One Man’s Story: Memoirs of a Vietnam Vet

By Michael Clark

Michael Clark was an inquisitive, active boy—difficult for his mother, although he wasn’t a bad child. In this memoir, Clark begins by detailing his childhood growing up in the fifties and sixties in rural Michigan, where he built forts, became an Eagle Scout, and met his future wife. As the Vietnam War raged, when he turned eighteen, he eventually registered for the draft. In 1969, after his number was called, Clark details how life changed exponentially as he left his new bride behind and reported for duty amid violent protests and draft card burnings. As he narrates his experiences from basic training to his assignment to the army’s medical training center and finally his service in Vietnam, Clark provides a compelling glimpse into the emotional influences of war. In this engaging memoir, a Vietnam veteran chronicles his path before, during, and after war as he accepted his fate and learned to embrace the precious gift of life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: May 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781483411170

Michael Clark

As Michael Clark overcame his issue with domestic violence, he felt called to share what he'd learned with others who were facing the same challenge. He took what he had learned in his career as an entrepreneur and business consultant and founded the Ananias Foundation (ananiasfoundation.org). The Ananias Foundation is a Christian-based non-profit that works to end domestic violence by providing guidance and encouragement to individuals who have been violent with their partner but want to change. Michael lives with his wonderful wife Lynn and their assortment of spoiled pets in West Des Moines, Iowa. Together they enjoy spending time with their friends and family, traveling, hiking, kayaking, and working on home projects.

Book preview

39493.png

Copyright © 2014 Michael Clark.

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 both publisher and 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.

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1115-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1116-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4834-1117-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014906885

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 Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date: 04/18/2014

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

About The Author

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I t is impossible to thank everyone who has helped to shape my life. It is a mosaic of influences from hundreds of sources. I thank my parents for their wisdom to allow me to develop into my own person within acceptable parameters; my wife of forty-five years, Connie, for her willingness to support me and contribute to the pursuit of dreams I would never have been able to achieve without her; my brother and sisters for the love and competition that led to me becoming an individual; my brothers and sisters in arms at the 85th Evacuation Hospital, especially those who attend the reunions and share in my healing; Dew, Deeg, and Tree, my brothers for life, for the brotherhood we shared at the 85th; Lonn, my childhood friend; the Scherers, the Ludys, Dr. Girardot, Jimmy at the Copper Bar, Leo, and too many others to mention. To those I’ve left out, your help is appreciated.

CHAPTER ONE

L ife is best appreciated through the eyes of a child. Every day is a new experience; each morning brings the opportunity to do many things for the first time in your life. There’s an intensity we seldom experience as adults.

During the middle years, we constantly search for the excitement of youth, but we find it far less frequently. As the years pass, we come to appreciate the status quo. Too many times, the event that elevates the intensity is not a positive one. The golden years are not always golden. The only golden things are in a safe or trickle out terribly slowly when I wake up in the morning. Memories also fit into that category.

I had a happy childhood. Every day, I am thankful for my parents. There were four children in the family—Sandy, Danny, me, and my kid sister, Cyndy. I was born in a clinic in Concord, Michigan, in 1950. We were living outside Jackson at Gilletts Lake at the time. My grandparents lived on the lakefront, and we lived kitty-corner across the street. My earliest memory is of trying to get a kite off a shelf that was over a workbench in the garage of that house. In front of the kite were cans of paint. I climbed onto the workbench and succeeded in knocking several of the cans onto the floor.

I don’t have any further recollection of Gilletts Lake, but Mom tells many stories. According to her, I used to love to sit on a bench in the backyard and watch the fire pit when the garbage was being burned. I seemed to have a fascination with fire. She has a picture of me sitting on that bench overlooking the swamp that bordered the backyard … before I set fire to it. I don’t recall how it happened.

That wasn’t my only experience with fire. When I was seven, living in Marshall, I was stung by a bee. In an attempt to burn out the bees’ nest, I burned down the neighbor’s boathouse. It was a tinderbox, and it didn’t take much to get it started. And that wasn’t my first experience with bees, either.

