We radioed we were ready to be picked up and were told trucks would be there the next day. The next day we were told the trucks would be there the following day. After a week of this, a helicopter was sent out to bring us more food and water. All the second week, we were told the trucks would be there the next day.
An additional week and the trucks arrived.
We clambered aboard and were driven two miles down the road to our new location. Crazy.
The troops often had little to do during the daytime and sometimes we would walk down to the village open-air market to see what they had for sale. The villagers were often cooking different things and some of the fragrances weren’t too pleasant. If fact, if the wind was coming at us from the direction of the market, we would just turn around and go back to our day position.
We were warned repeatedly not to eat things from the local market. One of the platoon mates violated the rule. About an hour later, he walked away from the day position as he felt a bout of diarrhea coming on. He dropped his pants and as soon as he squatted, he started vomiting as well.
A little Vietnamese boy, about eight years old, was standing next to me observing this awful sight. He grabbed my hand, the little one’s eyes opened wide. He yelled in astonishment, “Look, man, he coming out his both ends!”
Ah, yes. We soldiers were a talented lot!
Another time, the platoon had been hiking through the humid jungle in one-hundred-plus-degree heat for a number of weeks and hadn’t had a chance to wash. I mentioned to their lieutenant that we should find a place to clean up, as we smelled so bad even the mosquitoes weren’t landing on us. We proceed to a twenty-foot-wide and one-foot deep stream.
After posting sentries, I decided to just lay down, fully clothed, in a small pool at the side of the stream. As I luxuriated in the cool water, I noticed the clear water cascading over my left sleeve was turning grey as it headed downstream. I dug a bar of soap out of my pack and soaping up my entire uniform while still wearing it, thinking it would be the best way to clean it. I rinsed the clothing and put them on boulders to dry. I had to wash my army-short hair a number of times to get all the sand and dirt off my scalp.
A few hours later, we were back to hiking and I thought I must have gotten good and clean as the cruel, unrelenting mosquitoes were landing on me again.
Then there was the day I earned the, thankfully temporary, nickname Mighty Monkey Shooter. We were hacking our way through some heavy jungle growth and cut a trail up to the top of a small rise to set up for the night.
I was pulling guard duty on the trail in the middle of the night and I sat with my legs folded and my M16 across my lap. There was lots of moonlight so I didn’t think anyone could come up the trail without me easily spotting them. Halfway through my one-hour shift I heard a noise a few feet in front of me.
Oh, God, I thought, someone got in front of me.
I immediately rolled onto my side, expecting to see the flashes of my enemy’s rifle firing at me, and I fired a burst from my M16 at the foe. The moonlight then revealed the terrified, and now screaming, face of a small monkey who noisily tore his way into the jungle. I didn’t hit the monkey but my platoon mates teased me mercilessly the next few days.
This wasn’t the only animal encounter. There was the time we had been ferried from our usual jungle area of operations to the highlands for a mission. We were in a large, open, grassy area and had stopped for a break, when suddenly some elephants were coming into view.
They were some distance away and not walking toward us, but would occasionally look in our direction and raise their trunks high into the air as if checking for our scent.
A guy from Kentucky, who loved hunting, whispered to us, “Don’t shoot at ’em. These little M16 rounds will probably just piss ’em off.”
We called in a few artillery shells to land in between us and the elephants and they hurriedly wandered away.
* * *
One of my platoon mates received a wound that opened up the top of his thigh in the same way a plow opens a furrow of dirt. I had run out of thread to close wounds, so I gathered safety pins—a trick I’d learned from reading a book about infantry soldiers in WWII. I lay across his stomach so he couldn’t see what I was doing, and closed the wound with the safety pins. He cursed me mightily from all the pain I caused him. He didn’t pass out, however, until I sat up and he saw the row of safety pins holding his thigh together.
Injuries I could handle, and I didn’t fear being killed as much as the thought of being captured and then tortured to death. My fear of being killed had more to do with what my family would go through if that happened.
During my year in Vietnam my mother told me she watched in horror as a car with army markings slowly drove through our neighborhood, as if looking for an address. It was how relatives were informed their sons or daughters had been killed. The car drove on and wasn’t seen again, but Mom related she was in such shock, she couldn’t get anything done until she received a letter from me dated after the date the army car drove by.
Lucky for me, after six months in combat, the army discovered I could type, so I became a legal clerk. I was helicoptered out of the jungle to an office at the headquarters of the 101st Airborne Division. I transitioned from being a dirt-covered grunt to a legal clerk in a brigade HQ office where I received a clean uniform to wear every day, and best of all, I could shower every day.
The water for the showers was unheated, but after six months hiking around in the jungle and getting shot at occasionally, this was a huge improvement. Part of my office job was forwarding notices of those who were killed in action. I remember one July day in particular, as the day we received the notice one of my platoon mates had been killed.
Dan was a tall, gangly guy with an infectious smile. He was a friend to everyone in our platoon. When a new guy arrived he was the first person out to enthusiastically meet him and introduce him around. As I was a science kind of guy who also loved politics, Dan and I spent many a jungle hike debating those topics.
