Destiny of a War Veteran

By Sal Atlantis Phoenix

Destiny of a War Veteran depicts the life of a conscientious veteran. The subject matter of the story is serious and tends towards the realistic side of the aftermath of war. The story is about the analysis of the human soul lost in fantasy and in reality, about submission and rebellion, and about philosophy and tyranny. The story is vivid with images, and complex and rich in characters. It is an intriguing tale that that defines the socio-political scenarios. Vietnam War Veteran Joe is tempted to participate in Middle Eastern and international politics, compelled with insinuated illusion of establishing freedom and democracy. The subsequent effects of the human tragedies engulfed from the political scenarios devastate him, and he seeks refuge beyond the realm of humanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jan 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781483496146

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PHOENIX

Copyright © 2019 Sal Atlantis Phoenix.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-9615-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-9614-6 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 12/27/2018

Fic

tion is a gentle image of reality. Perpetual political events may credit this story as a reality in fiction.

In memoriam to the veterans of life.

In gratitude to Beverly Schulz for her support. She is an instructor for City College of New York.

Thanks to the computer word processor. It makes life comfortable.

–Sal Atlantis Phoenix

1

The alarm rang loudly and Joe turned around, reached out for the clock on the card table next to his bed, pressed on the button to stop the alarm, and rolled back and stretched in his bed. Early in the morning, the bright light was penetrating through the closed Venetian blinds and the curtain. He could feel the mild morning breeze of September through the crack of the window. He hated getting up early in the morning and going through the daily hassles of work.

Another day, another dollar, he thought. He was going to work in a new office with new colleagues and a new boss! He hated it. Why wouldn’t they let him stay at his assignment in the main office in Washington, D.C.?

He got up, shaved, and took a shower; in the kitchen, he ate his cereal and drank a glass of orange juice while watching the morning news on TV.

On his way out to work, he met his neighbors in the lobby, made a brief and routine early-morning conversation, and walked out to the subway station. He got into the subway station elevator packed with commuters, got out, and ran to the turnpike with the crowd. Pushing and apologizing, he slid his metro card quickly and pushed through the turnpike. The sound of the approaching downtown train echoed in the tunnel and he ran down to the stairs to the platform. Together with the restless passengers waiting, he rushed into the crowded car, preventing the passengers in the car from exiting. Usual urban dialogue incited:

Comon’ man, get out of my way…

Sorry, I didn’t know you were getting out…

Stop pushing me, man!

Urban life was challenging for Joe. Love, respect, and friendship were mingled with arrogance and animosity. It was a symbol of human relations. The subway rolled on, shaking and swaying, the steel wheels gliding and screeching on the tracks. The operator announced the stations that were closed and which trains to transfer to get to a certain destination. In the lighted areas of the tunnel, the construction workers were repairing the tracks and some workers were standing on the portable scaffolding and restoring the concrete walls.

The train stopped at main stations; at forty-second and thirty-fourth streets, tourists arriving from the bus and train terminals pushed into the car, rolling their heavy suitcases and expecting cooperation from the urban dwellers. They were ignored and got cold looks if they asked for a seat.

Joe got off the train at the World Trade Center station, walked through the tunnel, and entered the World Trade Center atrium. He stopped by the newspaper stand and asked for New York Times newspaper.

Sold out, said the owner.

How come so soon? asked Joe, puzzled. What is the date?

The eleventh, said the owner absently.

Joe strolled through the huge atrium looking at the exhibitions in the windows of various commercial shops, walked into the elevator of Tower II. He got off on the eighty-first floor where his new office was located. He stopped by the information desk and asked the attendant for the location of the office of International Freedom and Democracy.

They occupy the south side of the building, said the attendant and pointed at the direction of the office. He walked into the office and introduced himself to the secretary.

I was informed about your assignment, said the secretary unenthusiastically and accompanied him into a large office. The office was divided with low-level cubicles and the secretary pointed at a cubicle next to the window wall and looking over the bay. This cubicle is assigned to you, Mr. Joe. Make yourself comfortable, she said and walked out.

His coworkers were busy in their cubicles working on the computers, communicating via the internet with the main office, and exchanging information. Joe waited for the chief administrator to call him to his office and discuss the political events in the Middle East and evaluate his analysis and proposal for a strategy that would ease the tension in the region. He was ignored.

Joe looked out of the window and viewed Manhattan squeezed between New Jersey and Long Island and defined by the Hudson and Harlem Rivers. He got up from his chair, approached the window, and stood with his arms crossed, looking down to see the spirit of the day, his idol, lover, and girlfriend, the Statue of Liberty.

