Don't Tell Me It Don't Mean Nuthin'

By Reymond Jesionowski

Josef Ratajkowski received his draft notice in 1968. He had never once considered avoiding the draft by faking an illness or a medical condition. He would answer the call to serve his country but only on his terms, he informed the Sgt. sitting behind the desk at the induction center of his non-negotiable offer to become a non-weapon carrying com

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbrey Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988099437

Book preview

A Tender Heart

"Salutations—" read the greeting from the letter he received from the draft board. He had been drafted, and as a young man of age, he was mandated to render at least the next two years of his life in the service of his country. Most all of the draft-eligible boys who would answer the call to duty already knew at that time that they would most likely end up in the U.S. Army heading for the war being waged in Southeast Asia in the Republic of South Vietnam. For some, like his eventual friend AC, and many of the crusty old vets that join him every Tuesday morning nowadays at PTSD therapy group, this was the moment they had all been waiting for. A chance to prove to their uncles and their families that they could follow in their fathers’ footsteps and the footsteps of the other heroes who returned home from World War II. They too would come back from war with their chests weighted down with medals symbolizing their own heroic bravery. At the end of this war they would march down the main streets of their respective hometowns. The sky would be filled with confetti thrown in ecstasy by the cheering townspeople. Young girls would crowd the sidewalks of the parade route swooning for those dashing soldiers and sailors returning home from the war. Pride would gush from every heart and melt together in a unified bond of victory. Happy days would be here again, proving without a doubt that democracy had once again prevailed. The future of their country, and the whole world for that matter, would be overflowing with the hope of eternal peace and prosperity. Once again, like at the end of WWII, the best was yet to come.

This was their vision. They would forgo the draft and rush to the recruiting offices and hastily sign up for three-, four-, or six-year commitments. They would forever remain delighted that the two letters RA would precede the serial number on their dog tags (Regular Army . . . certainly their fathers’ army) setting themselves apart from the draftees who would feel the disdain that would be thrust upon them whenever the two letters US in front of their serial numbers might be revealed . . . implying that they most likely were not true patriots.

It seemed that countless alternatives became available to all the boys whose draft notices began appearing in their mailboxes. At that time, they were unaware that the choices they embraced might lock them in a death-defying spin from which they might never recover. Some had been counseled to do virtually anything in order to obtain a deferment. Thus, many were well aware of an incredible number of legal ways to avoid the draft altogether. Student deferments seemed to be the easiest . . . just be able to prove you were enrolled in some accredited institution of higher learning. Those with clever imaginations would concoct elaborate schemes likely to produce medical symptoms that would render them 4-F . . . unfit for military service. Some used the influence of a privileged family connection with a hubris that stated loudly, I’m just too good to be bothered with mundane soldiering.

It was never his intention to become a draft resister. Even though a few of his more politically educated friends kept encouraging him to not offer himself up as cannon fodder, their talk of an underground railroad to Canada fell on deaf ears. At that time, he was almost 100 percent politically naive and therefore hadn’t formulated any sort of manifesto to guide himself. Family pride represented a large chunk of his decision-making equation. His father had served in the navy during WWII. The majority of his uncles had served, and a couple of them continued as career military men. Even though he was not close enough to any of them to seek their counsel, he had no intention of causing them any embarrassment. Fear of imprisonment served as another huge part of his decision-making process. As of yet he had never seen the inside of a jail cell, and just the thought of it gave him the heebie-jeebies. He had no religious affiliation, and soon his dog tags would be stamped no preference as his religion of choice. So yes, he would serve but under his own specific conditions: He would become a medic and a conscientious objector. He would not carry a weapon once he landed in Vietnam. This would be non-negotiable because one other monumental factor remained and there was no getting around it. His future sanity hinged on it, and he would protect it with an unwavering commitment. He had finally come to terms with it—he had been born with a tender heart.

