Legacy of War

by Ed Marohn

  Tom Reed paused and rubbed his tearing eyes. He stared back hard.

  I looked down at my notes: December 13, 2002: First Session / Tom Reed, Vietnam Vet, PTSD, VA Referral: Depression: No suicidal behavior currently observed. I jotted the newest input from Reed: Killed innocent villagers!! The pencil stopped.

  Then Reed looked toward the large plate-glass window in my seventh-floor office in the Duke Building. The December day slowly turned to dusk, its darkness encroaching the lit desk lamp, forming shadows in the room.

  He shook his head. “Maybe a hundred? I guess . . .”

  “Who were the others?” I asked.

  “The CIA agent who ordered me and a South Vietnamese colonel,” Reed said. He once again rubbed his moist eyes. “They participated. We even killed the few South Vietnamese Army troops assigned.”

  Confused, I asked, “Why the ARVN troops?”

  “To cover up what we did! I was assigned to temporary duty to the CIA and the Phoenix Program,” he said, searching for his own rationality.

  My body tightened. The Phoenix Program! My mind buzzed.

  “This memory of the massacre . . . a probable cause of your recent nightmares?” I asked, trying to ignore my thoughts of the old CIA program.

  “But why after over thirty years?” Reed asked.

  “It’s repression. The subconscious can bury traumatic experiences.”

  “God . . . PTSD . . .” His eyes dilated. “I shouldn’t give a shit about this. They are part of the fucked-up war. Fucking slant eyes.”

  The racial hostility startled me, but I pressed, “To deal with the death of any human being in war is difficult. Soldiers dehumanized the Vietnamese, called them gooks—a coping mechanism during combat. We can work through this, but you did kill civilians.”

  His detached gaze seemed to close the topic. His bigotry and hatred remained. There could be more to his story, but I hesitated to dig deeper since his own mood had darkened. He seemed unready to continue.

  “Do you feel remorse?” I asked, wanting him to accept responsibility for his actions.

  He ignored the question and said, “After Nam, I drank, did drugs. My wife left me and took our baby daughter. Did jail time. My normal nightmares come and go—seeing the body bags, dead GIs. But this nightmare of the villagers . . . started about a month ago.” His eyes seemed lifeless.

  “What triggered these new nightmares?” I tried to work around his stonewalling.

  “I . . .” He looked past me again and stopped talking.

  “What you did violated the Geneva Convention,” I said, deciding to bring sanity to the discussion. “The horrors of combat are real, but . . . we need to face our issues honestly to resolve them.”

  Reed turned toward me again and seemed to grasp what was said. He shifted in his chair. “How long does PTSD last?”

  “It usually never leaves. Time and counseling help reduce the pain though. We just need to manage it.”

  Shaking his head, tears appearing, he reached for the tissue box on the small end table, pulled out a tissue, tore it. He glared at the tissue scraps in his hand and then violently wadded the paper into a ball and tossed it into the small wastebasket next to him.

  I felt drained but repeated: “Tom, do you feel any remorse over killing the villagers?”

  Reed sat there in silence, not answering, struggling. His post-traumatic stress disorder was real. This anxiety disorder based on events in combat had messed up his life. Combat is living with death, and the fear of dying and seeing brutal death is a growing cancer. Sadly for Reed, his past thirty years had been spent dealing with his key PTSD symptoms with heavy alcohol and drug use, destroying his marriage.

  No answer came from him. I tried another path: “What caused you to think about these killings? Understanding that can help?” I waited, hoping the silence would crumble his defenses.

  A couple of minutes passed and then he said, “I was at the Salisbury VA hospital last month for evaluation of Agent Orange poisoning. I saw him there, but I couldn’t place him until I got home.”

  He stopped to take a deep breath, and it seemed as if he was mulling something over.

  “Later at home I remembered. It was Todd Ramsey, the CIA agent who had ordered me to shoot the villagers.”

  He paused as he noticed my shocked look. But I nodded for him to continue, forcing myself from thoughts and emotions about Ramsey. He continued to talk while I tried to focus. My chest tightened.