As a child, I had a common toy called Pound-a-Peg. It was a board supported on each end by two wooden uprights. The board had six holes drilled in it with a colored wooden peg in each hole. Each peg could be pounded through the hole with a wooden mallet until it was flush with the board. The unit was then turned over and the process repeated.

While living at Gilletts Lake, I was stung by a bee on the screened-in front porch. Mother swatted and killed the bee and, after reassurance, returned to her activities. After a while, she became aware of a rhythmic tapping on the porch. She found me on the porch with the mallet from the Pound-a-Peg. On the floor where the bee was she noted a wet spot, otherwise unidentifiable.

Mom tells me I was not a bad child but difficult. I was always too busy to sit still, whether at mealtime or at school. In today’s world, they would want me doped up with a diagnosis of ADHD. I was only being a boy. Fortunately, I had a loving family that supported me and helped me grow into a responsible adult. Not that we didn’t have sibling rivalry; we certainly did. But we all loved each other and would defend each other against all others.

As a toddler, I would find my way out of the house at night. I would come home with dollar bills and other objects. Mom couldn’t find where they belonged. She would hear banging at the door, as I couldn’t get back into the house. She would find me with multiple mosquito bites. She tried several locks on the door, but I would figure them out. She would use locks and tie ropes in front of the door, but I would untie them. Then she put locks on the top of the door, but I would stack items and climb on them and open the locks.

One time, Mom was outside talking to my grandmother when she heard, Hi, Mommy. She looked up and saw me on the porch roof looking down at them. I’d figured out how to open the window and crawl out onto the roof. Grandma stood on the ground under me while Mom crawled onto the roof and brought me back into the house.

I was inquisitive and industrious at a young age. Mom and Dad often worried for my safety. Our family doctor once told Mom I would either be the number-one most wanted or very successful.

We moved to Hamilton Street in Jackson when I was about four, as Dad got a job working on the railroad. The house was a large two-story on the north end at the dead-end turnaround. There was an old Packard in the side yard. Joey lived two doors down and was an instant friend of the family.

We quickly became acquainted with everything we were supposed to avoid, including the cliffs alongside the railroad tracks. They were made of sandstone, rose fifteen to twenty feet high, and were conveniently located just one block behind our house. Walking up on the cliffs, you would never know they were there until you were on them. The ground appeared flat until there was a straight drop-off in the ground. The tracks were at the base of the cliffs. There were woods on the other side with a river beyond them. We were forbidden to play on the cliffs, but we were kids and adventurous, so we would frequent the cliffs and tracks.

The cliffs had holes on the face made by pounding railroad spikes into the sandstone. This allowed finger holds for climbing on the face of the stone, which we often did. Wherever there was a crack in the sandstone that would hold our feet, there would be holes for our fingers. Hobos were common in the area, and there was a hobo jungle on the opposite side of the tracks from the cliffs. In the woods, there were several small shacks made of cardboard. There was seldom anyone in the woods during the day, and we would meander through the shacks. We found mostly clothes and personal items, but we did find a couple of guns. We never took anything.

We were playing on top of the cliffs one day when we saw a hobo walking on the tracks. For whatever reason, we started throwing rocks at him. He charged up the hill beside the tracks and sent us running. I hadn’t gone very far before my shoe came off. Being the youngest, I was far behind everyone else. I stopped to put my shoe on, and I remember just sitting there crying, watching for the hobo to top the hill and come after me. He never appeared, and no one ever came back for me.

It was only a matter of time before it happened. We were playing on the tracks, and Dad jumped off a slow-moving train and caught us at it. We weren’t allowed to leave the yard for some time afterward. We found other things to do after that. I wouldn’t say we never went back.

When learning to speak, children often have trouble making certain sounds, and the words come out very different. Sandy had trouble with the word grandpa. She could say putta, and it stuck. My grandfather was never called Walter or Dad or Grandpa. He was forever known as Putt.