When he was only five years old, his grandfather on his mother’s side, Dziadzia in Polish, which to the future medic had always sounded like jah jah, walked up to him during one of the frequent weekend visits to the family farm and offered him a BB gun. A wooden-stocked Red Ryder air rifle, the finest BB gun made at that time, judging from the plastic ones that older teenagers in his neighborhood had used to terrorize him. This one was so much more impressive looking. . . . It sported blued metal parts, copper-plated barrel bands, a saddle ring, a blade and ramp front sight, and an adjustable rear sight. His Dziadzia, a diminutive, rarely smiling, small-farm-owning blacksmith, didn’t speak one word of English, so his handing over a gift to the surprised young boy initiated one of the few interactions between them. The boy didn’t know what to make of this. Being pretty sure his mother would not approve, the five-year-old glanced around himself to all sides certain that his mom would be right there to thwart the exchange, but she was nowhere in sight as the grandfather pressed what was most likely a brand-new air rifle into his hands. A delicate warm smile engulfed the face of this old man as his head nodded . . . a sure guarantee that this gift had already met with his mother’s approval. The young boy could now hardly contain himself as he embraced the remarkable rifle, thanking his Dziadzia using one of the few Polish words he knew, his pronunciation sounded like this . . . gin coo yah, translating as thank you in English. Out of nowhere his mom showed up with a look on her face that expressed an intense displeasure. She and her father exchanged words in Polish that led the boy to believe he would soon be handing the precious BB gun back, but before that could happen his Dad turned the corner from around the small barn with his Uncle Mick. Uncle Mick was the easiest-going among his mom’s seven brothers, always smiling and joking, and he had a way with the boy’s mother. Before long the boy was walking away with the air rifle in his hand following Uncle Mick behind the barn for some impromptu air gun shooting lessons.

This is how he remembered it. It was vivid, just as clear as the life-changing episode that would happen six years later, marking only the second time he would touch that BB gun. Now at seventy years old he’s not that concerned about the authenticity of old memories. Maybe some of them are just family folklore. Regardless, they are undeniably a part of the fabric sewn together with countless other life experiences that permits him to keep striving forward . . . totally believing the words of the song he and his wife share as their own. They would whisper these words into the other’s ear as they slow dance together each and every time Someone Like You by Van Morrison would fill the airwaves. . . . Indeed, he was thoroughly convinced, The best is yet to come.

Sometimes he tests the memories of his grandchildren in an attempt to determine the age that true memories actually become cemented in one’s mind. He thinks that maybe he is just trying to preserve the enchanted times he felt while being entrusted to the care of his grandchildren. In legal terms they weren’t truly his grandchildren but the children of his wife’s only daughter and her husband. He had held all three of these babies on the day they were born and had spent the last ten years caring for them in one way or another. There is not a thought that could enter his mind that could make him believe he would not remain an integral part of their lives as long as he was still alive.

The underwater triumph he and the now ten-year-old Lily, his oldest grandchild, experienced up in the HAH pool when she was just four years old is a rock-solid remembrance for her. His beautiful granddaughter’s face still lights up like a Disney character mermaid discovering the joy of a playful encounter with a school full of colorful exotic fish for the first time whenever she and her Poppy relive that magical moment. She remembers the plan they had concocted involving the actual underwater feat of which she was at that time still skeptical. The trust she had in her Poppy easily would override the at least dozens of questions her younger brother Luca would propose before even considering such a daunting task. To Lily and Poppy, it would be quite simple: They would just hold hands, take a deep breath, and submerge their heads underwater face-to-face and then open their eyes. As the bubbles that had been generated due to their quick submerging disappeared, she burst into uncontrollable laughter at the sight of her Poppy’s smiling face and wide-open eyes staring back at her. . . . Sure enough, just as her Poppy had told her, she could indeed see underwater.

Now when Lily is ten, her youngest brother Leo at six years old is calculating time by the number of sweeps until the next time he would see his Poppy or Mimi. A sweep to him was an actual full day, his sweet baby voice’s pronunciation of the word sleep that verified the number of times he would go to bed and sleep and wake up again. Little Leo so loved his Mimi and Poppy it seemed he was unable or unwilling to believe it could ever be more than four.

The BB gun had been entrusted into his father’s care even before the family emerged from the Volkswagen Beetle upon returning home from the family farm. That compact German import served as the only mode of transportation for his family of six for far too many years as far as the kids were concerned. But at that time his brother wasn’t even a year old and his youngest sister wouldn’t be born for five more years, and the bug-looking car kind of appealed to him. Concerning the Red Ryder, it was no surprise to the young boy that the gun would never actually be relinquished to him, although he always believed it was his. His father, the hard-working foreman of his own father’s large lathing and plastering business, had concealed the BB gun so well in the back vestibule that it took years for the future medic to find it. The vestibule, a common word in their household but seldom understood by any of his friends, was mainly used to house muddy shoes and boots but also had three of its walls strewn with catch-all shelves so packed that it resembled an oversized junk drawer.

His father was tall and lean with exceptionally strong hands and arms, a direct result of his job that to that day his son never really understood. The father’s jet black hair would sport a usually overdue standard haircut his wife would give him if she could get him to sit still long enough. The boy had never really studied his father’s face. His knowledge that his father had beautiful blue eyes was learned from others who would comment on the depth, clarity, and mindfulness of his Dad’s eyes, a sure sign his Dad was a deep thinker possessing a high IQ. The boy had zero memories of his father ever hugging him or kissing him on the forehead. His father showed his love by providing food, clothes, shelter, and the practical daily needs of his family.

