Christmas Joy: A Soldier’S Struggle

By Richard Edgar Zwez

Highly-decorated Vietnam War veteran Jack Leeds, a man in his late twenties, earned awards for his bravery and fighting expertise in the war, but after being discharged from the U.S. Army, he has trouble adjusting to civilian life. Suffering from manic depression, he has trouble finding employment. After the tragic death of his parents in a car crash, the only family he knows is military men and women. Regularly speeding through traffic to get to a truck stop for breakfast, he seeks to relieve his loneliness and replete his hunger for human interaction.

History professor Bill Verde and his wife, Millie, learning about Jack from one of Bills colleagues and agree to help him get back on his feet. The married couples mission in life had become taking care of down-and-out persons, finding value in each person they help. How would Jack have them find his value?

When Jack utilizes the skills and discipline he acquired in Vietnam and thwarts a robbery at a neighborhood store, people begin to see him as a more responsible citizen. How will Jack respond so that he can create the fresh start that he desires? Will he again know Christmas joy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 9, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440112966

Richard Edgar Zwez

Richard Edgar Zwez has served in both the U.S. Army and the U.S. Navy and knows veterans from many wars.

Book preview

Prologue

Every Christmas falls on the same date, but every Christmas day is different. Sometimes a person may feel that the world regards him as unimportant. During this festive occasion there’s always a greater possibility of finding that special person. To be able to reach beyond the grayish haze of despair is a treasure worth seeking. As the Christmas lights drive away the darkness of winter, the evergreens push through the ice, and snowflakes fall pure and gentle, they announce in the cold depths of night that there’s an opportunity for a fresh start in life.

Chapter One

Nightfall

Jack Leeds drove his sports car like mad down the dark highway. He felt like a kid remembering the game of chicken when he ran recklessly in front of cars. Now the hunt took place among the great, hulking, speeding semis. The more hazardous his passing suddenly in front of the trucks, for him the greater the challenge. When a big rig driver blew his horn in alarm, Jack felt an invigorating thrill surging through his body.

Jack loved to dart in and out of the path of the highway giants. To survive meant that a protective aura still surrounded him and shielded him from harm. He was convinced that he could survive the chill of death’s freezing mantle any time.

He drove on, escaping crushing encounters with the heavily laden rigs by a few inches every time. His timing was flawless.

Jack floored the accelerator for another mad dash down the interstate highway. He drove along until he saw his favorite truck stop up ahead.

As he walked in, a young waitress scanned his handsome, weather-beaten face. The lighter color of his scars did not detract from his good looks. Hi, she said. Are you ready for your morning cup of cocoa, Mister? Her mock-serious tone of voice was undermined by her bubbly tone.

He nodded his head.

The hot brew was brought to him with his standard order. At one time the waitress had hoped for a little conversation from the young man, but not anymore. The beads of sweat on his forehead made her cautious.

The older waitress was even more concerned. Each day that Jack came in, she hugged him close, in a motherly gesture. His wild-eyed expression did not quench her desire to be friendly. But today she gave up sooner. She involuntarily shied away from him. He felt clammy to her. His sweat had the acrid smell of absolute terror, he was lucky to be still alive

Have you been a bad boy on the highway? she inquired.

Jack only smiled.

I can’t understand him, Gloria, said the young waitress in private, I’ve tried talking to him. He’ll answer any question you ask him, even some that are kind of personal, but I can’t get him to really talk to me. He seems to prefer being left alone.

Don’t worry about it, Pat. There must be many others that haven’t got him to open up either. You need to be patient. One day he’ll calm down and when he does, you or some other gal could be waiting for him.

Oh, I wouldn’t have anything serious to do with him. He flies too high. I’d hate to be the one to fall.

He comes in so sweaty. Even the cold weather hasn’t changed that about him. He seems so charming, yet he smells like fear. My husband used to be a cop. When he would escape death by a hair’s breath, he would bring home that awful odor. He used to joke about it and say it scared away the Angel of Death.

In the meantime, Jack blew into the foam gathering on the surface of his cocoa. Its color reminded him of the laterite clay tunnels of the Vietcong. Those fighters had been digging tunnels since they fought the French. They eventually extended 130 miles from Saigon to the Cambodian border.

As Jack sipped on his cocoa, he gazed at the restaurant’s customers. They were busy eating their pancakes or their ham and eggs. He knew that they would leave soon for their offices or their workshops. They seemed to lead comfortable, predictable lives. They had no idea what it was to enter into the very bowels of hell.

Jack felt like telling them, "Hey, let’s take a tour of the Vietcong’s tunnels. No fatties allowed! You will have to strip down to your shorts. The inside of the tunnel won’t be so great. You’ll have to put up with stale air, hot and humid conditions, and pitch black darkness.

