Mack Brinson is listening to one of the sergeants a “One-One” who ran Recon Teams as he tells tales about his most recent mission.  Folks these things actually happened, just not to me. The book is not all blood and mayhem. There is quite a bit of humor and a strong love story.

*******************

This was Chancellor’s tale:

“The chopper didn’t land—as usual lately—just hovered about five feet above the elephant grass, we got the hell out and hit the ground…”

He paused, getting knowing nods of agreement from others at the table.

“ It was damned nearly dark when we were working through the grass, which was probably eight or ten feet deep. Then, by the time we hit the tree line—about a hundred meters from the insertion point—it was dark.  After all, we’d just gone into double and triple-canopy woods. We stopped for a fifteen-minute security halt.  I checked my compass and started to move the team as best as I could toward the RON (remain over night) point we’d planned.”

He took a sip of cognac and Coca-Cola that many of the troops in-country had adopted.  It was, to my taste, ghastly and probably a leftover from the French days.  I sipped too, but slowly.  I had been invited to sit at the One-Zero Table, and wasn’t about to jeopardize my chances of hearing the war stories told by these men. I’d drink what they were drinking.

Chance continued:

“My team is damned good.  They were good when I inherited them from Markey—when he rotated back to ‘the world.’ Then, after me’n my One-One (Assistant Team Leader/Radio Operator) here had worked with them for a while, we became an even better team.”

Chancellor nodded toward the man, a staff sergeant named Jamison, seated next to him, who smiled his agreement.

“ But, we’d only moved the team for what I’d guess was about a coupla hundred meters in what was damned near total dark when I called a halt.  First off, there was a shot in the distance.  Just a single shot.  And, as you guys know, that sometimes means that NVA (North Vietnamese Army) trackers are on your trail.  Secondly, we were making enough noise to sound like a bunch of elephants on acid.  Then, just as everybody went into a quick perimeter formation, something moved just ahead and off to the right of our line of march.”

He had everyone’s attention.  There were three other One-Zeros and two of their One-Ones at the round table. A Recon Team normally deployed with two Americans and five Montagnards—mountain tribesmen of Southeast Asia—sometimes referred to as “Yards”.  Several teams had Nungs, who were ethnic Chinese mercenaries born in South Vietnam. They didn’t mix with the Yards, though.

Chance, a Sergeant First Class, took another sip and nodded to the Forward Operating Base (FOB) commander, Lieutenant Colonel “Bourbon Bill” Grimm who’d brought the bottle of cognac as his price of admission to sit at the table. The table was exclusively for One-Zeros and those they invited.  The commander read all the official reports, but learned just as much or more from the tale telling at the table. These men: the One-Zeros, and their One-Ones, were the elite of the elite. They were truly the keen edge of the blade.

Chance lowered his voice.  Those at the table leaned forward.

“Everybody froze.  I heard the tiny little snicks of safeties going off.  That was all.  I eased over toward the area where the sound had come from.  I heard it again.  It sounded like somebody crawling through the brush, moving toward us.  I made damn sure that my safety was off. It sounded like only one bad guy, but we were out there trying to find the 325 Charlie NVA Division. And, you know there might have just one clumsy dude backed up by a regiment.  In that kind of darkness, you don’t take chances.”

“ I put my hand on the Yard point-man’s shoulder and, by pressure, told him to move left.  I eased to the right with Jamison behind me.  The movement stopped.  There was no sound except the occasional monkey howl and the buzzing bugs that loved my hide so much.”

He paused for another sip—increasing the dramatic effect with his silence—then continued in almost a whisper.

“We all stopped and strained our eyes as much as we could, and saw nothing.  I couldn’t smell anything either.  You know how, sometimes you can smell the NVA bastards because of their body odor—then I did smell something nasty.  I was picturing a patrol of about ten NVA easing toward our position and felt my nerves zinging, getting ready to fight. About that time there was a big, loud ‘Whuff!’ and this damn hog came running through our position.  Big sonofabitch, probably a boar, but I didn’t have a chance to check for balls!  He didn’t do anything but snort and charge ahead, slamming through the brush right down the middle of the team’s perimeter.  I told you that our team was good! Not one guy popped a cap when he came through.  Turns out that that was really good considering what happened later. I didn’t check closely, but I’ll bet that a couple of our guys damn near pissed their pants.”