In the years after his father had passed, he would find it much easier to find and focus on so many of his Dad’s outstanding virtues. Most all of them stemmed from what he considered his father’s unwavering integrity. According to the fathers of his childhood friends or for that matter anyone who had dealings with his Dad, he was by far the most honest man they had ever known. His father also had a temper that he rarely unleashed; he saved his anger for encounters with those exhibiting the traits of a flim-flam man. His Dad had been around the block a time or two and could easily spot a con. He passed that knowledge on to his oldest son who still hears his Dad’s words in his ear whenever he is confronted with someone possessing the dubious characteristics of a rip-off artist. The phrase Tell those jokers to get out of here! resonates as plainly as if his principled father were standing right next to him.

Once, years after he had returned from Vietnam when he was still a young man in his early thirties and the owner of a small construction business, he found himself vacillating about the purchase of some tools that he suspected were stolen, tools offered by a couple of desperado-looking characters plainly hoping to turn some quick cash in order to feed an obvious drug habit. The construction business owner could surely use these tools and the cheap asking price was tempting; nevertheless, he heard what was now his own voice barking out at the tool-selling invaders just get out of here, you jokers in what seemed in unison with what would be his proud father’s voice, the voice that would always remain ingrained in his mind guiding him on a path that he held in high esteem. Thanks, Dad, he would whisper to himself, believing he had passed another small test. Perhaps one day he too would share the description of yet another honorable phrase often used to describe his Dad . . . He’s a real standup guy, other men of similar integrity would say of him. In retrospect as the boy would be coming of age, he found it relatively easy to establish a long list of positive contributions his father had provided for his family, including numerous paths of opportunity that he and his brother and sisters squandered away to pursue their own special interests. He had offered to pay each one of his kids’ four years of a college education, but none were able complete those four years while he was alive. It wasn’t until after his death that all four of his children received a college degree or some sort of equivalent.

It wasn’t until he was eleven years old that the future conscientious objector would discover where his father actually hid the Red Ryder BB gun. It was only after secretly spying on his father that he was able to pinpoint the location of the gun’s hiding place. It was pretty much ingenious; his father had built a false panel in the wall above one of the cluttered shelves of the vestibule in the closest proximity to the back door. His father took advantage of his height in order to reach up above the shelf and unlatch the false panel to make the gun readily available to him.

The sole purpose of this rifle for the past six years had been to shoot stray dogs in the butt, those who had wandered into his father’s expansive yard to steal the canned dog food that was left out to feed the family pet Daisy, the now spayed, former puppy-making female mutt that had showed up a few years earlier. The boy had begged his Mom and Dad to let him keep the doe-eyed, face-licking lovable pup, promising to take care of her and feed her. The boy had lived up to that commitment, and Daisy became his loyal friend. A BB in the butt also served to discourage the homeless dogs from leaving their droppings behind for someone to clean up. Eventually just the mere sound of his father cocking the gun would send an unwanted dog scurrying if the dog had already experienced the sharp sting of a BB hitting its hindquarters. If the metallic sound of his father loading a BB into the chamber of the Red Ryder was unfamiliar and only caused the new food-stealing stray to inquisitively turn its head and prick up its ears before convincing itself it was in no danger, a rude awakening was in store for it. There would be no time to react from the odd boinging sound that emitted from the air rifle, signaling that his father had squeezed off a round. . . . Almost instantaneously the mutt would feel the sharp bite of a BB. This would always produce a high-pitched yelp and a quick exit off the property. The boy had never questioned this activity and had just chalked it up as the main function of the Red Ryder, but a wistful feeling fell over him whenever he heard the wounded yip from one of these feral mongrels.

For the moment he didn’t feel the urgency to scale the overly cluttered wall of the vestibule to reclaim the gift that his now deceased Dziadzia had bestowed upon him, but for some inexplicable reason he took comfort in just knowing where it was and that he had access to it. Still, he couldn’t shake the unnerving feeling that this knowledge held some kind of power over him, a foreboding, nagging premonition that would surely place him at a life-altering juncture. The ominous certainty that not so much loomed over him but even lived in the follicles of the hairs on his arms, causing these hairs to rise up at any given moment just to remind him of the approaching fork in the road from which the path he would take was already predetermined. Now he had become convinced the BB gun method of discouraging stray dogs was excessive. Since the chore of feeding Daisy was then entirely entrusted to him, he felt it was his duty to seek a less painful and eventually painless way to divert the straggly dogs away from Daisy’s feeding bowl. What finally became an aha moment involved perhaps a month of trial-and-error endeavors. He tried everything he could think of in a determined effort to convince himself that physical force was not actually needed.