Then armed with a flashlight and a .38 Smith and Wesson you’ll be ready for action. Don’t think of bringing a .45 automatic. It will deafen you and you won’t be able to listen for danger.

Look out for wires and even roots in the tunnels. They may be rigged to hand grenades. Don’t step on punji stakes painted with dung, they infect you and even kill you. Hopefully there won’t be an enemy on each side of the tunnel shooting at you. Also, let’s hope that the tunnel does not have a hidden trap door from which a Vietcong will attack you from the rear with the intent of garroting you or cutting your throat.

Be careful not to step on krait snakes, bamboo vipers, scorpions, or fire ants. Hopefully no bats will fly right into you, and look out for the spiders. I’m talking about the millions of spiders that make the walls of a tunnel look like they’re moving.

If we find something interesting, like Charlie’s underground armories, bomb shelters, kitchens, and even theaters, we’ll have to take care of them. The GIs came up with a neat device for that. They took an empty steel ammunition can and drilled a hole in one end. Then they placed an unscrewed phosphorus grenade inside of the can and attached a fuse to it. Finally, to add to the effect, they filled the can with gas, creating a napalm-like jelly. Hopefully Charlie will be in the mood for a hot time."

Jack snapped out of his daydream and slid off his stool. His heavy motorcycle boots landed with a clunk on the floor. He stretched and breathed in confidently. God had allowed him to live another day. That was proof enough that He loved him.

Jack looked to one side of the diner. He could see an old fellow whose dangling jowls shook at every opportunity. He definitely was one of the steady customers as Jack saw him every time he came into the place. The old guy always sat at the same table and dressed the same way. He wore a faded tee shirt under nearly worn out overalls and on his head was some sort of alpine felt hat.

The reason he liked to wear a tee shirt was made obvious by his actions.. He constantly shifted in his seat so the other diners could see the birthmark on the back of his neck. It resembled an eagle. Jack wondered how much of it was possibly a mole and how much was a tattoo.

The elderly man was the life of the party every time Jack came in. He’d sit with others his age and have a good time at breakfast. He constantly was laughing whenever anyone said anything. Clearly he knew how to start the day with a happy frame of mind.

Perhaps he had a bladder problem? It seemed more likely though that he just enjoyed passing by the tables and booths and shooting the breeze with the other customers on the way to the john. He particularly liked conversing with couples with children. If a child showed affection toward him, he was thrilled. He then would return with his noticeable limp to his table still smiling.

Jack always observed the old fellow and the great amount of relish he seemed to get out of living. Jack wondered if this guy had known the anguish of combat.

The Vietnam veteran bit his lip. He doubted if he’d ever be able to burst out laughing like the old fellow.

Jack got into line to pay for his cocoa and bagels, and the donut that he considered his breakfast dessert. The old, potbellied, laughter machine slipped in line behind him.

The jovial man extended out his hand to Jack and said, My name is Jim Rilla. What’s yours?

I’m Jack Leeds.

The man motioned towards the jagged scars on Jack’s chin, The scars on your jaw seem to have been caused by shrapnel. I take it that you’re a combat veteran.

Jack did not believe for a second that the old man didn’t know about him. Rilla made it his business to pick up every scrap of information about the customers that surfaced in the truck stop diner. Jack had heard this guy pointing out customers to his friends and then telling them all sorts of details about them.

As Jack looked into the old man’s eyes, he noticed that one of them did not look natural.

Yes, I’m a combat veteran answered Jack."

I also took it in the chops in combat, Rilla said. Although in my case it was during World War Two when I got hammered. That was a war to the finish. Not like the wars and conflicts that have taken place since then without a real victory and even humiliation, he said with accusing glint in his eyes.

I see.

You fellows didn’t make much progress in Vietnam, did you?

We got stuck in the jungles and rice paddies.

In World War Two we had a clear goal. We were on our way to crush the enemy’s heartland and all of the evil coming out of Berlin. Once we were in Berlin, we stayed there as the winners. I hear that you fellows never did get to Hanoi?

I stayed pretty much where I started.

You mean to tell me that Ho Chi Minh didn’t commit suicide in his bunker? the guy chided while snickering.

Jack smiled lightly and said in a mysterious tone, We were the ones that went down into the underground. Where we were it was as gloomy as a tomb and bats flew into your face.

I don’t get what you mean, said the old man with a stunned look on his face.

It’s a long story. I’ll tell you about it some day.

Jack paid for his breakfast, picked up a toothpick, and left.