  “Anyway, when I called the VA over my new nightmares, they referred me to you. They were swamped this month.”

  I took a deep breath and said, “Tom, I read through your VA files. There was nothing in there about this event. Now I understand why you are struggling.”

  “Yeah, it just started . . .” he interrupted, and then paused.

  Unknown to him as he talked, I was trying to suppress my flashbacks of the war—of the UH-1 Huey helicopter over the jungles of Vietnam in 1970, where I confronted CIA Agent Ramsey over attempting to kill two NVA POWs. Slowly, I pushed the memory aside and returned to Reed.

  “Let’s summarize. The Ramsey encounter triggered the new nightmares. Now you’re experiencing more anxiety. Is that accurate?” I asked.

  He sat back and wrapped his arms around himself, defensively shutting out the world. He seemed confused.

  “Aw . . .” he murmured and again looked down into his lap.

  It seemed we were stalled for today.

  “OK, Tom, are we good to wrap up this session?” I looked at the clock as the hour and minute hands pointed to five. Next to it on the wall, my framed PhD in psychology stared back at me.

  He nodded, but a quizzical look appeared on his face.

  “In summation, we discussed the stressor for your current anxiety—the killing of unarmed villagers. Seeing the CIA agent, Ramsey, seems to be your trigger for the nightmares. Is this accurate?” I repeated, waiting for confirmation.

  Silence! He took his eyes away from me and sat staring out the window again. I glanced at the clock then returned to looking at Tom Reed and waited—I had no other sessions today. His body sagged a little as he brought his hands to his lap. He tilted his head. He showed indecisiveness. He raised both hands to his face and rubbed the mixture of sweat and tears. The clock ticked past five. I sat and waited. His head turned toward the door and his escape.

  He said softly, “I have to go.” Slowly he stood up.

  Confused, I said, “Remember to call if you need me.” I handed my business card to him.

  He towered over me as I remained in my chair. His hardened face formed a barrier as he pocketed the card.

  I stood up, too spent to pull more out of Reed, and walked with him to the door.

  “Any plans for Christmas?” I asked, worried about his depression tied to holiday loneliness.

  He unwrapped his arms, picking up on my concern. “I’m spending the holidays with my daughter and her family.”

  Relieved, I opened my office door. “Again, I’m available.” We shook hands and he departed. Pad in hand, I walked to my desk and sat down.

  I added to my notes: He is suppressing, using maladaptive defensive mechanisms to conceal issues over killing Vietnamese civilians.

  Closing the notepad, I sat in the partially lit, darkening room. Through my office window, Charlotte spread before me, a view I normally enjoyed in the evening. After all, I could see the Carolina Panthers’ football stadium to my left, immersed in floodlights. However, this evening was different: Tom had unknowingly forced me back to the Vietnam War, to the one incident that connected me to Ramsey.

  I picked up my old army desk nameplate. JOHN MOORE engraved into the face, all capitals, stared back at me. I massaged the oak wood like a talisman, stained dark from years of my fingers rubbing it, embedding skin oils and enriching the sheen of the wood. The silver captai
n bars, once set in the red felt square to the right of my name, had been replaced by the caduceus. My fingers continued to caress the nameplate as I thought of the war. It felt creepy that Tom Reed had unintentionally connected his past with Ramsey to my own memory of the agent.

  “John . . .?”

  I turned my head toward Sally, framed in the open doorway to my office. Nam faded.

  “Sally,” I mumbled.

  “Are you OK?” she asked, walking toward me. Reaching my desk, she leaned against it and stared down at me.

  I lowered my eyes to Tom Reed’s therapy notes on my desk, unable to explain. Reed’s killings, under Todd Ramsey’s orders, and my encounter with the CIA agent were separate events. My recall of the helicopter event yesterday seemed to be a prologue to today’s therapy session. Was this fate?

  “John, I warned you,” she said. “You should have never taken on that PTSD Vietnam Vet. Now you are remembering too much of Vietnam. Or as you say, Nam.”

