INVASION OF THE MIND SNATCHER
The village stretched out in front of us like a thousand before. I was not the point man, but backup. We were about to fan out and come to the village from all sides.
The guys were not tense, because we didn't expect any VC (Vietcong) to be around. After all, this was a free fire zone and nobody should be in the ville anyway.
It all happened like it was supposed too; and, for a moment, my mind drifted. Have to stay focused in the Nam or your ass could buy the farm.
Tom and Rex moved to my left and right.
Tim Bowman, our squad leader shouted, “Move your ass!”
Bowman and I got off on the wrong foot, but it was just a “cherry” (just made it to Nam) sort of thing. I was scared shitless and half-listening when I was supposed to pull tiger and Bowman picked up on it.
"Jacobson, you better pay fuck attention or I'm going to be burying your ass post haste.”
I made up my mind right then not to like the asshole, but it didn't last long because respect took over. Bowman was serving his third tour in Nam. He could have been a REMF (rear echelon motherfucker) doing some cushy supply job, but would have nothing of it. “A boonie rat was his forte,” he said
We were in position and made our way through the ville and came across a few trinkets lying around and rats feeding on some spilled rice. I often thought about the poor Vietnamese villagers-sucking it up, leaving their homes, going about their way. It didn't take me long to get past that, however. A few VC encounters and I knew those loving villagers, that I felt sorry for, were killing us.
We worked our way through, wary of booby traps that were laid down by the VC and former villagers. Let the complacent Americans get a few leftover love offerings.
"Burn it down," Sergeant Bowman said. The Tim man had spoken and we started torching.
“Come on,” he said to me. “I think there are a couple of spider holes we need to handle.”
Spider holes were holes that the VC dug in villages to hide and keep supplies in order to elude the Americans. It was standard practice to blow them by throwing in grenades to neutralize the enemy who might be hiding.
Bowman didn't like the idea of “grenade first”, so we checked out the holes before causing any explosion. In his first tour, someone said he'd blown a spider hole and killed some kids. He said “ No way!”
I didn't like going down in the holes but didn’t protest often because Bowman went first. Both of us were about 5'8". Little fuckers, as he said. I held his feet and he'd go headfirst into the hole. He'd then signal whether or not it was a large one. If he couldn't see, he'd come out and then throw in a percussion grenade just in case. This could definitely damage the hearing; but, in his own mind, it was just precautionary and wouldn’t kill anybody.
With this “spidey,” as we often called them, Bowman crawled as far as possible and then signaled me to drop him. I went in behind with a flashlight. Suddenly I was on a carefully crafted dirt floor. It was hard; and, as our eyes adjusted, we could see what looked like a small apartment. A tunnel was obvious toward the back and two others jutted off from that.
Bowman looked at me and said, "Hey boy” (a term of affection), “We might have hit the mother lode.”
Want me to get some more of the guys,” I said.
"No, hang on, let's check this out.”
I followed him on hands and knees through the first connecting tunnel. The tunnel widened into a small area or room. Our eyes were still adjusting. Lined all along the wall were stacks of… I couldn’t tell…
Tim had pulled a bunch of papers from the stacks. I grabbed a hand full.
“This is money. U.S. Dollars!”
Tim didn’t say a word. I shined my light all around the room, money was stacked like cord wood. Hundred dollar bills- looked liked millions of them.
I let out a physical gasp.
Tim was saying underneath his breath, "I'll be damn. I guess we ought to stuff our pockets,” he said. “Damn, what is this?”
It seemed like we just stood there in disbelief for what seemed like eternity. Suddenly, we heard someone from topside hollering, sounded like the Lieutenant.
"Everything alright down there?"
“Fine,” Tim yelled up.
“Guess we better get some help”, Tim said. He stared at the money as though calculating how much there was.
It was all along the sides, stacked up almost waist high on three sides of the room. Tim was still shaking his head.
“What the hell. OK, go get the Lieutenant.”
I'd sure like to be hanging out somewhere with a pocketful of money, I thought. Funny, what you think at times.