He then sat in his car for a moment and thought that if he couldn’t get appreciation from a former combat veteran how could he expect it from anyone else. He leaned back in the bucket seat, listened to the radio, and enjoyed the taste of the toothpick’s wood as he ran it through his teeth.

Instead of dashing once again on the interstate he slowly drove through the city streets. As he did so, he once again plunged into his inner self. He thought about his life’s situation and how it related to other people.

Jack felt that he was a stranger to the average person even though he was never really rebuffed. Yet people intrigued him, as each life represented many different and interesting experiences. As a former leader of men and women, he had come to value the uniqueness of each person. Often he would stop at a red light in the city and try to read the faces of the persons in the other cars. He yearned for the day when he would feel sociable enough to reach out to people such as these.

Jack allowed himself to be warmed by the smiling, and quite often, attractive faces of drivers which displayed their pleasure of living. He often would find himself attracted to these individuals. He would smile as he felt the full measure of their friendly nature.

Yet he wondered about others. There were the ones that would encase themselves in their sense of well being as some sort of reward. How many times did these creatures hide behind the dark recesses of an insecure individual? Even when surrounded with the emblems of power, many supposedly affluent persons would look disgruntled and worried. Their deep-set eyes would give utterance to their thoughts, while others with expressionless features perhaps revealed a life gone stale and meaningless.

Many of these men would gaze out of their car windows with forlorn looks as cute girls drove by in fancy sports cars, lithe as race horses compared with the ponderous metal behemoths around them. The young gals flaunted their independence and their pride in youth and freedom while they teased as their ponytails swung seductively behind their ball caps. Their beautiful smiles would entice men while letting them know that they were quite inaccessible. Jack was there in spirit, but his experience reminded him that true power lies in organized strength.

So much had happened to Jack in his prior existence. Things had changed in his homeland, that far away place the professional soldier of many years had come to regard as almost as a dream land. However, he still could detect that some things in America were still the same, such as the friendly people.

The world that he had returned to after two prolonged hitches in Vietnam had a changed exterior. The hippies’ outlandish garb and the hair length seemed odd to him. He, however, felt that he wanted to talk to these people and would eventually find out that they weren’t all that different from the rest of humanity.

To him, life had a way of identifying everyone. Jack’s senses had been sharpened by his combat experiences. In a battle of concealment, keen, discerning eyesight, sharp sensitivity to sounds, light movements, odor, or tactile sensations such as the feel of the grass, the ground, and the twigs in their slightest changed manifestations meant there was information available that would save a life. Now, back in American society, the former grunt found rancid smoke as interesting as perfumed fragrances.

He noticed that some persons did not release the slightest of odors. They seemed unwilling to share the smallest particle of their beings. Jack knew that he couldn’t wear a mask to hide from others his true feelings. He openly revealed the vital expressions of his soul. Never one to be insensitive to his surroundings, he said to himself, I wonder if I have lost some of the feelings that I used to get out of life? He dreaded the thought that he, a soldier with Indian scout sensibilities, had returned to civilian life and couldn’t relate to it. He refused to look at old photographs. He feared that he could never be the same again.

The only link he maintained with the past was the photograph in which he appeared as an innocent little baby with a wide smile. Just looking at this sentimental treasure helped him get relief from depression. He knew that as a little child none of his needs were neglected because as an infant he had been blessed with the constant love of his parents. That was a lost paradise, and he wondered if he would ever regain even a fragment of those golden years. A tragic auto accident had snatched away his parents and had forced him to experience the harsh realities of life. Alone in the world, he needed the camaraderie of military life. He knew that in the jungle every soldier had to trust and cooperate in order to survive.

In civilian life Jack had been a tall, handsome fellow with droves of friends. He’d felt so welcomed in the warmth of their friendship. People spoke fondly of him since they appreciated his handsomeness and mild personality. He always contributed to the spirit of a situation with his keen sense of humor and ready wit. Friends would come and knock on his door and shout, Jack, come on, man, we’ve got a party getting ready to start. You know that you’re a party animal. Jack would answer, Let’s roll!

The young man often slipped his arms around the shoulders of friends, male and female alike. He especially enjoyed wrapping a coat around the sublimely rounded shoulders of a beautiful woman dressed for the evening. Jack wondered just how little was worn under those skimpy dresses.

Everyone had always been kind to him in his moments of stress or depression. Even the bullies at school maintained their distance from him since he was so physically well developed. If anyone would become angry at him, he would attempt at least a workable relationship. When tempted to become angry, and really lose it, he would struggle to have patience and regain control.

At times, he feared being alone. Not that loneliness was a tremendous worry as he usually had the comradeship of friends. It’s just that he disliked not being with people.