My favorite drink as a toddler was Welch’s grape juice. This was way too much for me to say, and the name became Weepers Peepers. As I got older, I can remember my siblings trying to teach me to say it correctly.

Say Welch’s, they would say, and I would say, Welch’s.

Say grape juice, they would say, and I would say, Grape juice.

Now say Welch’s grape juice, they’d say triumphantly, and my reply would again come out as Weepers Peepers.

At some point, I’m sure I could say it correctly; it had just become a game.

I can remember to this day sitting at the table eating dinner one night. I was eating a piece of meat and choked on it. I don’t remember anything after that, as I lost consciousness. The story told of the event is that Dad slapped me on the back several times in an attempt to dislodge the piece of meat. This being unsuccessful, he picked me up, threw me over his shoulder, and ran to the car to take me to the hospital, which was about four miles away. He threw me onto the front seat, started the car, and started to back out of the driveway. At that time, he heard me ask, Where are we going?

The theory is that when he threw me over his shoulder, it created enough pressure to effectively perform the Heimlich maneuver and dislodge the piece of meat. Oftentimes there is a fine line between living and dying. Some of us are lucky, some are not.

I started school in Jackson. My first half of kindergarten was in a school on Cooper Street. My teacher was Mrs. Pole. School was full-day, and we would get milk at lunchtime in a glass bottle with a cardboard top. All I remember about the milk is that it always seemed to have ice in it, as it was kept outside in the winter.

At the end of school each day, as a class, we were required to recite our safety rules for walking home: Stop, look, and listen before you cross the street. Use your eyes, use your ears, then use your feet.

Dad was working as a police officer at this time. His partner was Dick. Dad was always a ham on his own, but the two of them were like nitro and glycerin; the sum was greater than the individual parts. Dad would often tell the story about Halloween. Dad drove the patrol car while Dick was in the trunk with his arm dangling out. Dad never said what happened as a result. After we moved to Marshall in 1956, Dick would visit, and the night would be full of stories and laughter.

My second semester of kindergarten, after our move, was at Crary School, which was located on the traffic circle in the middle of town. The north–south road was US 27. The east–west road was US 12. The circle was in the intersection of these two roads. These were the main roads of travel at the time, as the interstate system was not built. I-94 came through in 1960; I-69 in 1965. Prior to that, if you were going from Chicago to Detroit, you traveled on US 12. If you were going into northern Michigan, you used US 27. Both roads were two-lane, and truck traffic was heavy.

The school was on the southwest corner of the intersection. Our classroom was on the second floor on the southeast corner of the school. Across the street on the southeast corner was city hall, the building where both the police and fire departments were located. The bell at city hall rang on the hour, and the siren wailed at noon.

Kindergarten at Crary was also all-day. Each student was responsible for bringing in a rug on which to take a nap every day after lunch. There was a logistical problem, of course, in having a firehouse and police station across the street from a kindergarten classroom. No matter the time of day or what we were doing, if there was a siren coming from city hall, the entire class would scramble to the windows to watch the excitement across the street. The windows would be lined with wide eyes and ringing with squeals of excitement. At that age, everyone was going to be a policeman or fireman.

We lived on South Marshall Street at the time. On the corner of Marshall Street and Michigan Avenue (also known as US 12) was a car dealership. They had a cool pedal car on the display floor. The dealership was closed on Sunday when my little sister and I decided we wanted to ride in that car. The locked glass door was an obstacle to be overcome. Throwing large stones into the glass was the solution; I always was a problem-solver. I don’t know how much the door cost. The little metal pedal car disappeared from the showroom floor shortly afterward.

Our phone number was 3432—that’s it, 3432. The 1 was added later, making our number 1-3432. I remember watching television and seeing people dialing seven or more numbers. I thought this was ridiculous, as everyone knew you only had to dial four numbers. Anything outside the city was long-distance. Battle Creek, twelve miles away, was long-distance.

