidewalk with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. In the dream state, she tells Leonard to hurry up and hide a telegram announcing Dale's death, so she could shield her son from his own death notice. Now, she believes it might rest her mind to see the land where Dale last walked this world. Where he sweated under forest canopies, where he stared at starlit skies that reminded him of his back yard, where he saved a puppy, where he gave his life. He was a posthumous recipient of the Purple Heart, National Defense Service Medal, Vietnam Service Medal, Republic Of Vietnam Campaign Se Medal. Dale was killed in action and is honored on Panel 19E, Row 123 of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. He was killed by Vietnamese mortar fire on Mother's Day 1967. In addition to his parents, Dale left a brother, two sisters and their families.
Charlie Company
1st Battalion
9th Marines
" The Walking Dead "
3rd Marine Division
Fleet Marine Force Pacific
She learned to live with Dale's death. She survived breast cancer, survived heart problems. Betty's husband, Leonard, a World War II Army veteran who survived the Normandy invasion, endured his son's death as well. He retired after 31 years at Boeing, where he worked as a tool and die maker. Health problems resulted in his leg being amputated. But Betty was proud of him because he didn't give up. With one leg, he would get on his motorized scooter, reach down with a short-handled rake and gather any debris that blew onto his lawn. Leonard died in 1998. Dale remains a tangible part of his mother's life. Standing in her living room, Betty stoops by her fireplace and picks up a sturdy teddy bear. It was Dale's bear. She brings the bear out around Christmas time. Even 37 years after Dale died in combat, she still has questions. And what happened to his dog tags? She never got them. A few years ago, Betty heard about other mothers traveling to Vietnam so they could see where their sons died in the war. At first, Betty didn't like the idea. She thought it would bring back bad memories. She wondered if such a trip might make her feel animosity toward whoever killed her son. But she has decided to take the journey and just received her passport. She thinks the trip may give her the closure she has yet to feel. The lack of closure, Betty says, has to do with never getting to see Dale's body. His casket remained closed. For a while after he died, she hoped it was all a mistake. She couldn't help clinging to a desperate belief that it wasn't Dale's body that had come home. Dale was supposed to return in September 1967. Maybe he would still walk through her door as the maple tree started to drop its leaves. But September came and went, and she knew: Dale would never walk past the maple tree in the front yard again. The maple tree kept growing without him. Betty had an unsettling dream about his homecoming. In the dream, Dale walks down her sidewalk with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. In the dream state, she tells Leonard to hurry up and hide a telegram announcing Dale's death, so she could shield her son from his own death notice. Now, she believes it might rest her mind to see the land where Dale last walked this world. Where he sweated under forest canopies, where he stared at starlit skies that reminded him of his back yard, where he saved a puppy, where he gave his life. He was a posthumous recipient of the Purple Heart, National Defense Service Medal, Vietnam Service Medal, Republic Of Vietnam Campaign Se Medal. Dale was killed in action and is honored on Panel 19E, Row 123 of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. He was killed by Vietnamese mortar fire on Mother's Day 1967. In addition to his parents, Dale left a brother, two sisters and their families.
Charlie Company
1st Battalion
9th Marines
" The Walking Dead "
3rd Marine Division
Fleet Marine Force Pacific
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