The first thing he tried proved effective for a short time. It consisted of just standing on the back steps and shouting at the top of his lungs whenever he saw one of the strays enter the yard. The shrill yelling would stop the dogs in their tracks as they seemed to abandon any thoughts of advancing toward Daisy’s dish. They would divert their eyes toward the obstinate loud-mouthed boy and decide retreating might be their best option. That method worked if a dog hadn’t made it to Daisy’s feeding area yet. The young boy discovered that a stray became bolder if it had slipped past the scaring-off-by-hollering approach and a chance to swipe the remainder of the can of Rival dog food from the heavy ceramic dog dish became a distinct possibility. Those hefty brindle-colored half-breeds instinctively bared their teeth and growled while turning toward the boy, who still believed he could scare them off with a forceful vocal command. If the boy got close enough, they would leap forward and snap at him. The young guardian of Daisy’s food had already been bitten by other dogs on more than one occasion. Those unpleasant events had taught him that he had reached a point where he’d better back off and surrender. Dismayed, the boy would watch the victorious dog casually return to Daisy’s dish and lap up whatever morsel was left.

It was then it finally dawned on him, wondering why he hadn’t thought of this foolproof solution earlier. Was it this simple? After pains–takingly opening the large can of Rival dog food with the antiquated yet practical manual can opener, he would then call his pet dog to the feeding dish, empty the mushy contents into the bowl, and just stand there until Daisy finished her meal. That’s when he discovered Daisy was either unwilling or unable to polish off the whole can in one sitting. Apparently, the stray dogs were already aware of this situation that left a half bowl of prime food unattended, and it was the second helping they decided was fair game for themselves. He couldn’t keep watch until she decided it was time for her second helping. A new plan was quickly developed in order to solve that dilemma. . . . The boy would just have to designate two times of the day to stand outside and guard against any intruders. Even the most daring trespassers were reluctant to approach the boy and his midsized cocker spaniel–looking pet who now was willing to bare her teeth to help defend her twice daily meals alongside her hard-headed, determined, and dedicated companion. Although this BB-gun-less solution went unappreciated by his father, the young problem solver couldn’t help being pretty proud of himself, even though it meant standing outside twice a day during the frigid winter months in northeastern Ohio.

He’ll never be able to say what came over him on that day in late autumn of his eleventh year. He had done things more perplexing as far as his parents were concerned. There was that time when he embarrassed himself in front of the whole neighborhood to such a degree that a certifiable diagnosis of some sort of mental illness could not make the devious act excusable. Even though his parents asked him several times, What in the world possessed you to do such a thing? The mother of the young neighborhood girl who was standing there crying, wearing a mud-drenched, once sparkling-clean white First Communion dress was already convinced the blankly staring, disheveled, beyond juvenile delinquent ragamuffin surely was possessed. The mother of the hysterical girl had walked briskly through the mud puddle herself to embrace her little angel, as they stood there, mud-drenched and weeping. The father of the disgraced, uncontrollably wailing First Communion aspirant stood in total disbelief. He had coached the now vacant-faced, mud-puddle-stomping deviant for several years in Little League, and each time voted the tenacious overachiever onto the all-star team. He had known firsthand that no adult had come to champion the dazzling fielding prowess of the young self-taught, exceptional ballplayer and believed it was his duty to represent him when the fathers of less talented boys on the team lobbied heavily for their sons. The coach could not even fathom that the curious but often beguiled Little League left fielder was capable of such a misguided deed and remained mystified at the only answer the boy was able to muster when peppered with the question, Why would you do such a thing? was I don’t know. Still to this day the now seventy-year-old gentle grandfather is unable to give any plausible answer to why he had actually waited until the immaculately dressed young neighborhood girl had managed to almost completely sidestep the perpetual mud puddle in front of the Radners’ house before he ran up next to her to jump into the puddle and splash as hard as he could with both feet, sending a wave of water and mud onto the pristine white First Communion dress, ruining not only the dress but the day and his family’s reputation. Still to this day it lingers in his mind as one of the few unforgivable acts he has ever perpetrated.