He paused and sipped again, winking broadly as he put down his glass.

“ I know I damn near had wet shorts!”

There was general laughter and a freshening of the cognac and coke by Bourbon Bill accompanying the banter by the other team leaders. The unit at Kontum was one of three FOBs in South Vietnam.  The missions these Special Forces men ran were across the borders into Laos, Cambodia and North Vietnam.  The fact that SOG even had an operational capability at all was classified SECRET.  All missions were approved at the Joint Chiefs of Staff level—and frequently by the White House itself, because of their sensitivity. They were all classified TOP SECRET with a special code word indicating severely limited access. PRAIRIE FIRE was for Laos, DANIEL BOONE was for Cambodia.

“After having the crap scared out of us by the pig…” Chance said.

His audience was hot for the rest of the story.

“We waited about fifteen minutes to listen for more shots and to make sure that no one had scared that damned hog into us, and then started moving out. Again though, after having to nearly hold hands and daisy chain to keep track of one another, we were making much too much noise for my liking.  I got on the radio and called back here to the TOC to tell them approximately where we were and let them know that we were going to RON (remain overnight) in place.”

Chance was a medium height, slim man with longish blond hair and an easy grin. He rolled his hazel eyes at the FOB commander and took a quick bird-like sip of his drink.

“The guy on night duty was new.  He’s never been in the bush yet, so I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.  He said, ‘No, sergeant, you’ve got at least another klick (kilometer) to go.  Press on.’  I thought about telling him where he could press his klick, but finally answered, ‘ Roger. Out.’ and turned the radio off.”

He glanced at Bourbon Bill again and, turning to the other team leaders with a confidential tone, continued the story. The colonel showed no reaction.

“I put the team in a tight perimeter on the best ground I could find close by in the darkness.  All the Yards were in a star, facing out, lying on their bellies.  Markey and I leaned back to back against a fairly large tree trunk.”

Jamison picked up the story.

“Chance was beginning to snore within twenty minutes, and making too damn much noise, so I woke him up and reminded him about the radio,” he said.

Jamison was, like most of the troops in the club, wearing cut off camouflage pants, an olive-drab tee shirt and flip-flops.  He was a short—about five-seven — burly man with black hair cropped in a burr-cut.  His five o’clock shadow was almost as long and dark as the hair on his head.

Chance took over again.

“Yeah, Jamison keeps me straight. He said he’d take the first watch if I’d call the FOB.  So I called back to the TOC and got the same duty sergeant.  I told him, in a whisper, ‘We’re there.’  He came back to me in a whisper—like he was out there with me—‘Roger. Out.’  So I turned the radio off, took a sip of water from my canteen and pulled my poncho liner up around me to catch a few Zs,” Chance said

If the team leader’s story about troubles with his TOC affected the colonel, there was no visible evidence.

“It felt like I’d only just stretched out when one of the Yards started tugging on my shirt sleeve,” Chance said.

“‘Sargie, Sargie!’ He was whispering, and too damned loudly.  ‘Shhh!’ I told him.  Be quiet and go to sleep.  ‘Sargie, Sargie!’ he kept it up.  Finally he got my full attention.”

“Sargie, VC wake me up.  He want me pull guard. What I do?”

Jamison interrupted again, grinning broadly.

“ I’d heard the Yard’s question and slid around the tree just in time to hear Chance say, ‘Oh shit!’  Out loud, too,” he said.

There was general laughter and a couple of low whistles.  Bourbon Bill commented as he broke a grin.

“Chance, that wasn’t in your after-action report!” he said.

More laughter and jibes bounced around the room.

One of the other One-Zeros broke in and asked Chance to finish his story. He had me, too.  As a visitor, though, I was glad for someone else to get him to go on.

“ I told Jamison to get everyone in tight, then told the Yard to go back and tell the NVA troop that he’d take over.  Then he was to come back to me and lead us out over the spot where he was supposed to be standing guard.  I still hadn’t heard or seen anything, but now, maybe because my butt hole was squinched up so tight, I could smell distant cooking fires.  Best Jamison and I could figure, then and now, we’d come into a NVA perimeter and they thought that we were one of their patrols returning. Hell, they couldn’t see either!  Our guess is that we probably had landed on the perimeter of a company-sized unit.  All seven of us!”