I started backing out of the hole and made my way over to the opening and yelled up, “Here I come.”
Some hands were pulling on me, and suddenly, all hell broke loose. I could hear the pop, pop of mortars falling. They were raining down on us like thunderbolts and everybody was running for cover. I felt like I was on fire. I knew I'd been hit, but was laying down fire. I crawled toward cover so I could tell someone to get Sergeant Bowman out of the hole. Then everything went dark.
The doctors told me later that I was riddled with shrapnel, one piece lodged into the frontal lobe of my brain.
I woke up briefly in Phu Bai at the field hospital and they were picking iron out of my body. The next time it was Da Nang, maybe, and then Japan, I think. Even to this day, it’s a little fuzzy.
It seemed like hours; but, in reality, it was days and then finally I was at Letterman Army Hospital in San Francisco.
My recovery was pretty swift and I will always give credit to the San Francisco Bay area. The beauty of San Francisco was and is unsurpassed. If I had ever thought of how heaven would look, I was there.
My Dad surely didn’t feel that way. He said once that every crazy in the world had shown up in San Francisco. Maybe I was one of them.
San Francisco was a dream town to be in for someone like myself. I hung out, took in everything that was available. I could go for long walks and sit out by the Bay at a place called Crissy Field, part of the Presidio Army Post. It was great and I thought: This could be a dream assignment.
My folks came to visit; along with my old girlfriend, whom the folks thought was ideal for me. I don’t guess she told them that I’d quit writing about half way through my time in Nam.
But, no matter, Vietnam had changed me and I didn't want to talk too much about anything, especially the war. This was good because nobody wanted to hear about it.
I got a thirty day convalescent leave. Instead of going home, I stayed in Frisco. I call it Frisco because the locals didn’t like it and it was my way of getting back at them for disparaging Vietnam veterans. Motherfuckers.
I ran into an old buddy at Letterman. He wasn’t in my platoon or squad in Nam, but it was great to see him. He told me that Tim Bowman had been killed. He didn’t have any details, but was pretty sure it was true.
Tim dead? I could hardly believe it. I moped around for a few days and couldn’t help but wonder about the money.
For some weird reason, the money incident had burned its way into my memory. I told my buddy about it and he said he'd never heard of such a thing. And, anyway, it didn't make sense. What would the VC want with American money and why would they hide it in some spider hole? I guessed my buddy was right. Next case. Pass the Bud.
I was stationed in Germany, then Korea where I first ran across the counterfeit money. I was heading up the Intel section for Combined Field Army, one of these made up commands that the military often invents but never admits.
The Koreans were in charge, but they always had American advisors, or, in this case, an integrated staff. They ran intelligence and pretended that we were poised for an imminent invasion by the North Koreans. Most of the staff never voiced it, but thought that scenario was very unlikely.
The possibility for invasion made for
intriguing Intel--something for the Americans to talk about, fear, and perhaps for some to think highly improbable. (My belief is that we should have been out of Korea years ago. We are wasting our money and military resources, but that’s another short.)
In one intelligence briefing, the Korean briefer distributed some twenty and hundred dollar bills. In fact, he had wads of them; and, instantly, I was back in Vietnam.
I immediately thought of Sergeant Bowman and the cache of money we left behind. It always made me smile and my imagination ran wild. What if we had figured out a way to haul those millions out of Vietnam and get it back to the states? How did it get to Vietnam? Whose money was it? What did Ho plan to do with it?
We were briefed that the North Korean soldiers had built elaborate tunnels where they had hidden a stash of counterfeit American money.
It was stacked in the same peculiar way that I had seen in Vietnam. We looked and examined. The ability to detect the money as counterfeit was impossible to the naked eye.
The North Koreans had flawlessly developed the best counterfeiting plates in existence that went back for years to the beginning of the Korean War in the 1950s. Why? Well, there were many theories. Flood the American economy and bring it down or dramatically cripple it? Cause trading partners to lose confidence in the dollar? Get it to other countries to trade on commodity and possibly replace the dollar as the monetary measure around the world?
