DESTINY OF A WAR VETERAN

By Sal Atlantis Phoenix

Vietnam War Veteran Joe is tempted to participate with 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: Gotham Books
• Release date: Jul 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798887750132

Book preview

SalAtlantisPhoenix_DestinyofAWarVeteran_FrontCover.jpg

DESTINY

OF A

WAR

VETERAN

by

Sal Atlantis Phoenix

Gotham Books

30 N Gould St.

Ste. 20820, Sheridan, WY 82801

https://gothambooksinc.com/

Phone: [phone]

© 2022 Sal Atlantis Phoenix. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by Gotham Books (July 27, 2022)

ISBN: 979-8-88775-012-5 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-88775-013-2 (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

No part of this story or any of its literary or creative attributes may be reproduced or rewritten or transmitted in any form without permission in writing from the author.

The events in the story are fictitious. The resemblance of characters to any individuals, living or deceased is coincidental.

Fiction 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

CHAPTER 1

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, rolled back and stretched out 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 taught, but 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 the 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 the 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 to exit. 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, friendship were mingled with arrogance and animosity. It was symbol of human relations. The subway rolled on, shaking and swaying, the steel wheels gliding and screeching on the tracks; the operator announcing the stations that were closed and which trains to transfer to get to certain destination, and 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 in to the car rolling their heavy suitcases and expecting cooperation with the urban dwellers. They were ignored and got cold look if they asked for a seat.

Joe got out of 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?

9/11, said the owner and looked at Joe thinking that he was another old worker lost in his daily routine job.

Joe strolled through the huge atrium looking at the exhibitions in the windows of various commercial shops, walked into the elevator of Tower II, and got off at the eighty-first floor where his new office was located. He stopped by the information desk and asked the attendant 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 unenthusiastic, and accompanied him into a large office. The office was divided with low-level cubicles and 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 telephony with the main office, and exchanging information. Joe waited for the chief administrator call him to his office and discus the political events in the Middle East and evaluate his analysis and proposal for strategy that would ease the tension in the region. He was ignored.

Joe looked out of the window and viewed the lean Manhattan squeezed between New Jersey and the Long Island and defined by the Hudson and Harlem Rivers. He got up from his chair, approached to the window, and stood up still, arms crossed, looked 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 tear falling down her eyes. Then the statue began to succumb into 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 towards 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 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 the Tower 1 and penetrated through; black clouds busted into the sky and flames swelled at the surface of the collusion, and pieces of the torn building began flying in the air and Tower II trembled with the sound of explosion.

Shafiq, you bastard, screamed Joe at the pilot. I should have killed you in Viet Nam instead of the Viet Cong guerillas!

Chaos ensued in the office. Joe’s coworkers rushed to the window. Alarm began to sound; personnel in the office began rushing to the emergency exit, pushing, shoving, toppling and stepping over each other. Joe looked out of the window again. He saw another plane approaching at 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, 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 legs; his whole body felt in the hands of angels. He looked up and saw angel 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 the Heaven. Joe looked at the Deities with gratification and raised in hand to reach them and said, Thou shall carry me to Heaven.

Deities held Joe’s hand, with desperate look and said, We shall by pass Heaven and Hell and pierce through the universe and will deliver thou to 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 Moslems and Hindus and Buddhists and believers of all faith. No matter who they are, the humanity is relentless for destruction for the sake of power and egotism. We won’t leave you in universe to be in the mercy of the humanity.

Leave me in the Heaven, Joe pleaded.

We created the delusion of Heaven and Hell to inspire the humanity to implement virtue and eliminate vice. We failed 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 the history the humanity manipulated the ideals of the Deities and the concepts of freedom, democracy and equality of the 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 the 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 the 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 faded into the darkness.

*****

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

CHAPTER 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 up through the pier. Joe gazed upon the passengers frozen in the elusive realm of the 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 that 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 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 apprehensive expression on her face. Memories of a homeland vineyard were etched in her heart. She sold the vineyard to pay for the journey to America.

Shoulders 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 that 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 were diminished and forgotten 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 quiescent 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 sun shine 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 to make 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 to four feet 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 belittled 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 relate to my mother’s side, Naskarisis, Chou, and Becker . . . They must relate 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 the City Hall and submitted a petition to change his name to Ethnic Joe.

*****

Joe returned back to the city on the last ferry. The boat was overcrowded with tourists who spent extra time in the museum to scrutinize memorabilia and