§

As much as he tried, he couldn’t sweep away the feelings that haunted him when a cat, dog, or some other family pet darted into the road in front of his car when he was driving. He would slam on the brakes, swerve or do whatever he thought was possible to avoid running down any four-legged creature scurrying out of the woods or from a field. It shook him even when an occasional bird would slam into his windshield or when an indecisive wild turkey or Canada goose would switch directions at the last moment and end up squashed under his tires. He wondered why he just could not become immune to his sensitivity like so many of his friends who thought nothing of creating roadkill. Those friends would even curse at the fucking idiot, brainless animals for not knowing to just get out of the way. Of course, pet owners were at fault for allowing their pets to run free or for not having enough sense (these hapless pet owners) to keep their precious pets chained up and secured safely in their respective yards. His friends could find any number of reasons to absolve themselves of any guilt. So, he kept his true feelings to himself, thinking maybe he would eventually harden, perhaps it was his deficiency. . . . But deep down he knew he would never purposely pick off an unsuspecting groundhog minding its own business at the side of the road.

When he was much younger than driving age, he had been involved in several neighborhood scraps involving disputes of fair or foul balls in the daily backyard baseball games. Safe or out during a routine play, had the tag been applied? did the runner miss the bag? Any number of questionable interference calls could become heated arguments resulting in mitts thrown to the ground, name calling, and nose-to-nose impassioned face-offs usually settled by some peacemaker negotiating a settlement determined by who walked away with the favorable decision the last time in order to quickly expedite the situation and get on with the game. Still there was the occasional hothead who couldn’t just walk away and found it necessary to shove the nearest and smallest opponent with enough force to send him on a collision course with the ground. In his neighborhood this would prompt immediate one-on-one retaliation. . . . The closest kid to the physical altercation would hurl himself on the attacker—they were seven-, eight-, nine-. and ten-year-olds who hadn’t graduated to fistfights yet, so the contest could best be described as a roll around on the ground free-for-all. The loser would be the one who was made to call out uncle, having found himself in a painful wrestling hold with no foreseeable escape.

Attempts to describe the young towhead’s physical appearance would involve some far-reaching depictions that would eventually conclude in a picture of his weak-postured scrawniness. Nevertheless, he knew that he was fairly adept at this kind of backyard horseplay. His Uncle Mick, who was at that time a drill sergeant stationed at Fort Knox, Kentucky, had shown him a few nifty moves that the sergeant had taught to his basic training recruits. The scrawny towhead had not been named after his favorite uncle; instead he had been given the name of his mother’s firstborn brother, reflecting the Polish spelling, Józef. It would not be until his later years that he would allow certain close friends to address him using his full first name. . . . For the majority of his life he would just be known as Joe. Uncle Mick’s family and Joe’s family would get together when the drill sergeant was on leave. Behind his sister’s (Joe’s mother’s) back Uncle Mick would show the young lad a few quick and highly effective takedowns, nothing too nasty, followed by some sort of reverse arm wrenching that even the most stubborn local ruffian would find too painful to resist, forcing him, the ruffian, to concede while simultaneously plotting out a hellish revenge to be dished out later to appease the embarrassment of being overpowered by this wiry, less than average, unworthy opponent. It was apparent that the future conscientious objector medic considered this backyard preteen rolling around wrestling as a sort of rite of passage. Still he felt uneasy inflicting enough pain on even the bulliest of the neighborhood cohort to make them submit and cry uncle. More and more he found himself avoiding the situations that might involve a physical altercation.

Now at seventy years old he finds himself reminiscing about weekends spent at the farm of his maternal grandparents. He marvels at the vividness of these ancient memories; he has no doubts that they are true. In his mind he compares them with the also vivid memories of the decades of despair following his tour in Vietnam, those drug-filled years he spent attempting to block out memories. It seemed to him the endeavors to block out memories were as bone-chilling as the memories he was trying to block out.

He had allowed himself to be sucked into the seedy world of drug addiction as a solution to eliminate the haunting recollections of a year spent as a conflicted participant in the war in Vietnam. He had to admit there were times when this approach was somewhat successful. . . . Nodding off into the painless ether of a high quality heroin buzz eased his mind into a state of total inactivity, a longed-for lifelessness, the nearly comatose nonfeeling of anything, an all-occupying space impenetrable to the series of jarring flashbacks.

Unfortunately for him there was only one fleeting moment that could even be vaguely described as pleasant using this method . . . that instant after the ritualistic preparation of what he hoped would be the perfect hit, after the hours spent procuring the substance, haggling with at least two or three sleazy pistol-armed ghettoites who somehow had wormed their way into the deal in order to get themselves a little taste. The mechanics concerning any particular dope run would include knowledge of the quality of the substance. Thus the word would be out, and the suburban junkies would risk life and limb venturing into inner-city neighborhoods in attempts to cop the primo stuff. . . . On this occasion the batch was the real deal . . . China White. Already several had ODed on it, a potent strain for sure. The then war-seasoned veteran couldn’t wait to get his hands on some.