Good God, he murmured when he saw her. I can’t believe it! He saw drops of tears falling down her eyes. Then the statue began to succumb to darkness. Joe looked at the sky to condemn the clouds covering his beloved into oblivion. Instead, he saw a plane flying over the statue and approaching the World Trade Center Tower I. Suddenly, life began to roll in slow motion. The plane got closer and closer towards the tower and Joe screamed, Stop, Stop, and he looked into the cockpit to alert the pilot. The pilot looked at him with a sinister smile.

Shafiq, you son of a bitch, screamed Joe. You are going to smash into the tower. Stop! The plane continued to fly, and in slow motion slammed into Tower 1 and penetrated through; black clouds burst into the sky and flames swelled at the surface of the collision. Pieces of the torn building began flying in the air and Tower II trembled with the sound of an explosion.

Shafiq, you bastard, screamed Joe at the pilot. I should have killed you in Vietnam instead of the Vietcong guerillas!

Chaos ensued in the office. Joe’s coworkers rushed to the window. Alarms began to sound; personnel in the office rushed to the emergency exit, pushing, shoving, toppling, and stepping over each other. Joe looked out of the window again. He saw another plane approaching the World Trade Center Tower II. He was frozen; he couldn’t move; he couldn’t curse. He could do nothing but to wait for the devil to come.

He submerged into darkness. I am a dead man, he moaned desperately; yet, a miracle happened.

Joe saw the shining stars, the moon, and the universe. He was lifted up slowly, gently, with loving and caring hands holding his shoulders, arms, head, and legs; his whole body felt as if it was in the hands of angels. He looked up and saw the archangel Gabriel smiling at him. I am not the only one lifting your spirit, he said. Good Jesus and Good Moses and Good Mohammed and Good Buddha and Confucius and all other Deities are lifting up your spirit into the safety of Heaven. Joe looked at the Deities with gratification and raised his hand to reach them and said, Thou shall carry me to Heaven.

The Deities held Joe’s hand with a desperate look and said, We shall bypass Heaven and Hell and pierce through the universe and deliver thou to the unknown where you will be the reborn creature of eternal love, peace, justice, and equality.

Leave me in the stars of the universe, Joe begged.

The stars in the universe will be invaded by the technology and the universe will be a hell created by the humanity, responded the Deities. Humanity will occupy the universe and the universe will be occupied by Christians and Jews and Muslims and Hindus and Buddhists and believers of all faiths. No matter who they are, humanity is relentless for its own destruction for the sake of power and egotism. We won’t leave you in the universe to be at the mercy of humanity.

Leave me in Heaven, Joe pleaded.

We created the delusion of Heaven and Hell to inspire humanity to implement virtue and eliminate vice. We failed in our mission. We are desperate failures!

Joe tried to appease the Deities. Human history is filled with wars to establish your ideals. Richard the Lion Heart and Saladin the Great fought to establish your grace!

The deities shook their head in disgust. Throughout history, humanity manipulated the ideals of the Deities and the concepts of freedom, democracy, and equality of humanity to create war and catastrophe, and establish power… The Deities were desperate. We are failures, they moaned.

What will you do? asked Joe.

We will pierce through the universe and escape for our own safety. Let humanity invade the stars with their spacecrafts and establish new colonies on Jupiter and Venus and Mars. They will recreate the universe in the image of earth. We cannot go through the torture we have gone through to humanize all of humanity. We will abandon the universe with you, Joe, they lamented.

Joe began to rise higher and higher; the stars in the universe began to get smaller and smaller, and finally faded into darkness.

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Joke woke up, sweat dripping from his face and rolling on to the pillow as if he had been in a sauna. He reached out for his cigarette pack and matches under his pillow. He put a cigarette in his mouth, lit the match, took a deep breath, and inhaled the smoke.

What a dream, he thought. Can’t get over with the trauma of the war in Vietnam. The war continues in my mind and in my soul. It is a part of me now. It is my life. He kept on smoking quietly and without moving in his bed to avoid waking up his roommates in the homeless shelter in Manhattan.

2

Joe was overwhelmed, bursting with joy when he saw the steamship, Freedom and Democracy, dock next to the pier in the cold and misty December morning. Quickly, he feigned the posture of a brave and self-assured pioneer leaning casually on the wooden pile that pierced through the pier. Joe gazed upon the passengers frozen in the elusive realm of time.

The petrified passengers were wrapped in the shroud of dark clouds and restive sea. A congregation of estranged bodies and souls on the ship gave confidence and comfort to each other. A new life of venture enticed them to golden promises and unknown consequences.

Motionless passengers on the steamer stared with anxious and glazed eyes at Joe. Some were expressing a hesitant smile to conceal their fear. Joe seemed stunned.