I felt a terrible emptiness knowing he was gone. I also felt angry because he deserved better.
It struck me, as I read the notice—there was a family in Ohio who didn’t know their son was coming home in a box. But I knew. And the sorrow of what they were going to experience overwhelmed me. I didn’t let my emotions show when I was in combat, but I could afford the luxury now, because I was a legal clerk in a secure area.
I briefly corresponded with a girl from New Jersey. After exchanging a few letters, she wrote how she spent a day decorating a gym for an upcoming dance. It wasn’t fair of me, but I felt angry she spent an entire day making and placing decorations while my friends were still being shot at. I didn’t write to her again.
My one year in Vietnam brought me in contact with some of the best men from across the states I have ever known. It gave me the belief if you ever see someone in uniform, or wearing some item indicating they were in the military, you should always take the time to shake their hand and thank them for serving. It’s sad to think of how many soldiers come home and feel their service is not appreciated—none more than many of the Vietnam-era vets.
My Uncle Mike and I were not close until I came home from Vietnam. He was also a combat vet of the 101st but he was at Bastogne—“Battle of the Bulge”—among other WWII actions. One entire evening, he and I swapped war stories. It turns out I was the only person in the family he told about his war experience. He thought I was the only one who would understand the mental and physical challenges a fellow infantryman went through.
After I was discharged, I contacted some friends and started putting my life back together. Mr. Warshawsky, the twins’ dad, was as good as his word. When I called him to tell him I was home safe and sound, he told me about a friend of his who worked in finance and wanted to open an office in Seattle. He knew my Math degree would be perfect for the job. I was hired, but also started work on a PhD in math as well.
I called Larry and was
happy to hear he and Danielle were still as happy as can be. I told them I would be back to see them one day.
Chapter Six
~ Reunited
A number of years after I came home from the army, I was at Oak Stream outdoor shopping their annual Labor Day weekend art show. There were many booths of artists using all kinds of media. I was quite particular about the art I purchased, but usually managed to find something I wanted to buy at this show.
While my mathematics career was proving to be a financial success, my personal life was pretty empty. By my current age of twenty-six, I had a number of relationships during and since college, but none of them continued for long. I started wondering if I was going to be a bachelor all my life.
As I walked around the show I stopped at a booth showing abstract as well as incredibly photo-realistic paintings of streams and forests. A four-year-old girl was proudly telling me her mother’s paintings were displayed. She was quite petite with sparkling, bright, blue eyes, and a broad infectious smile that made you smile back. She pointed to one painting of a stream running through a forest.
“Can you see the minnows?” the little girl asked me.
“Yes, I see them. Did you know minnows are great for baking in pies?”
The little girl looked at me quizzically, as if trying to determine if I was serious. “No they’re not.” Then she laughed an amazingly melodic laugh, while her intense blue eyes sparkled.
I immediately knew who her mother was. I turned to look around the booth and there she was. It was Joan—with those amazing blue eyes and incredible warm smile. But she looked tired and worn—her shoulders seemed to droop and her skin was pale, similar to a physically and mentally exhausted soldier who had been in battle too long.
“Hey, you,” she said with a big smile. “It’s been a long time.”
“Yes, a long time.”
Hands on hips, the little version of Joan asked, “Mommy, do you know this guy?”
“Yes, Samantha. Actually I know every inch of him and he knows every inch of me.” Joan laughed melodically, just as her daughter’s had moments before.
We sat in two camp chairs at the back of the booth while four-year-old Samantha kept an eye out for customers.
“I’ve been to college and I’ve been to war. I was lucky—I came home healthy, both physically and mentally, unlike many of my Vietnam buddies.”
“I didn’t fight in the war,” Joan said, “but the war fought with me. I was spending time with a friend from college named Sam, just before he went to Vietnam. A few weeks after he left, I discovered I was pregnant. I was considering an abortion when his parents called me and said he was coming home—...” Joan paused for a few seconds, lowered her voice so her daughter wouldn’t hear. “You know, in a box. They asked if I would come to his funeral, as they knew we’d been friends.” She shifted uncomfortably. “But that’s all we were. I wasn’t going to marry him. We weren’t even going to write to each other while he was in Vietnam. But then, there I was, carrying his baby. How could I abort his only child? He would never have another chance—I was sleepless for weeks trying to decide what to do, but finally decided to have Sam’s baby.” She nodded to Samantha.
She went on to tell me of her art career. It brought her lots of joy and supplemented her minimal income as a tax accountant.
Samantha came over to let me know she made a painting as well, but her mom wouldn’t let her sell it. I asked if I could see it and she raced to the back of the booth and opened a large plastic container labeled Samantha’s Stuff. She returned with a notebook page sized canvas with lots of color and not much discernible shape.
“Do you see them?” she asked.
I took a guess. “Of course, I see those minnows.”