He entered the dilapidated ten-story tenement unarmed but not intimidated: the majority of its occupants were of the strictly mind your own business variety who had already seen or heard about a previous altercation that the crazed frequent visitor from the white suburbs had had with a couple of hapless gangbangers. It was known that trying to get between him and his heroin would certainly result in some twisted scenario that was just plain not worth taking any risks. The general consensus of the low-income residents of this building was that he would never enter their building unarmed . . . surely he was packing . . . and with an item much more substantial than the Saturday night special he had so aptly appropriated from the one dim-witted assailant who had accosted him in the elevator as the other half of the duo, a meaty but slow-moving enforcer type lay writhing on the floor, the victim of a violent, forceful kick that landed precisely in his genitals followed by a quick straight-on punch to his face that most likely broke his ample nostril-flaring nose.

The former medic would do nothing to alter the misconception that he was well-armed under the dilapidated, well-worn field jacket that had become his signature at that time in his life. He would boldly enter the bug-infested elevator and ride up to the seventh floor and turn to his right to find Harry, his somewhat trusted dope dealer, waiting for him in the half-opened doorway of his apartment. Pleasantries would be exchanged as they would quickly move on to the actual dope deal. Joe remained steadfast and demanded that his portion would reflect the amount of money he was about to turn over. As usual, all went well. Harry had a sawed-off shotgun propped up near the door to give the impression to any other would-be interferees that he would certainly ally himself with one of his best customers, confirming there would be no more funny business with regard to the frequent visitor from the eastern suburbs whose presence was now defined by his statuesque carriage.

The fact that his own personal life had become more violent since his return from Vietnam just reinforced the paradox of his belief system. Even though he knew he was pushing the boundaries of rationalizing and justifying his behavior, he relied on an arcane spiritual guide that seemed to unconsciously make the choices that represented the lesser of evils. Thus the insanity of entering a ten-story slum tenement building in the inner city of Cleveland, Ohio, to spend money he had obtained while committing any number of what were usually nonviolent crimes in order to purchase a quantity of what he believed would be a bag of pure China White heroin (but could possibly be rat poison or some other mix of some lethal substance) and shoot it into his arm obviously seemed like a wiser alternative than slipping into the maddening spaces of his mind that he knew could consume him . . . long before the diagnosis of PTSD, knowledge of flashbacks, and triggers that would cement him in what was then an inescapable prison fueled by what he would later refer to as survivor guilt involving the string of firefights his platoon had been engaged in, the times he had been unable to save or rescue a comrade. . . . The screams for help, his help, as the platoon medic, which he couldn’t respond to preyed on him even more than the burnt, bloodied, maimed children and men and women, the splatter of someone else’s loss of life exploding across his face, the metallic taste of warm blood and the scent of a fresh wound, and no matter how often he has scrubbed his face in the following decades he was still unable to wash away that heinous stain.

During one particular firefight from which the exchange of fire was so heavy and nonstop and so loud he could barely hear the cries for help from a wounded squad member . . . perhaps the first victim of the surprise ambush from a well-trained and heavily armed Viet Cong unit, he still knows he would have rather bolted out under the incoming A-47 rounds in an attempt to drag back the mortally wounded Spec. 4 Zimmer, the easy-going hayseed from central Indiana farmland. The relentless crackling of the deadly Chi-com weapons prevented him from being able to see where Zimmer had fallen, but he could surely home in on Zimmer’s voice. The medic’s whole squad was pinned down, but he was sure that didn’t excuse him from doing his job, his duty. It was both 2nd Lieutenant Richards and platoon Sgt. Bill Wisner who physically restrained him and threatened him with a court martial for disobeying a direct order in a battle zone if he tried to make an effort to get to Zimmer. They were convinced Doc’s plan was certainly suicidal . . . plus they could ill afford to lose their only medic. An hour later all three of them helped load Zimmer’s dead body onto a dust-off helicopter. . . . That moment and to this very day the medic sorrowfully regrets that he didn’t just break free of the two commanders of his platoon holding him down and just make a break for Zimmer. He still believes that against all odds he might have been able to drag him back to safety. . . . If there was to be a court martial, it should have been his for dereliction of duty.