It was a known fact that North Vietnam had in their possession billions of counterfeit American greenbacks. It was not known if they had ever used them.
I was speechless. Had Sergeant Bowman and I possibly stumbled on counterfeit money? Maybe. I felt some relief because at least it could have happened, even if I was the only one who would believe it.
I shared my story with a few of my buds. They smiled and gave me the nobody's home look.
The Army reassigned me to Oakland Army Base with almost a year left to serve. It was just where I wanted to be. I was in a medical holding company and had to go back to Letterman for a lot of physical therapy.
The chain of command couldn’t keep up with me and I was having the time of my life. San Francisco was becoming a mecca for gay men and that meant more and more women were looking for guys like me.
Eventually, however, the 1st Sergeant caught up with me and I had to begin doing a few details--difficult assignments like answering the telephone and pulling CQ (charge of quarters—guy in charge of the barracks at night).
Vietnam War protests were going on constantly at Berzerktley (University of California at Berkley) as we called it. I had already had a couple of words with a few of the protesters. At that time, I was mostly interested in getting laid, but couldn’t tolerate protesters’ disrespectful comments toward my Viet Vet buddies. Motherfuckers.
I fantasized killing one or two. The war had changed me. I didn’t want to think about it, but my idea of fun was not putting up with some fucking students saying “draft dodging was the same as bullet dodging.”
Captain Smith was my commanding officer in the medical holding company. He was one cool character. Half his face had been blown off from either a booby trap or a grenade. I never asked. The more you were around him, the less you noticed. He hated the war and was constantly railing on the politicians. One day out of the blue, he said to me, “I think you ought to go to OCS (officer candidate school).”
"Give me a break."
“I'm serious. You kind of would like to go back to Nam wouldn’t you? Don't go back as a grunt, but an officer and then sort it out.”
Captain Smith and I had long talks. I was more messed up from Nam than I wanted to admit. And always felt guilty. Here I was living it up and my buddies were dying.
During lots of those days I thought of Tim Bowman. What would he tell me to do? Yes. I decided to apply for OCS.
I put in the paperwork with all the endorsements and signed it with the idea that I'd have to re-up for a couple of more years. What's the big deal?
These were tough times and yet the best of times too. I was drinking and enjoying women, and I'm going back to Nam. Going back gave me an even more “devil may care” attitude.
Before I knew it, I was on that big iron bird heading out. I will never forget. I flew out of Travis. By this time I was a buck sergeant and stayed drunk a lot.
I had to wait a day at Travis and spent most of it in their make shift jail for slugging some Air Force weenie who pretended he knew something about the Nam. The asshole had flown into Tonsonhut Airport and went to the club and called that Vietnam. Only grunts got my respect.
Fortunately, someone decided to get me on the plane, so I was out of Travis the next day. I must have reeked of alcohol because a couple of MPs literally brought me to the plane.
The flight attendant who was quite a “babe” helped me clean up in the plane bathroom. I stole a kiss and propositioned her for membership in the mile high club.
"You're a crazy GI," she smiled as she handed me some mouthwash and waited to usher me to my seat.
I must have slept all the way to Guam as we were deplaning to stretch our legs when I woke up. The same flight attendant kindly escorted me off the plane.
It was so hot-sultry as my Mom would say. We landed in Vietnam and I felt like I was living a dream. Fortunately, I avoided most of the orientation and went straight to repo depo (replacement detachment) as we called it.
I was assigned again to the 101st and figured that I'd get a squad. I hung around Bien Hoa for a few days at the club drinking because nothing was happening. Then I was to report to the Orderly Room.
“Fuck, if they are going to put me on some shit burning detail,” I said to myself as I made my way to the Orderly Room.
"You must know somebody sergeant, the lst Shirt said. “Your orders came through for OCS. Sarge, you are headed home.”
“What! I just got here.”
“Hey, don't ask me plus don't be crazy, you're out of here standing up.”
“Damn,” was all I could say.