  The slight scar on her chin drew my eyes.

  She hated my silence and shook her head. Not about to leave me alone, she waited, pressuring me.

  “Well, maybe Reed . . .” I dropped my eyes again. My stomach churned. I knew that I couldn’t tell her everything.

  “John, you are a good psychologist, but you are only human. I worried about you after your wife died . . . and now Vietnam flashbacks on top of her death. Don’t do this. Trauma caused by a struggling combat vet is taboo for you.”

  “OK, OK!” I leaned back in my chair. “It was just one session with Reed. You know . . . the VA backlog. Maybe I should refer him to another psychologist.”

  “That would help,” she affirmed.

  I rubbed my eyes and nodded. The room had suddenly become tense.

  “Do you need to talk?”

  I pondered, but finally I said, “No, Sally, I’m OK.”

  She straightened herself, smoothed her skirt, and walked to the doorway. “Go home, John. It’s late. Use the weekend to forget. But call me if you need that talk.”

  I frowned. “Thank you.” I looked at my watch. It showed six thirty. For a Friday, it seemed late.

  I then watched her petite body disappear down the hallway. Had I become more attracted to her?

  Taking a deep breath, I closed Reed’s folder and filed it in my desk drawer. The computer screen showed my pending email message to the VA hospital in Salisbury, confirming my inability to treat Tom Reed and referring him to several other psychologists that I knew. I clicked the send button. Ending it—sick of the war.

  The unfinished paperwork stacked on my desk would have to wait until Monday. I stood up, stretched, left my office, and headed to my place.

  As I neared my apartment, I knew I could not face staying alone this evening. I wanted noise and people tonight. I walked past my condo building and turned toward the Capital Grille on Tryon Street a few blocks away, where the more affluent Charlotteans eat, old and new money mixing. As I walked, I focused on ordering a good steak with a first-rate glass of wine and immersing into the Friday restaurant crowd. I needed to forget the CIA agent on that helicopter. And I had to erase Reed from my thoughts as well.

  I walked through the open door and Charles Riebry, the restaurant manager, looked up from his reservation book. Nodding, he greeted me with the knowing smile reserved for one of his regulars: “Good evening, John. I can seat you at the bar immediately.” His English still held a floral French accent. Physically, he reminded me of Claude Rains from the old movie Casablanca.

  The waitress had just poured my first glass of wine when Charles returned and sat down. The corner booth gave enough privacy that allowed him to relax and talk.

  “You look tired, John!” Charles said. “Something wrong?”

  “I need this drink,” I said and took a hearty swallow.

  “The wine is on the house tonight then.” He reached for the wine glass from the second table setting and poured it full. He lifted his in a toast and we clinked our glasses. Sitting back into the booth, he waited for me to talk.

  “God, will I ever forget the Vietnam War?”

  “I have the assistant manager at the desk. I am free to listen.”

  The handsome Frenchman made it easy for me to talk.

  “Wars! Such tragedies. So many people die—mostly young men,” he said.

  “I have come to the realization that there is this dark side to humans, a willingness to kill,” I said, staring at the wine glass.

  “Yes,” Charles said. He patiently waited for me to go on.

  The waitress came to our table and whispered something to him. He stood up.

  “John, I have some matters in the kitchen. When I return, we will talk more?” He reached for his glass and swallowed the remaining wine. He headed to the kitchen.

  “OK, I should order,” I said to Katrina, my smiling waitress. Her name tag welcomed me, and her cute face allowed for a pleasant distraction from today’s session with Reed. I picked up her eastern European accent, which sounded similar to my dead mother’s. She left to place my steak order as I thought of my mother, imprisoned by the Nazis, a slave laborer at a concentration camp in 1942.

  “So what concentration camp was she sent to?” Charles asked. He focused on me as he swallowed his wine. His nods pushed me to continue.

  Between bites of food, lubricated excessively with good wine, I revealed my childhood.