And even though these and countless other atrocities that he either witnessed or was involved in still color every day of his life, now he can rely on years of PTSD therapy to jog himself back to reality. Back then when he had first returned home, he had completely lost his equilibrium, there was no help, just comments from those who considered his fragile state a display of weakness and he should just buck up and get on with his life. In Vietnam he was surrounded by a small tight-knit band that he could depend on. They served as his more than willing protectors. It was just understood: they all had each other’s back. Not so for the soldier returning home from this war. He was on his own in his attempts to return to civilian life carrying the burden of so many recent violent tragedies. . . . Injecting a syringe full of heroin into his veins surely seemed like a logical solution.

Flush with a sizable packet of high-quality heroin, the former medic would then begin a long drive back to his safe suburban home, punctiliously maintaining the speed limit or going with the flow of traffic in order to not draw any undue attention from the cops to his conspicuously ugly but dependable hoopti. Once at home it would then be the time to divide up the stash among the small handful of desperately addicted heroin users waiting for him. This was standard procedure as this rare little band of isolated suburban hardcore drug addicts daily pooled their money together to ensure the best count. Once his portion had been divvied up—a sizable amount that included a touch more than the others’ since he had made the grueling trip to the inner-city projects and back—he would then retire to his own room to begin the procedure that he hoped would return him once again to that sacred mind-numbing place.

Now he would proceed in slow motion; there was no need to get sloppy. If this stuff was as good as he suspected, he had at least four, perhaps five, decent hits, and he would need to protect them. He fetched all his paraphernalia from its secret hiding place that he would change frequently. Everything was packaged neatly into an old compact leather garage-sale purchased Dopp kit-like pouch, easily portable if he suspected he might be shooting up at a dope-house. He much rather have preferred to get high in his own home, but circumstances could change when he had to rely on someone else’s connection if his connection had run dry or there was a possibility to cop better dope at a location that demanded a road trip. At that time there were no heroin dealers in his lily-white suburb, so that made copping dope for those seriously addicted a full-time job.

In his home no dope-shooting evidence could be left out in the open even for convenience’s sake. The preparation would take place on a glass-topped dresser that had at one time belonged to his Mom and Dad. From the small bathroom attached to his tiny bedroom he would fill a shot glass (carefully chosen because the weighted bottom would make it harder to tip over) in lieu of a taller kitchen glass or god forbid a paper cup, which was just inviting a disaster, when an accidental bump could possibly send a wave of water over the existing stash, effectively washing away any hopes of a blissful return to nihility. . . . This was another custom he steadfastly adhered to without reservation, a simple safeguard to eliminate a blood-pressure spike and clinically diagnosable full-blown panic attack. So the shot glass of water would be set on the dresser next to a spoon, a ball of cotton, a box of stick matches, and a legally purchased insulin syringe. Ceremoniously he would unfold the tin foil that held his precious stash, eyeing it up again, comforting himself that it was all he expected. He carefully sprinkled what his experience had taught him would be the perfect amount of this dirty white powder into a spoon with the handle bent back and underneath in a manner that assured him there would be no waste or accidental spillage.

He learned this spoon-bending technique from the spade cats in the projects. He learned even more time-tested dope-shooting routines from the grizzled old-timers he would run into during drug-scoring rendezvous. When he was new to this whole drug-copping scene, long before he considered himself an addict, he would marvel at the experience of these decades’ older white guys whom he kind of idolized. They were the masters who knew all the dangerous tricks. . . . It was a long list that included every aspect of the shooting-up process, including finding the multiple different veins to hit when you blew out the more easily accessible ones, how to cop if you found yourself in a not so familiar location, how to test the drug you were about to purchase, how to spot a setup for a potential rip-off, and even schemes to procure dope-buying cash involving low-risk criminality. Their vast knowledge seemed endless, and they were willing to teach him for a small pinch of his stash. He was more than willing to pay for what he considered this indispensable and valuable information that would guide him through this phase of his drug addiction in America, a far cry from the reverent townspeople and the respectable opium dens he had visited in Vietnam and Thailand. He would allow these desperate men to teach him the ropes that would prove vastly important at this point in his life . . . but frankly he didn’t foresee himself walking in their shoes ten or twenty years from then. . . . He was sure his life would eventually change for the better.

Now with the first hit of this potentially lethal pure China White resting in the spoon, it was time to draw up some water into the syringe, just a touch more than half of the syringe’s capacity, assuring that there would be plenty of empty space in the barrel to draw up all of the soon to be molten mixture. Slowly he would depress the plunger, allowing the water to blend with the white powder heroin. He had learned long ago to avoid any splashing—there could be no waste.