Party lines were common in the rural areas. Several people had to share the same line, as many as ten homes. If someone was talking on the phone, you would have to wait until he or she finished. If you were talking on the phone, people in other homes could listen in on your conversation.

Communities were given prefixes as an identity. Marshall was Story, making our number STory1-3432, or 781-3432. Jackson was STate, Battle Creek was WOodward. These were dropped in the early 1960s, and there was quite a controversy about the loss of identity going to just numbers.

Pay phones were on every downtown street corner, and local calls were a nickel. I also could buy an eight-ounce bottle of Coke for a nickel at the waterworks. It had to be consumed on premises because of the three-cent bottle deposit.

First grade was at Gordon School on Gordon Street. Built in 1950, it was a brown brick building. I had hopes of going to Pierce School, which was an older school, but we moved to East Michigan Avenue, and I was enrolled at Gordon. Both schools were about the same distance away, approximately a mile if traveled by road. We could cut quite a distance off by walking through the trailer park, climbing a fence, and walking through a field. This took us past the State Farm Insurance building to the East Drive subdivision. Walking one block through the subdivision brought us to the playground at the school.

East Drive was a new subdivision built at the same time as the State Farm building. It was a prestigious area to live in. Several of the homes in our area still used outhouses, although we had indoor plumbing. There was a lean-to addition on the back of the house that provided for the addition of a bathroom and laundry room. There were three bedrooms upstairs. A register in the hallway floor was the heat supply, as there was no ductwork leading to the upper level. The furnace was in the Michigan basement. The walls were stone and mortar, painted on the inside. Part of the basement had a cement floor. The furnace was a monstrous structure with ducts coming off the furnace itself, going to the rooms in the downstairs part of the house.

I was as tough on clothing as anyone has ever been. One time when I was playing kickball during recess, my shoe tore off my foot. Miss Mumby, the principal, took me to a shoe store and bought me a new pair of shoes. Mom wasn’t too pleased with this and went to the school to talk with Miss Mumby and reimburse her. I know I wasn’t dressed well for school, but I was hell on wheels and tore through everything. I would leave for school clean and look like a coal miner at the end of his shift by the time I arrived.

Bath night was Sunday night, and that was under protest. I don’t think I ever combed my hair before junior high school. My appearance was of zero importance to me at that age. I had far too many other things to do and think about.

The end of my first-grade year was the first time, to my recollection, that I ran a mile without stopping. I remember it was a warm day. I can’t recall if I actually set out to do this or if it just happened. I ran the sidewalk the entire way there and took the long way. I was quite overheated when I arrived and sat against the building in the shade.

One of the teachers noted I wasn’t looking well and took me into my classroom. I sat there for a while, drank some water, and was able to stay for afternoon classes. This occurred after lunch, as we had an hour for lunch and were required to go home to eat; only bus students were allowed to bring a lunch to school. The bus route started three houses from ours.

We were a dog family and always had at least two dogs. Most were boxers, most of them named Butch or Angel. We had one mongrel named Shearsey. She was a longhaired dog with some terrier in her. She was the most mild-mannered dog and would put up with anything from us kids. She was also very protective and would make her presence well known if any of us was threatened.

Danny brought home a German shorthair one day, and we were all trying to come up with a name for the dog. The consensus was ’Tis, as in here ’tis. Mom immediately vetoed this, stating she would not go to the back door to call the dog and yell, "Here ’Tis!" We named the dog ’Twas. Living on the highway with all the traffic, we lost several dogs to cars and trucks.

We were raised to be independent kids. We were expected to clean, vacuum, dust, wash dishes, take out the garbage, mow the lawn—pretty much everything. If we slacked off on our chores, a point system was initiated. We could earn a certain number of points for every chore done, usually three or four points per chore. Each point was a penny, and if we didn’t earn a hundred points, our one-dollar allowance would be docked. This way, we grew up knowing how to take care of ourselves. Of course, there was also a learning curve, like the night I tried to pop popcorn on the stove in a plastic bowl, meaning to eliminate a dirty dish.

Dar Burrows was our next-door neighbor.