by C Thomas Cox
He patted my back to let me know I could let go, and we both sat down. "He lived a great life, Jim. Not only did he give birth to me," he said with a wink. "But he served as Pastor of New Life Community Church 'til a year before he passed. He was the man we should all try to be. Spent his post-Army life servin' God and savin' souls."
"I can't tell you how many times he saved my butt."
He glanced at the picture I still held in my hands. "I'm sure pops did his part," he said. "But whenever he got railin' 'bout Vietnam, he made sure to point out that Jim was the bravest man he'd ever met."
I turned my good ear toward Lionel, as I was certain I misheard him. "Come again?"
"You heard me, old man," he said with a chuckle. "Your hearin' ain't that bad."
I closed my eyes and strained my mind, trying to pinpoint the origin of the bravest comment to which Lionel referred. Although the members of our squad took care of one another, I couldn't recall even one incident that would set me aside as the bravest.
"You sure you aren't confusing me with someone else?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I don't claim to remember everything my father said, but I'll never forget his story of your bravery."
"Would you mind telling me the story that he told you?" I asked. "My memory isn't what it once was."
I sat back and listened as Lionel began to narrate a tale that has, in the intervening years, transformed my life.
Chapter Eighty-Six
"The Army did its best to keep its soldiers in 'Nam fed, but ev'ry now and again your squad got hungry while marching. On occasion, you filled your bellies by lifting some grub from nearby farms." I nodded. "And most times, the farmers let y'all take whatever you pleased." I leaned forward, curious where his story was going to lead. "Guns beat grain, as my father used to say." I recalled Tommy uttering just that phrase on more than a handful of occasions.
"One time, though, a farmer stood up to y'all. He wouldn't let you take his corn without puttin' up a fight."
I fell backward onto my pillow and closed my eyes. Why was Lionel reciting the story that'd led to Anh Linh's hunt for vengeance? I wanted to stop him before he continued...to tell him that I didn't want to hear anymore. To tell him that I'd already heard enough. But instead I kept quiet. I allowed myself to become part of the story that he recited. I wanted to understand how my cowardice related to what Tommy perceived as bravery.
"The farmer threw a tantrum, mixin' Vietnamese expletives with broken English. The rest of your squad yelled back, and a few men even aimed their rifles at 'im in an attempt to get 'im to back down. You, on the other hand, shouted your squad down. You held 'em back and faced the farmer yourself." That was my problem, I thought.
"At first, you tried to hold your hands up in an attempt to calm 'im down. But it didn't work. He stomped his feet, spit on your shoes, and even ripped your dog tag from your neck."
Although Lionel's story added a few features that I hadn't remembered, it basically jibed with what I'd recalled while at the Deep Woods Inn with Liz. "Standing up to an unarmed farmer isn't brave at all," I said, opening my eyes. "I was just trying to take care of things on my own...for my squad. Too bad my rage was about to take over."
Lionel grinned. "If you call defendin' your fellow soldiers rage, then maybe you're right." He winked. What could he possibly mean? I again closed my eyes and strained to picture -- through the fog -- what happened all those years ago.
"Even though he attacked you, dad said you kept cool. Instead of engagin', you tried to walk away.
"The farmer, havin' none of it, whipped out a knife and sliced your chest and your elbow as you turned from 'im." He pointed to my right arm. "Bet you still have the scar to prove it."
I lifted my arm, unbuttoned my cuff, and rolled up my sleeve. I took my time as I pulled my elbow toward me and rotated my arm. Just above my elbow, I saw the three-inch scar that, for the past fifty years, I'd attributed to my shrapnel injury. I always thought it strange that it -- plus the matching scar on my chest -- were the only remnants remaining from the injury that shoved me out of the Army.
"See," Lionel said. I'm sure I looked bewildered, as he asked, "You really don't remember, do you?" I shook my head. "Guess that's what they wanted."
"What do you mean?
"They...the Army brass."
"I'm so confused."
"Lemme finish. I think it'll become clear." I nodded, anxious to hear what Tommy, through his son, was about to reveal.
"B'fore the farmer had a chance to cut anyone else, you shoved the tip of your bayonet into his forehead. You couldn’t let him hurt any of your friends." My heart pounded. I began to see the scene he described. "It stopped 'im cold, but only for a second.
"He made a mad dash away from you, and you thought you were done with 'im. But before you knew what was goin' on, he spun around, yanked a pistol outta his pocket, and aimed it right at you."
I could see it. I was staring down the barrel of the weapon he was prepared to use to end my life. "You held your hands up and tried again to calm him down, but he paid you no mind. Instead, he placed his finger on the trigger. 'You Yanks too scared kill me,' he said." He was right...I was petrified. Shooting a Vietnamese civilian would've ended my career and escalated tensions that already ran high. "Then he turned and trained his gun on my father." I had to do it. I had to do everything I could to protect my squad. "Knowin' you might get yourself kicked outta the Army, you pulled your trigger." What Tommy told Lionel was right. I did shoot the farmer before the farmer had a chance to murder Tommy. I was lucky I hit the farmer, too, as my hand was trembling the entire time. I looked away when his body collapsed on the ground.