It was then time to strike two wooden matches, his personal preference having found them more reliable than the pack matches and less of a hassle than a lighter-fluid-filled Zippo whose wavering flame proved harder to regulate. Eventually Bic would invent a disposable lighter that would phase out stick matches, but that was years away. He would strike the two matches on the side of the box, allowing the burst of the sulfur to die down to a consistent flame before placing it under the spoon he held in his left hand, bringing the two elements occupying the spoon to a slow boil. This would only take seconds. . . . Then discarding the matches into the tin waste basket, he would gingerly place the precision bent spoon down onto the glass-topped dresser . . . far away from the still smoldering matches. Next a minuscule pinch of cotton would be pulled from the cotton ball and placed into the center of the spoon to sponge up the cherished liquid. The tip of the needle would be placed onto the tiny but expanding speck of cotton, which now served to filter out anything that might be considered impurities, as he would draw up the warm liquid into the syringe. Holding the syringe in his left hand with the needle end pointing toward the ceiling he would gently flick the barrel with the middle finger of his right hand while depressing the plunger ever so slightly until all the air bubbles disappeared, revealing a nearly full plastic device of a possible deadly dose of this ill-gotten substance.

Loosening his belt, he would quickly release it from his waist and wrap it around the bicep of his left arm, tightening it vigorously by pulling it with his teeth until the basilic vein in the bend of his elbow joint popped up to make it easier to stab it with the sharp needle. He would then have to test the accuracy of this vein-puncturing endeavor by barely pulling back on the head of the plunger with his right hand to observe if a trace of his own bright red blood would backwash into the barrel. Much to his relief the blood had appeared, saving him from a repeated piercing of his skin.

He had finally arrived at the juncture that could loosely be labeled as the defining pleasurable moment all these insanely rigorous escapades had made possible. . . . A contented smile spread across his face as he slowly depressed the plunger so that the contents of the syringe entered his bloodstream, mingling with the sensory receptors from his brain. He would return to what he imagined was the safest place on this earth or anywhere for that matter—an impervious fort of perceived nonexistence.

§

Before boarding that big sterling silver, brightly shining jet in Long Bien, surely one of the commercial 727s he and the members of his platoon had spotted from time to time flying thousands of feet over their heads as they slogged through the rice paddies and jungles of the Mekong Delta, taking home those lucky soldiers who had completed their tour, those sun-glistening dots of silver that Lightning, the tall string-bean, streetwise M-79 grenade launcher of Doc’s tight-knit squad would refer to as the the Freedom Bird, the medic had filled his pockets with handfuls of remarkably powerful downers that he was sure beyond a shadow of a doubt would ease him through what he perceived would be a minor withdrawal from the daily heroin habit he had picked up during his last month in Vietnam. Miraculously, he had somehow become one of those lucky ones ending his one-year tour. Shortly he would be flying over the heads of those of his comrades still in the jungles who would most likely be pointing up at his Freedom Bird entertaining the same similar thoughts that would be swirling in the medic’s head. All of them positively sure that all their woes would instantaneously disappear once they landed back in the World.

Back in the world was the often-used phrase by the grunts of Doc’s platoon to refer to the solid ground and the safety of the good old USA. For the vast majority of these guys it simply meant a return to their hometowns, where they would easily fit back into the old grind with family and close friends, the place that would wipe clean any agonizing memories of the brutal day-to-day existence of this bloody war.

Back in the late ’60s and early ’70s links to the rest of the world were extremely limited for those serving in Vietnam. There was an Armed Forces radio station manned by the REMFs stationed in the privileged, extremely safe, hot-running-water, flush-toileted, Vegas nightclub-type confines of Saigon or Tan Son Nhut, that would spew out the supposed current successes of the war effort in hopes of reassuring the troops presently deployed that there was indeed unending support from politicians and well-wishers in an effort to convince those out in the field, the ones really fighting the war, that an assured victory was perhaps just moments away. Grunts humping out in the jungles rarely had a chance to tune in to a radio because any unfamiliar sound could possibly alert Charlie to their whereabouts. . . .

So they relied on the stories they could suck dry from the new replacement troops just coming in country and those returning from a two-week leave back from the States, a standard procedure prior to beginning another one-year tour, to provide some actual insight as to what they could expect concerning the warm welcomes they dreamed of upon returning to their hometowns. Doc and his new fast friends, Stoney and AC, became excited and intrigued by the news pertaining to what could only be conjured up in their minds as a righteous revolution taking place back in America. Some of the stories the new guys were willing to share fueled fantasies in their minds of devastatingly beautiful, bra-less, pot-smoking hippie chicks offering free love at the huge gatherings of the growing number of antiwar rallies.

These were fantasies they had to more or less keep under their hats in order to circumvent the powerful, palpable disdain the bulk of the RA-dog-tagged, self-proclaimed genuine patriots