The Forgotten Warriors

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reminiscent of the '60s, or of the old days of the Viet Nam Veterans Against the War. But the exercises have been a bit forlorn. Last March, an ex-Marine named James Hopkins crashed his Jeep into the lobby of a West Los Angeles Veterans Hospital and blasted away at the walls with a pistol and rifle, screaming that he was losing his mind because of Agent Orange. Two months later, he was found dead with a jug of whisky and an empty pill bottle beside him. A former artillery sergeant, Steve Androff, 33, went on last week with a fast he began on May 27 in Lafayette Square, across the street from the White House. It is a vet's version of the I.R.A. protest, designed to coerce some attention to victims of Agent Orange. Over the July Fourth weekend some vets planned a demonstration on the site in Washington where a Viet Nam memorial will be built — a dark, somberly graceful V of granite bearing the names of the 57,692 Americans who died in the war. It took the best part of a decade to get America to want that memorial.

Some veterans ruefully suspect that they are being merely patronized as this season's cause — the moral equivalent of snail darters or baby seals. But the vets' anger, emerging now less encumbered by the old shame of the loser, less haunted by the guilt of the war's uniquely vivid violence, has a new force. It contains a certain aggressive pride, expressed almost for the first time. The Viet Nam veterans may have been knocked off the tracks of their careers by two or three years; they may not have caught up yet with their peers, but they now insist that they are a resource for the nation, not an embarrassment. They are taking on positions of influence—many are, at least.

Indeed, the new attention to the problems of the Viet Nam vet really does amount to something deeper than fad. The dimensions of the change are practical, symbolic and, in the widest sense, spiritual. Congress recently has been showing itself remarkably responsive to the veteran's needs, even in these days of Reagan's almost-everything-must-go budget cuts. Congressmen are sensitive to public sentiments. Besides, there are 31 Viet Nam-era vets sitting in Congress now. The Administration's plans to cut $131 million out of veterans' counseling, employment and education programs detonated real indignation among Congressmen and editorial writers. Among the programs on the hit list were the readjustment counseling centers that have helped more than 67,000 Viet Nam veterans since they opened in late 1979. These storefront operations allow Viet Nam vets to come in and talk to the only people in the world who seem to understand what they have been through: other vets. They literally and probably save men's lives. Last month, the House unanimously approved (388 to 0) a bill that would extend the counseling program for three years. In the same package, the House decided that Viet Nam veterans could qualify for treatment at VA hospitals if doctors determined that certain physical problems "may be associated with exposure" to Agent Orange or other chemicals. The House has also passed a program that would make qualified Viet Nam-era vets eligible for low-cost $200,000 Small Business Administration loans. Both the House and Senate agreed to extend for two years eligibility for the G.I. Bill's vocational and on-the-job training.

But this