  “She went to a camp near Grajewo, Poland, after the Nazi SS arrested her in her hometown of Kiev, Ukraine. Not being Jewish saved her from extermination, but the Nazis still forced her to work at a German munitions plant near the concentration camp. Slave labor freed many Germans to fight.

  “There she met a French Foreign Legion officer, also a slave laborer, arrested by the Vichy government, banished for his opposition to the Nazis’ puppet government. Anyway, they became lovers. And I was conceived in early 1945, just before the war ended.” I shrugged.

  “Yes, the Vichy government betrayed France. So you were not born in the concentration camp?”

  “No, as the Russian Army invaded Poland, driving the Germans back to the west, the camp was abandoned by the SS guards, which allowed many of the prisoners to escape and flee westward too. The Ukrainian prisoners feared the Russians more than the hated Germans who had imprisoned them. My mother and her lover became separated then.

  “She made her way, carrying me, into Eastern Germany, where Russian soldiers gathered her with others around September of 1945 and scheduled her to be shipped back to the Ukraine or Russia. The war had ended in May, and Europe was smothered with refugees, displaced persons from the Eastern countries now occupied by the Soviet Union.”

  Charles studied me, full of questions. “First of all, we are both French, oui?”

  “Well, yes, but I also have a Ukrainian blood line.” I grinned.

  “That is a minor point, my friend,” he said, laughing. “But then how come you are not living in Ukraine or Russia?”

  “As luck would have it, or maybe my fate, US Army medical personnel stopped the train my mother and other Ukrainians and Poles were on and pulled off all the pregnant women. So in a way, carrying me saved her from being forced to return to the Soviet Union’s control. She ended up in an American army field hospital where I was born. Then eventually, while living in a displaced person camp in Germany, we were sponsored by the Baptist Church in the States to immigrate there.”

  “And then you became an American.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “But you never knew your real father?”

  “Never. In fact, my mother revealed this entire story to my wife when I served in Nam, with the promise not to tell me until I had returned from the war. I guess they worried that I would lose focus on staying alive,” I said, grinning, feeling relaxed. “Thanks for listening. I feel better.”

  Cha
rles poured the last of the wine from a newly opened third—or probably a fourth—bottle into our glasses. I studied the table; the empty wine bottles glinted from the lounge lights. The restaurant had closed for the evening, and final cleaning surrounded us.

  Charles looked at his watch then put his hand on my shoulder. “It is midnight, John. But you must know that Vietnam is your past, your legacy. However, you need to focus on the future. Serving in the war, you have developed a connection to the land and people,” he said. “However, now you need to get to bed. We’ll talk more about our French bloodlines. But now we had too much wine and I need to finish closing. Do I need to call a taxi for you?”

  “No, I can walk the few blocks to my condo. Goodnight, Charles. Thanks for listening.” I stood up and felt the wine buzz kicking in, balancing myself with my right hand on the table. At the door we shook hands, and I eased out onto the street. Some nighttime revelers passed me, laughing off their night of drink.

  I once again felt lonely and sorry for myself.

  Charlotte, Saturday,

  December 14, 2002

  Todd Ramsey looked perplexed, his face inches from mine as we stood on a helipad at Cam Ranh Air Base. Ten feet from us, our parked helicopter stood as a backdrop while the MPs hauled off the two NVA POWs.

  “You don’t know what you fucking did to me!”

  He looked devastated. No hatred toward me, but instead a worried fear. I started to say . . .

  “Country road, take me home . . .”

  I sat up. The bed was disheveled around me. My brain, groggy and aching from the wine last night, struggled. I wiped my moist forehead before I turned to the radio alarm clock. Sharp bolts of pain shot through my neck. John Denver blared at me from the radio as I focused on the digital screen. Its red numbers displayed 6:00 a.m. Set to the normal schedule, the radio obediently woke me.

  I jammed the radio off and tried to clear my head. I needed to get a grip about the war and forget that past. Ramsey existed as one part of the war for me, but like wet snow stuck to a wool coat, I couldn’t shake him.