I stood outside for a moment with the orders in my hand. I still felt the old paralysis of fear, the uncertainty that comes with being back. It is not a fear of dying; it is the feeling of loss of control. I had only been back in Nam a few days, but talking to the vets headed back “up country,” the same feeling was there.
The war had sputtered and the thought that I was doing something, even something noble, had faded.
Vietnam was winding down. Some of the 101st were leaving, a treaty had been signed. It's over.
“Damn,” I said again.
Little did I know that 20,000 more GIs would die before we finally left with our tail between our legs.
Fort Benning was the same. The first thing I knew I was back in the States and in a familiar place. I loved it and there are a thousand stories wrapped around Benning.
I was already a paratrooper and in fair shape. Daily I got better by mostly tuning out the DIs (drill instructors) and their bullshit.
All of us in my OCS class had pretty much the same experiences, and strangely, we all seem to meld together. My competitive juices kicked in and then it was Ranger School and another one or two bullshit schools and I was on to way to my first assignment at Fort Bragg in the 82d Airborne.
I woke up one morning and had been in eight years. I could hardly believe it and my folks even less. How did this happen?
Along the way, I acquired a wonderful wife which is one of those great Benning stories. Think An Officer and a Gentleman. Almost like that. She was great and absolutely devoted. Two kids later, here we were.
It was twenty years in the Army and time to didi mal (Vietnamese slang for check out). It was not that I didn't like the military; but, to be honest, I was kind of bored with it.
I'd had all the jobs to get me in a position to make Colonel, but I didn’t think I would. The "ring knockers" (West Point graduates) were too prevalent in the cold war military and a guy who
was an OCS graduate probably couldn’t make it. I had a good career, raised my family; and yet, even though, a Lt. Colonel, I needed to make more money. I had kids to educate.
Vietnam was still in my soul and I hardly went a day without thinking about it. I stayed connected with one of my buddies and made several reunions.
As I look back, I told the money story often. My buddies and I had an agreement that when we were together each person would be allowed to tell just three war stories. Only vets wanted to hear them.
When I told them the Sergeant Bowman money story, most just shrugged. In fact, many of us told Sergeant Bowman stories. His legacy grew and grew.
When I retired, I took a job with a beltway bandit lobbying for Vietnam veterans rights. It was a noble cause, but there was always a price to be paid. Lobbying was mainly bullshit and ripping off “Uncle Sam.” The money was good, but there were too many generals hanging onto these jobs. The state of denial with these guys amused me. Yes General, these contractors hired you for your good looks and not for your military contacts. I often mused about it all and truly believed that most of the retired generals were good and honorable men if not all that realistic.
I started school on the old GI bill; it didn't pay for all my expenses, but was OK. I already had one masters that I had received while attending the Command and General Staff College. I thought I might want to get into teaching so another one would definitely add to my resume´.
I earned my second masters, moved to Atlanta, and landed a job teaching at a Community College. I also got a second job at a security firm. Security was just in its infancy and retired military personnel were in demand.
One day I was sitting in the college lab crunching some numbers. The college had received a grant to do some research into how data was stored, whatever that was. I was trying to figure out how to get one of my own interests into the study.
I had taken the Myers Briggs Type Indicator, a Jungian based personality instrument, when I was in the Army and gotten hooked on what it could all mean. I had lots of data in terms of tests taken. I had tested 10,000 soldiers in the 82d Airborne and wanted to get the profiles of what type of personality might join the Army and become a paratrooper. It was more a hobby than anything else, because I didn’t have a clue what I’d do with the data when I got it.
The TV was on in the lab. A reporter comes on and interviews this guy, a billionaire type, who announces his son is taking over as CEO.
I glance at the TV and suddenly, I am mesmerized. It is Sergeant Bowman. No way. He's older, like all of us, but he has this unbelievable resemblance to the ass-kickin’ sergeant in Nam.
When the interview was over, the reporter said, "Timothy Bowman is one of the richest men in America and very reclusive, so it was quite a coup for us to get this interview.”