That wasn't the end, though. "The farmer's son ran over to check on his daddy, and you took a few steps toward 'im. You wanted to do what little you could to comfort 'im." I knew he probably hated me for killing his father, but my under-developed paternal instinct kicked in. "But that tyke would have none of it. He picked up his daddy's gun and aimed it at you." I thought about running...about telling the entire squad to run...but we were too close. Even with the aim of a five-year-old, he could take down at least one or two of us. So, I tried to come up with a way to stop him while minimizing his injuries. I then did the first thing that came to my mind. "Before he had a chance to pull the trigger, you shot off the bottom of his ear."
I threw my hands over my face when I realized I wouldn't be able to hold back the tears welling up in my eyes. I wasn't the monster I imagined myself to be. I wasn't a saint...far from it. But I hadn't shot an innocent man in the back. Instead, I shot only to defend my squad. And I imparted mercy on the youngest of victims.
"My daddy told you to keep movin', but you wouldn't budge. Instead, you pulled the first aid kit outta your pack and did your best to bandage up the ear of the boy as he thrashed around. Only after you were convinced the blood had stopped flowin' did you move on."
In through the nose, out through pursed lips...that's how the obstetrician told Claire to breathe while she labored prior to Charlie's birth. I followed the same advice as I tried to digest the entirety of the truth that Lionel had just unearthed.
Could his tale be true? I had no reason to believe it wasn't -- particularly since I recalled with precision the entire scene that he described...as he described it. Lionel's story wasn't obscured by the fog that hovered over my recollections while at the Deep Woods Inn. But why did I attribute my injuries to shrapnel? I gazed at the scar on my arm.
"A few Army bigwigs somehow convinced you and the medics that shrapnel caused your injuries...accordin' to pops, they might've even stuck a few pieces into you after they knocked you out just to convince everyone."
"But wouldn't I remember what really happened?"
"Do you remember stompin' on a landmine?"
I thought for a minute before shaking my head. "Guess I just assumed the blast knocked the memory out of me when I fell unconscious."
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I'd been
living through the hell that a handful conspirators drew up half a century earlier. "But why'd they want me to forget?"
"They thought you was the only one who knew what really happened. Pops and the rest of the squad swore they didn't see it...they didn't want to cause you any trouble."
"Why? What'd I do that'd result in trouble?"
He held up his empty palms. "They couldn't find the gun that the farmer and 'is boy used."
"Wait," I said. "They thought I shot an innocent farmer and his son?"
"Yessir...and rather than dealin' with courtmarshalin' you and the resultin' outrage, they brainwashed you and shoved you out." He paused and took a deep breath. "Pops thought about trackin' you down a bunch of times. He wanted to tell you the truth, but after the brainwashin' he thought you'd never believe 'im."
Considering the Army's disregard for the fallen farmer and his son -- as well as for the potential future repercussions that my confused mental state might cause me -- I should've been pissed. Instead, I leapt off of my bed and threw my arms around Lionel. "What's that for?" he asked.
"Thank you," I said.
"For what? For remindin' you that the Army screwed up your life?"
I released my grip, took a step back, and shook my head. "I'm too old to care about such nonsense. Holding grudges is for youngsters. I'm focused on who I've been...and who I can still be." I rested my hands on Lionel's shoulders. "In the years I have left on this earth, I want to right my wrongs. I want to become a better man." I squeezed his shoulders. "And now, thanks to you, I have one less wrong to right."
I wandered over to the window, leaned against the pane, and gazed at the sun preparing to set over the horizon. Although dark would soon descend, just before the sun dropped out of view it illuminated a detail I had never before noticed.
In the corner of the courtyard sat a concrete statue of a wheelchair-bound veteran. I passed the statue each day as I traveled to and from our two o'clock group, but I'd never before paid it much attention. With the remaining rays of sunshine striking it at just the right angle, however, I had a perfect view of the left side of its head. And, due to years of weathering...or perhaps caused by a Vietnam veteran with a memory...it was missing the bottom half of its ear.
***
Over my remaining weeks at the hospital, I came to terms with -- and began to embrace -- my revised past. I continued my ascent out of the darkness that Half-Ear's appearance drove into my life. And I learned not to base my life on my memories...no matter how awful.
Though a psychiatrist had once told me that memories never die, during my time at the VA hospital I began to feel as though his three-word summary missed the point. Sure, memories tend to linger. But there's an alternative to the negative connotation he assigned them.
Instead of dwelling on...and trying to fix...the past, I learned to allow my mistakes to teach me. I realized that my history makes me who I am. And I now do my best to extract the good from the memories I once tried to kill, rather than dwelling on the horrors that nearly took my life.