The distance between him and the passengers was so close yet seemed to be a century apart. He wanted to reach out and hug the passengers on the steamship and kiss them, and scream passionately, Uncle Radovozewic, Aunt Theresa, Cousin Tochakos …

He could not, but prayed they would reach out for him. They did not.

Joe recognized a young woman who was leaning against the handrail. She must be great-aunt Theresa, he thought. Her body was wrapped in a heavy wool coat, a wool scarf tightly covered the head, plump face, and her cheeks were turning red in the exposure of the morning frost. Great-aunt Theresa’s inquisitive and penetrating eyes focused on Joe; her right foot rested lightly on the steel ledge as if to balance her posture and hide the apprehension on her face. Memories of a homeland vineyard were etched in her heart. She sold the vineyard to pay for the journey to America.

Away from great-aunt Theresa, Joe recognized great-uncle Romanoff, standing confidently upright, a Cossack fur cap pulled down to his eyebrow, looked resigned and somber. He was convinced he could face the challenges in the new country; after all, he had struggled against the Czarist tyranny and survived the turmoil of the Bolshevik revolution.

Great-Uncle Henry looked distinguished on the upper deck, bowler hat tilted snobbishly toward his right ear, waxed mustache twisted upward and exposed his stiff upper English lips. He considered himself to be above the flock of uneducated and despised immigrants, although he was a member of nobility in northern England, the ruthless patrons of the industrial revolution wiped out and uprooted the aristocracy.

Distracted by the sound of music rising from the lower deck, Joe leaned forward and caught the smiling eyes of Cousin Carey. Joe stepped forward and noticed Cousin Carey smiling at him. Young Irishmen were playing the jig and dancing around him as he was singing a song about a land that its youths forgot as soon as they immigrated to the land of enticing dreams. Joe was eager to dance to the tune with his cousin Carey and tried to grab his hand.

Joe reached out and touched the mural. The glazed eyes of the passengers stared at him as quiet as death; despondently, he stepped back. The figures in the mural in the Registry Room of the Ellis Island Museum were frozen in time.

Puzzled and disappointed, Joe could not see, in the Registry Room, the shabby, timid, and confused emigrants sitting on the wooden benches waiting to be questioned by American immigration officials, waiting to be examined by the health officials, and hoping and praying to be admitted into the land of fortune to accomplish their dreams.

He was, in fact, in the middle of a renovated spacious atrium, brilliant and more inviting than the original structure. The skylight over the atrium unobstructed the sunshine and helped to create colorful motion of light on the polished ceiling tiles. Compared to its modern counterpart, the original structure was built to constrain the emigrants rather than to cheer them.

The registry room of the Ellis Island Museum was crowded with excited tourists; they were not Joe’s great aunts or great uncles, but they were the sons and daughters of the immigrants who came to entail the birth of a nation. The birth of a nation may have been ignited by the blunder of an arrogant king who refused to recognize the pragmatic values of the Yankee merchants and their obsession with making a profit from a cup of tea; yet, a group of wise and foresighted men transformed a local rebellion into a historic revolution.

The manifest destiny of the young nation allured millions of immigrants who sacrificed their past and gambled their future and ventured to a promised land.

In the promised land, the day after the declaration of independence, greed began to creep in, to decay the ideals of the declaration of independence.

Joe walked to a display surrounded by inquisitive visitors. The visitors were amazed to see a computer that identified the gender and location of immigrants in the United States. The data about the immigrants were input by the tourists who were curious about their ancestors.

Joe walked out into the garden and approached a four-foot-tall granite wall erected to commemorate the arrival of the immigrants. The names of the immigrants were etched on the wall like parading troops, row after row, marching into oblivion, in deadly silence.

The granite wall appeared in sharp contrast against the domineering New York City skyline in the background. The names of the immigrants on the granite walls were subdued and Joe heard them whisper: We built America brick by brick and steel by steel. We are buried under the shadow of the corporate structures.

Joe bent forward to read the names etched on the polished granite walls: Martinez, Goldberg, Luchese, he whispered. They must be related on my mother’s side. Naskarisis, Chou, and Becker … They must be related to my father’s side.

On his mother’s side, he could have been christened as Joe Martinez Goldberg Luchese. On his father’s side, he could have been registered in his birth certificate as Joe Naskarisis Chou Becker. With respect to his parents’ ethnic heritage, he went to City Hall and submitted a petition to change his name to Ethnic Joe.

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Joe returned to the city on the last ferry. The boat was overcrowded with tourists who spent extra time in the museum to scrutinize memorabilia and play with the computerized information devices of the electronic age.

The ferry sailed by the Statue of Liberty on its way to the slip in Manhattan.

The predictable Lady Liberty resolutely stood with her