Everyone at the table leaned just a bit closer.

Chance spoke as if he thought the NVA could overhear.

“ We moved without making a sound and, so damned slow, that part of my brain was screaming at me —wanting me to get the hell out of the AO (area of operations).  Jamison, who’s damned good with a compass, was up front with the Yard point man.”

He nodded at his One-One and lifted his glass, then continued.

“ I brought up the rear with one of the Yards trailing me.”

“As soon as we finally got clear of the area, I had Jamison take a heading for our primary extraction LZ (landing zone).  Just before daylight, we stopped to catch our breath.  Jamison put the team into a defensive perimeter. I got on the radio and called the TOC and requested an emergency extraction.  The same asshole was still on duty.  He immediately asked, ‘Are you under fire?’”

“Not yet, but if you screw around, we will be soon.  Now get the duty officer to call for extraction now or I’ll kick your ass when I get back!” Chance said.

Grimm interrupted.

“That duty sergeant has been trained in depth and will soon go out with a RT to complete his education.”

The statement brought smiles of satisfaction to the One-Zeros.  Everyone else refreshed their glasses with cognac and hoisted them in a salute.  I skipped the cognac and poured in more Coke before joining the toast.

Chance turned to the colonel.

“Boss, I understand that there was an Arc Light done on the grid coordinates we sent in.  Has anybody done a BDA (bomb damage assessment) yet?  I wonder how many of the little bastards there were out there,” he said.

“I’ve asked Saigon about it, but they tell me that we’ll get to do it if it’s approved. And, you know how that can be.” Grimm said.

Often, men who risked their lives to bring back hot intelligence never knew its worth.

This is the poem that marked the resurrection of my writing.

**********************************************************

   The Wall

for the Vietnam Veterans of America

I. Roll Call

Arrayed in perfect ranks and files,

row on row,

gleaming metal and polished black,

sharp straight edges cutting the wind,

they stand

in static silent formation.

Only their nameplates speak…

a voiceless babble of American families,

no other speaks, or spoke, for them.

Soldiers should not make their own monuments

Away from this place of silence,

this place of unheard voices,

(where a limp flower hangs,

pushed into a crevice of the black stone),

the nation erected proper monuments of heroism:

sinewy white marble demigods with laurels;

or helmeted bronze men, thrusting a flagpole upright.

These recall brass band parades,

bright red roses, gleefully flung into city streets

beneath gleaming, triumphant boots; V-Day kisses, tears of victory, of joy;

these, …in memoriam…in appreciation… are proper.

These tell sufficient truth.

Soldiers should not make their own monuments

II. Personnel Files

Teachers filled their childish ears

with the rattle of musketry,

— Valley Forge, San Juan Hill,

and, yes, Antietam, Gettysburg, Atlanta;

they believed.

Believed nostalgic fathers, wistful uncles;

— grand visions of “Over the top…,” “Over There;”

Pearl Harbor infamy;

steaming “Sands of Iwo Jima” Okinawa’s steel typhoon;

—Inchon landings and ”The Bridges at Toko-Ri.“

Victory, heroism, glory.

“Glory, glory, hallelujah…” they believed

in “…Duty, honor, country;”

with the “Faith of Our Fathers,”

and on silver “Paths of Glory,”

blazed into thousands of sunsets;

…on insubstantial contrails,

“Blowing in the Wind” evaporating in the heat,

leaving no track home.

III. Separation

Believing, they went…

then losing belief,

fought,

- or just endured,

and changed.

Some died, most returned;

many to the silent muster of this wall;

more to await honors

from fathers who could not hear,

and children who would not listen;

making their own hollow parades in shabby fatigues,

down almost-empty streets.

These have made their own monument,

a prostrate memorial in black stone.

 Soldiers should not make their own monuments

This poem is from Finding The Way Home, a chapbook of poetry about the Vietnam War and the way it affected those who were there.

***********************

    OLD SOLDIERS

”An aged man is but a paltry thing,

                                                              A tattered coat upon a stick,…“

                                                                             Yeats

Old soldiers from all our modern wars

crowd into the same slice of time,

-in veteran’s hospitals,

waiting together,

mutely bonded by losses,

-empty spaces that surround

and define us.