When he returned to civilian life this feeling became an obsession. His nightly speeding sprees on the interstate among the thickest traffic was partly to relieve this feeling of loneliness and the hunger for human interaction. At other times, he felt tinges of shame after his driving antics. But the need to be among people and to prove himself caused him to shrug off feelings that would keep him from his insane road games. It’s true that his actions caused discomfort to others, but so what, he should be allowed to relieve his psychological stress. After all, he had endured a lot of misery in Vietnam as a lonely grunt serving his country. There, he’d had to give up all sorts of civilian comforts to fight at close quarters with the hostile enemy. He had not been in combat to enhance his self worth. True, he received lots of commendations and awards for his constant bravery and fighting skill. But he often refused to be promoted any higher than was necessary to accomplish the job at hand. Being an NCO was high enough. He wanted to be close to the men that were risking their lives following his orders. To be a leader meant that he’d lead by example, so he volunteered often for the most hazardous and thoroughly grueling missions in those superheated, insect-infected jungles.

It seemed that Lady Luck, as some have called providential good fortune, was constantly with him like when a friendly fire artillery shell fell short. A sycamore tree took the deadly shrapnel shards.

Jack believed in his military profession. Even when he’d been badly wounded he never relinquished his duty to keep on fighting while on a mission. As soon as he recovered from his wounds, he’d report for more combat. He had no regard for extended recuperation and was always ready to report for another assignment. It was a source of humor to him that he’d go places in combat that would have scared to death the bureaucrats back in Washington.

Jack thought that he might never see civilian life again at the rate he was exposing himself in combat. He’d recently survived the crash of a Huey helicopter. It lurched forward as it was taking off and the chopper’s rotor blades hit a tree limb. It fell on its side as it came down and the tail boom snapped off. Jack was left with serious bruises and a couple of cracked ribs.

Eventually, the military decided to discharge him. Supposedly he had done more than his share of fighting over the years and with the American involvement in Vietnam tapering off there was no longer any need for him. The determined warrior had lived for the high of combat. In the stress range of a hundred, he hit around ninety. Letting go of his life as a warrior wasn’t easy. So he had raged against his military superiors when they disregarded some strategic possibilities that would have allowed for a more orderly withdrawal of American troops. Besides, he felt that the Army of the Republic of Vietnam was not being treated fairly as it was left to fend on its own against an enemy that had the support of China and the Soviet Union. This was in contrast with South Korea that remained protected by American troops long after the Korean War had ended.

Medical psychological personnel considered him as an individual spinning out of control. Other released soldiers had tried to maintain their stress levels by resorting to crime.

It was recommended that Jack be placed in a military hospital’s psychiatry ward for observation prior to being released into civilian life. Someone with his outstanding military credentials shouldn’t be let loose into the civilian world in such an uncontrollable state. He’d bring discredit on the Army.

After undergoing medical care, he went from a fiery personality to a largely lethargic one. Jack was discharged prematurely from the hospital six months later in order to make room for extremely violent former service personnel.

He had seen combat so long that on his return to civilian life, he didn’t know how to control his emotions. Sometimes he’d go into fits of fury when he’d break objects dear to him and at other times he was totally unresponsive to his surroundings. His disorientation led him to a life on the streets. He promptly descended into the mass of the aimless, homeless vagrants.

He’d become so removed from his active combat life that he found that he couldn’t adjust to a civilian pace. After all, the military had become his only life. After the tragic death of his parents in a car crash, the only family he knew was military men and women. His buddies were his brothers and sisters. His superiors took the guise of being his parents. To him, the military structure and its manner of operating was a world that had become completely his own.

The street life left him alone as he struggled with his thoughts. He wondered what to do with his life. Inaction had seized him but he continued to survive as a homeless person. Fortunately, he was taken to a veteran’s hospital by other Vietnam veterans who were looking for former comrades in need of rescuing. He’d been recognized as one of America’s neglected heroes and placed in the hospital to cure the skin diseases and other ailments he had contracted while on the streets. He had attracted the attention of Dr. Sol Yaffers who practiced psychological therapy.

Dr. Yaffers taught psychology at Willamet College where Bill Verde was a history professor. He was an intimate friend of the Verdes. He knew that Bill and Millie were a childless couple who liked to look after needy individuals. So one day he told Bill, Say, I know a fellow, named Jack Leeds, who could use your help. He’s a Vietnam combat veteran who came off the streets and needs rehabilitation. You and Millie could help to get him back on his feet. He’s had trouble adjusting to civilian life. I feel that he has great future potential as a contributing member of society. He’s had manic depressive symptoms. He’s a caring, dedicated guy. Jack just got too concerned with what was going in Vietnam and the deaths of his men. He burned out.

What could we do to help?

"He needs an apartment for