I almost fell out of my chair. I thought he was dead.
The stacks of money we discovered in that spider hole flooded my memory. I was floored—a ghost from my past had surfaced.
I could not believe it. It had been well over forty years and I had not heard from Sergeant Bowman. I was told he was dead or I would have been looking for him. At least you would have thought that I'd seen or read about one of the richest men in America.
To say I was flummoxed would be the word of many a day. I could not get Tim off my mind. First of all, I had to verify it was him. His announcement that his son was immediately taking over as CEO of Bowman Enterprises confounded my curiosity.
Immediately, I googled to get more info on Tim Bowman, the former Sergeant Bowman.
Tim Bowman started out becoming one of the richest men in America by investing in convenience stores. His holdings simply grew until they became so varied that they even covered chiropractic clinics, HMOs, etc. The list that Google provided was endless.
For the last couple of years, however, Tim had gradually slipped into dementia. There had even been a previous news conference where he, much like former President Reagan, announced that he was slipping away.
Wow. I could hardly believe it.
For days, I was consumed with research and couldn't get the fact that Sergeant Bowman was alive. I didn't dare mention the money to anyone. At this stage, who would care anyway?
Could the former Sergeant Bowman have used all that money from Vietnam? How could he have gotten it out of the country? Was it counterfeit? Where had he been all these years? Why had he not become involved with other Vietnam vets and made himself known? Could it be because he didn't want anybody to come with questions and especially me?
I am being ridiculous.
Bowman had settled in South Carolina. I thought he was from Tennessee. I couldn’t remember. Then, out of the blue as I was searching the “net” and newspapers, just by accident, I happened upon the obituaries. His wife had just died and the funeral was in a couple of days. I decided to go.
It was a typical Southern event, a big gigantic funeral, “ShowTime”, an extravaganza. This funeral was not my style, but it works for lots of people on some level and I affirm that. It is what I would interpret as a “show.” And, an important part was showcasing a full body burial.
A big wake happened the night before the funeral. People gathered at the funeral home to view the body, to shake people's hands, hug, and offer condolences.
The next day was the funeral. The minister spoke and then several others offered eulogies. The choir sang several hymns. The funeral lasted more than an hour and the burial at the cemetery lasted another forty-five minutes with more speakers and eulogies. After the burial we went to the church fellowship hall for a reception and to offer more condolences.
Food was everywhere. This is surely one of those Southern things. Eating solves it all. I can remember as a youngster coming in from school and my Mom, immediately saying, “How’s your day?” If met with the slightest bit of negative possibility, you had to eat. Food solved all problems. At a funeral, food was a necessity
This funeral was merely the Southern way for the farewell. It was the “God bless you on your journey, Sergeant.” It was the way funerals were done where I was raised.
When I die, however, I don't even want anyone to know I've "hit the trail" for weeks. Then, I want my family and friends to have a party with lots of food and drink and storytelling. Now, that's a send off (to me). Oh well... If I had some of that money that Tim and I found in Vietnam, I could surely make that happen. I am obsessing on this. Have to stay focused. I'm here to pay my respects.
I see Sergeant Bowman at the reception and really don’t know what to say.
"Hi Tim, or should I call you Sergeant Bowman?" He looks at with a blank stare.
Someone immediately says, "I’m sorry, do we know you?” A handsome fortyish son I guessed.
"Your Dad and I were in Vietnam together."
There was a moment of awkward silence when it looked like nobody knew what to say or do.
"I saw the notice in the paper and thought that I should at least pay my respects although I haven’t seen Sergeant Bowman since Vietnam.”
“Thanks so much for coming”, this very attractive woman said. “I am one of his daughters. To be honest, we don't know very much about Dad's time in Vietnam. However, we’d like too.”
“Sis, this is not quite the place”, the son said.
“Please know that I am very sorry,” I said and walked off, dismissing myself.
I had read lots about dementia or Alzheimer’s and knew that, for many families, coping with the mysteries of the mind could be devastating.