Sitting on an uncomfortable island of vinyl

awash in a surf-rolling susurrus of voices,

cocooned inside my silence,

untouched by misery and despair

swirling in the crowded air like cigarette smoke,

stinging exposed nerves.

But I felt the touch of ancient eyes

-looked back;

like a man afraid to look in a mirror

after long, dark nightmares.

How big a man he was, I’ll never know.

He stared out at me from the mountain

his loose white shirt and brown suit made

stuffed into the seat of a wheelchair,

blue eyes flickering about the ward

like a sparrow watching from a nest of rags.

The woman stood behind him,

thin arms circling the chair,

holding his shoulders

as if he might roll away

-again.

He wanted to talk.

Asked which war was mine,

and, without an answer,

told me I would never know real war.

The kind he knew in the Meuse-Argonne,

where artillery stormed

through nights when rain was steel.

The earth, plowed,

and sown with exploded metal

-sterile, unstable-

a treacherous place for man to walk.

They sprinted along trenches

splashing through partly-frozen mud,

and huddled in bunkers,

-fear of crashing shells almost lost

until the silence;

when the big guns stopped.

Ears groped through underground darkness

stretching to know

when slow, soft mortar plops

signaled sliding yellow death

feeling its way over broken ground,

finding edges of the earth where men hid.

The mustard gas, like a living predator,

seemed to find them by sensing their fear

and clawed bare skin,

prying at protecting seals of rubber masks.

I listened,

held by more than soldier’s courtesy,

due an older warrior.

His images of war,

the Great War,

-hard to see,

superimposed over silent, jerky, black-and-white films

whose soldiers in wool uniforms,

puttees and greatcoats

look vaguely ridiculous;

always smiling, waving to the camera,

holding long bolt-action rifles.

What did he see,

when TV specials showed his war?

Did the gait of those old films move

with smooth, strong strides of young heroes?

How did that mirror,

those old moving pictures, reflect the man

now shrunken inside a pile of old clothes?

As he held me with his stories,

I was seeing pictures of my war;

old nightly news clips from Vietnam,

-live firefights,

color TV with sound,

projected against the back of my brain.

Though these mirrors,

-constant reflections stuck in time,

now begin to look archaic,

looking into them, I find myself again

chilled with the immediate fear

that swirled in battle like morning fog

and coalesced into rage,

forging a weapon

more lethal than simple tools of killing.

But at war’s end, survivors return,

with eyes of old soldiers,

-to insults or parades.

Apparitions that were young warriors

burned in mind’s retina

like lingering persistence of vision;

-portraits stamped on the face of a mirror,

forever the age of those whose names

old veterans read in monument stone.

Like fragments from a looking glass,

slowly shattered by the warp of changing seasons,

these broken pieces of a dead war’s face,

-unfashionable images,

-shards of incomplete reality,

reflect all that my sons will know,

looking back on a father’s war.

Home.

There are few words in our language, and probably most others, that carry the emotional impact of that word. It isn’t always, for some, a pleasant word—those sad people who have suffered abuse in their lives may want to leave.

But, for me today, home is a realized destination after twelve days in Rehab. A location as well as the first major marker along the way to full health.  Home is the place that wraps around me like the arms of my wife and would only be a house,  except for her.

Home is also a place where someone won’t knock on my door and immediately enter,, turning on the lights at 5 AM, breezily announcing, “I’ve brought you some ice.”  I don’t remember asking for ice, particularly at that ghastly hour of the morning.  I prefer to start my days a couple of hours later.  I got enough of  crack-of-dawn awakenings in the Army.

Here, I won’t be awakened at 2 and 4 AM by nurses’ aides taking care of my roommate (lights on, loud forced-cheery voices).  Certainly, those overworked women and men were simply doing their jobs, I just wished they could do it in someone else’s room.

Ah, yes—food. Overall, the food in the Rehab facility was good, if sometimes odd. For example, twice in my twelve-day stay we had pancakes and link sausage—for dinner. Good food, but to my tastes, odd.