“Mom, he sees them,” Samantha screamed in delight.
Joan, again without smiling, said to Samantha, “Believe me, little lady, this guy knows about minnows.”
I asked if I could buy the painting.
The four-year-old said, “Please, Mom, you sell…”
Before she could finish, a customer entered the booth. Joan approached the woman.
“Mom,” Samantha yelled. “I was talking and you just walked away.” She turned to Meyer. “That wasn’t nice.”
“Why don’t we walk over to the bookstore and see if we can find a book for you?” he said.
“A book for me?”
“Come on.” He held out his hand. She reached up and grabbed it.
As he left the booth, he yelled to Joan, “Bookstore.”
She glanced at him with an unsure expression then turned back to her customer.
The four-year-old kept up a constant chatter about her friends, her bookshelf at home, and the activities she and her mom did together.
“I can’t read yet,” she said.
“Yes you can. You just need the right books.”
We perused the children’s section and I found a beginning reader with a picture for every word on the page. Samantha’s reading habit began with One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish by Dr. Seuss. The little one was in heaven, bouncing up and down holding my hand the whole time we waited in line to pay for the book.
Arriving back at the booth, Joan was busy with a customer. Meyer sat on one of the camp chairs. Samantha came over, proudly holding her new book and told him her mom always reads to her, but now she can read, “So, I’m going to read my very own new book to you.” She cleared her throat. “Now remember, when you read a book you can always learn something,” she told me in a Joan-like voice.
The little one climbed onto my lap and leaned back against me. We began working our way through the words and pictures. After the second time through, Samantha was yawning. She gave me the book, put her little head down on his chest, and fell sleep.
Okay. So picture it—there I was, this amazingly cool, twenty-six-year-old single guy who was suddenly stuck in an old friend’s art display with a sleeping four-year-old lying against his chest. I would have died of embarrassment if one of my cool, single buddies came by and saw me. But barring that, to tell the truth, what I actually found to be amazing was how natural it felt to have Samantha’s little body curled up against me.
Joan sat down next to us, and in between interruptions from customers we did our best to catch up. She told me how numerous guys had asked her out, but once they found out she had a child they were no longer interested. Then six months ago, she discovered she had breast cancer and underwent a mastectomy a month later.
She said the mental drain of feeling deformed and ugly was more difficult to endure than the physical pain of recovery from the surgery. Joan also endured a dreadful fear she would be raising Samantha alone.
“I was dating someone whose company I enjoyed,” she said. “He was good with Samantha, and just when I thought we might have a future together, I found out about the cancer. Shortly after I told him I was going to have a mastectomy, he quit calling. I called him once and asked what was going on, but all he told me was, he was busy. What a jerk he turned out to be. Just when I so desperately needed someone, he abandoned me. I learned in my cancer recovery support group that breast cancer sometimes leads to divorce.”
“Sad you had to go through so much crap.”
“Part of some people’s lives, I guess.”
“You still with him?”
She shook her head. “Occasionally. The thought of starting a new relationship…would take too much time and energy. It’s enough trying to keep up with a four-year-old. What about you?”
“Finished a PhD. in mathematics of finance, have my own consulting firm but no one in my life.”
“Why not?”
“Being in combat…watching friends die…left scars on my soul which I suspect will never heal…makes it hard to spend time with someone who doesn’t understand the pain. Without warning, I become depressed and feel like ripping someone’s head off. I take it out on the nearest person.”
“Not good.”
“
Before I worked as a consultant, my fellow employees tried to avoid working with me as they didn’t know when the volcano would explode…sometimes little things…and I would lose it.”
“Not the sweet Meyer I once knew.”
“Not even close.”
We didn’t talk for a few minutes until Joan looked at Samantha sleeping on my lap. “Samantha deserves a dad but I’m tired all the time and look it, so who’s going to want me?” She shook her head and sighed. “I just can’t get enough damn sleep. I lay in bed worrying about raising Samantha as a single parent, worrying if I have enough money to make ends meet. All the while, knowing my body is having difficulty recovering from my surgery. It’s like I can’t find the key to turn my brain off. My doctor told me I won’t heal properly if I don’t manage more sleep.”
We sat in silence without looking at each other.
A customer arrived and Samantha woke up so I took her for a walk around the art show. An artist from Oregon had his brilliant animal sculptures on display. Samantha was enthralled examining the artist’s work because each sculpture seemed to be a three-dimensional snapshot of the animal subject in motion. This provided us with lots of conversation on exactly what behavior each animal might be engaging in. Samantha obviously inherited her mother’s fascination with the natural world. I bought her a twenty-four-inch-tall sculpture of a trio of Brown Pelicans in flight.
We returned to Joan’s booth and found her packing up her paintings.
“You want help packing up?” he asked.
Samantha said to Meyer, “Open the box so my mom can see my new sculpture. Joan peered in the box then scowled at Meyer. “No…No way. This is too expensive. Take it back.”
Finding a Soul Mate (Meant to be Together Book 1) Page 7