There are times when those afflicted can be functional just like they did before the onset of the disease. The sadness rests in the fact that just as they can participate five minutes before in an activity or engage in conversation, five minutes later, they can’t.
Lots of research has been done, but unless one has lived with dementia which Alzheimer’s is under the dementia umbrella; still, even with a family member, it was almost i
mpossible to understand. The family members want to act as though the afflicted is the same person he or she has always been; when, in fact, they aren’t. They want to do what is best, but most of the time end up doing what is best for them which is understandable.
My wife’s father had dementia or Alzheimer’s; and, for a couple of years, in its full blown stage, I watched and assisted if I could. The mysteries of it, I kept saying to myself and shaking my head.
My father-in-law knew some things and was unresponsive to others. It was as though there was this enormous struggle in his mind to remember in order to be the person he had always been. Most of the time, the struggle crashed and burned.
The pain was more for his family than for my father-in-law. In many ways, he was much better off. The recent memory of his wife dying and the moving to the Alzheimer’s unit of the Care facility was not so much a conscious reality as simply an act.
His family struggled to “get it.” Intellectually they knew that this was simply the way it was; but, in their guts, they were torn apart.
I felt so badly for Sergeant Bowman’s family as I stared across the room at one of my heroes. For me, he would always be my squad leader in Vietnam. Now he is a successful businessman, a former CEO, perhaps a billionaire, who has Alzheimer’s. I was sad and immediately processed the idea that this disease had no respect of persons. What about former President Reagan?
Somebody put a cup of coffee in my hand and I casually watched Sergeant Bowman. He acted normally, just like a grieving widower and loving father.
How could his family not know about his time in Vietnam? What about the money? How could he not have told that story to someone? I was lost in thought. Why had he not connected with his Viet Vet buddies through the years? I could understand it for awhile. Vietnam Vets were hardly in vogue for years and most of us didn't talk about being in the war.
All of us knew the scenarios. We were blamed for the war and were identified with the debacle. But things had turned around. Now we were also heroes and most of us had pride in having fought two wars: one in Vietnam and one at home and surviving both.
Sergeant Tim Bowman was a great soldier. I almost worshipped him as did most of us who were with him in Nam. To end his life with Alzheimer’s… Maybe he might have been better to have bought the farm in Vietnam like I thought he did.
I picked out a gaggle of people standing around talking and decided that I'd wade in. I walked up to a rather portly man, well, most of them were portly.
Damn, obesity seems to be a way of life here in the South and I could hardly believe that I was in a room with this many fat people. I figuratively slapped myself for letting this thought into my head. Thank God for my physical fitness training in the Army and keeping it up after retirement.
.
"Excuse me, I was an Army friend of Mr. Bowman and haven't seen him for years, did you know him very well?"
The portly man looked at me strangely and hesitatingly said, "He was a wonderful friend and great church goer.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful; I haven't seen him since Vietnam. Did he ever talk much about it”?
“Never knew he was in the service,” the portly man said.
I kind of grunted. Deepened mystery. "Do you know of anybody who might know whether he ever talked about it?”
I decided to lie a little. “Our vets group has one of its goals to locate former soldiers and see if they received all their Army medals.” This was partially true. What I had discovered about folks who didn't know anything about the military was that there was something intriguing about army decorations. And, for God's sake, the military loved them: I often joked, like the Boy Scouts," we military types love patches and badges.”
I glanced around and kind of didn’t know where to take this. What was I doing anyway?
As I was heading toward the door, the daughter called to me. “Please, I’m sorry I didn’t get your name.”
“Jacobson,” I said.
“Please, Mr. Jacobson, I do hope you’ll visit my Dad at the Care facility.”
Without waiting for a response, she continued, “This has been very hard for us and really happened before we knew it was going on. We knew Dad was slipping a little, but our mother was a very proud woman and covered it up a great deal. I don’t know what she hoped to gain, but by the time we knew it, Dad was much worse than we thought”
EMOTIONAL SEARING OF THE VIETNAM EXPERIENCE Page 3