Cloverdale Manor has an excellent WiFi system. I have no idea where their equipment is located, but for most purposes the signal strength allowed for high-speed downloads and uploads.  Not a quick as my wireless router in the next room, but…

Quiet. No matter how considerate the other residents and staff try to be, in a building with buffed tile floors, everything echoes: voices, cart wheels, scooping ice and TV commercials from the room across the hall. Foam earplugs helped.

Home. The word echoes with deep comfort, soothing as the cuddling of a mother holding a restive child. I’m here. Nerves that seemed to stand on end like quills of a porcupine, lie quiet. Home.

There are certain people on the Facility staff who make the stay more comfortable and useful. The woman who is my PT(Physical Therapy specialist) plies her expertise as well as anyone can.  She blends compassion for pain and injury with a demanding attitude.

A writer friend brought a large can of mixed, salted nuts. Every time I come back to my bed, I find peanuts on the mattress. Great gesture, I love them for snacks.
Another friend brought a live plant. It sits on the window sill next to a plastic plant that waves its petals in the sunlight. There’s a kind of joy, watching the little guy flap its leaves while the biological plant, with true biological disdain— ignores.

For the first time in many, many years, I’ve been shaving with an electric razor and I’m increasingly  enjoying the experience.   True, it doesn’t shave as closely as razor, but the user doesn’t often get cuts.  I think, when I get home, I’ll alternate the use of the two.  Many thanks to the man who brought it as gift.

I have an appointment, early tomorrow, with the Doctor who performed the surgery. Instead of using sutures, he used staples—twenty-nine—to close the wound. It looks like the teeth of a biker’s leather jacket,  I’m looking forward to putting some pressure on the left leg. I pray that he’ll tell me to go home. I’ve been looking forward to being on my deck watching the water and baby geese.

Posting from home tomorrow, I hope and pray. The 12th edition will be a happy occasion   if I can send from my deck.

Journal entry #10 from the Rehab Facility

Cloverdale Manor is both a Rehab Center and a place where people come who have decided to live out their years in surroundings where their needs can be professionally tended on any day, at any hour: a nursing home.

The person who signs in as a rehab patient becomes, necessarily, something like prisoner in a jail without walls. An activities director, on the staff, tries earnestly to fill the calendar with enough possibilities  to keep residents from either staring incessantly at the flat screen TV, or holding a thousand -yard gaze aimed at a blank wall.

My copy of the schedule  is taped to the wall, about ten feet from the foot of my bed.  I took it down this afternoon to read. The title says  “May 2012 Daily Activity Calendar.” The next line grabbed my attention; “ Safari time.” Accompanying those words are cartoon pictures of an elephant and a rhinoceros.

Hot Dog! I scanned the post for errors. Surely in one of the 2” X 2” blocks there’d be specific information; telling me when I could look out into the courtyard and see immense gray forms; hear them trumpet and watch the handler’s skill and daring.

No Elephants? What about the rhinoceroses?
No?
Just as well. The schedule on my wall calls for “ Pet Day” most of the month. Familiar dogs and cats sitting in laps, nuzzling or purring are therapy, sharing unconditional love and affection.

Still, I’d love to have seen a rhinoceros today…

There are certain things one doesn’t want to know. For example, how the silk inside a coffin smells.   Others include; the skill of using a walker to get to and use the the pottie and the rhythms and schedules of a hospital, nursing home, or rehabilitation facility. Learning those well means a much more intimate acquaintance than anyone—other than medical, therapy and administrative professionals—would wish.

This morning, for example, two nurses’ aides came in at two and four a.m. with the mini  crane for my roommate’s procedures.  They banged around and chatted amiably. Each time, when they were about to leave, one  peered around the curtain that divides the room.

“You need anything Hon?”

There were several tempting replies, but I just said, “No. Thank you.”

At about 5:15 AM, the ice wagon stopped in front of the door.

“Would you like some ice?”

The question was strident and impossibly cheery.

With no answer, she came in and filled the plastic pitcher with ice, sat it carefully on a table I couldn’t possibly reach.

“You sleep well, now,” she said.

I asked her to close the door as she left. Strangely enough, I went back to sleep (thanks to the painkillers).

A tiny tapping, like a baby woodpecker trying its beak, brought me back from the land of Nod.

“Laundry,” she said.

“My laundry’s being done at home,” I said—for maybe the fifth time.

She’s never picked up any of my clothes.  Maybe she thought I’d changed my mind. She rooted around the closet for a bit, apparently picking up my roommate’s laundry. As she was closing the door, she paused and peeked through a tiny slit.

“Thank you,” she said.

In what seemed like 15 minutes, the nurse came in to give me my morning meds. When she switched on the light,  the clock on the wall showed 6:10.

Breakfast: Scrambled eggs, bacon and a biscuit. Not bad. There was also  a small bowl of oatmeal, as usual. I tasted the stuff and discovered it was like all the other samples I’d tried. Yuk.
The Lorcet was beginning to kick in, though.  I was lucky  I didn’t  fall asleep nose first, into the eggs.

As Kurt Vonnegut’s character said, “And so it goes…”

Did I get a good night’s sleep? Yes, sort of… I started at about 9:30 last night.

I’d heard others complain about all the above, but learning them first hand is more deep knowledge than I wanted.

My early-morning visitor lived next door.

As I look at the wall in front of me—left to right—there’s a door into a shared bathroom; an inset of four drawers with a mirror above; then there are double doors that open on a broad closet. All of that dampens sound from the room next door.

When one is seated on the throne (bathroom) the sounds from the next room come in quite clearly.  My unexpected visitor, from Journal Entry 6, sings.

Early this morning, while seated and thinking deep thoughts about, um…, the meaning of life and post-Einstienian string theory (sure), the man began with, “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord…”  I’ve know for some time that there were six verses and could even quote three.  Raise your hand if you knew this one I found at Wikipedia.

“I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
    ”As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
    Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
    Since God is marching on.”

By the way, “contemn” is a verb meaning to treat with contempt.  I guess the modern equivalent is disses. Contemn is an archaic word so don’t use it in your next posting, either.

On to the story: My neighbor knew (and sang) all the verses. By the time I’d completed my contemplations, he’d started in on some golden oldies. When I shut the bathroom door behind me, he was working on Let Me Call You Sweetheart.

Found that my singing neighbor left sometime around noon. As I consider the matter, it’s fortunate that I wasn’t put in a room with the singer, I may have found yet another use for the backscratcher.

The day started on the routine note of one of the CNAs coming in to refresh the water pitcher at six o’clock.

I’d just found that little spot in my brain and body that, like a personal canoe, drifts out on the sleepy lake and takes me to the cove of deep slumber.

Someone knocked at the door. I glanced at the clock; 6:30”“

“Come in,” I said.

A medium-sized man, wearing a cloth hat and pajamas, shuffled in and asked my name. When  I told him, he appeared satisfied and sat in the visitor’s chair, smiling. After 5 seconds with no greetings, he asked the question that had brought him.

“You’re the writer.”

“Yes, I am,” I said.

He was clutching a pen and a piece of paper.

“I want to get a copy of all your books, for my collection,” he said.

I explained that I hadn’t yet had any of my book printed,  but that were several ways to read them in digital form. He listened intently to my explanations, then told me that he’d have go to Wal-Mart and get an iPad.

“That’s a great idea. Bring it back here and I’ll show you how to use it,”

Almost immediately after he sat, a CNA arrived with a tray and I’d been in the process of getting ready to eat breakfast. He just sat and watched.
I tried to talk to him about various world events and  as an excuse, to ask him if
he’d had breakfast.

Just then, one of the staff came in. She stood, clipboard held across her chest as she chattered along about the weather.  She stood behind the man’s chair and rolled huge brown eyes at him.

“Mr. North, (pseudonym) your breakfast is waiting for you.”

As she led my visitor out the door, she flashed a big smile.

I was hoping to have a few book sales, but the man’s presence, and unchecked would keep me from writing.  Maybe he’ll go to another room  tomorrow, at 6:30 he’ll come in carrying an iPad…, check back.

Today wasn’t an exiting one for the residents of Cloverdale Manor.
The biggest smile I saw, carried a man along as he checked out. Me soon, I hope.

I knew I as in lousy condition but, ouch! Trying to hop along, in a walker, on one foot can wear a person out! Shoulders, neck and arms are sore.

My follow-up evaluation is on the ninth.

My painkillers and muscle-relaxers are hitting from all directions. Sorry there’s not more, I’ll make up for it tomorrow.