

 LONG AGO LOVE

I had just been on R and R, rest and relaxation. What the hell is that? You sure can't relax and it ain't no rest. It is like that Joe Sputnik cloud hanging over you, the old time cartoon of the Li'Abner character. You have to go back to that hellhole called Vietnam.

She had that classic Vietnamese look, probably from the Cholon district of Saigon. Saigon is one of those cites that isn't pretty but, has an energy that is hard to beat. The endless long buildings, slapped together like so much local on steroids. It is like a jungle without the vegetation. The narrow streets are like tiny alleys of a labyrinth. The alleys are everywhere, with a possibility of eats from carts, gourmet for sure. Mostly little old ladies wielding spatulas moving with intension to feed all for a few piaster's but dollars are better. She's standing across the street, looking at me. She has that look, a look that she thinks American GIs like: big, ugly platform shoes. Leather. She kept glancing at me. She's thinking how to approach. I am so damn tired that I'm not sure I even want to think about a women. Oh wow, it was a glorious first night.

I'm seriously thinking about going AWOL (absent without leave). Why didn't I stay in Hawaii anyway. I could have gotten lost, made it back to the States, gone to Canada. What in the hell am I doing back here. This war is shit. I've lost half my squad to bullshit. We fight for something and then give it right back to Charles (Viet Cong). Fuck.

Fast forward 40 years. There she is again. Probably my imagination. But, the classic look, a little more business like but could be her. Suddenly my entire tour in Vietnam flashes forward. A bullshit war. Only a few idiots like myself, too stupid to avoid the draft. Here I am. We are in a restaurant, Mai's on Clement Street in San Francisco.

Mai's is one of those restaurants that serves it all, want eggs and sausage, you got it. I always laugh. They probably have a Mexican cook. She glances at me with no recognition. There's an entourage with her. She's a Grandmother. Probably her daughter, mid thirties. Her son-in-law I guess, two small girls. Amerasian, beautiful children. Her grandchildren I surmise. The thing about Asian Women with black eyes, they can look at you while not looking at you. You never know really. I once knew an American love that could do the same thing. She was an opera singer and had trained herself to look at her audience but then not really looking. It was a kind of communicating she said. I was skeptical. I would occasional catch her looking at me but not looking if you get my drift.

Mai's is a small restaurant. I'm sitting in the middle, reading the paper, multitasking, writing on my iPhone, Buffy Saint Marie is playing overhead. How do I know? I gave the CD to Mai and every time I'm in, she plays Buffy. Mai's husband's, the father-in-law was an ARVN (Army of Vietnam). Mai's husband and I bond over the fact that we are two old soldiers who did our duty. My infantry unit always had several Vietnamese with us. Sometimes, they were ARVN and sometimes Choi Hois, who had come over to our side. Occasionally, we had a group called the Ruff Puffs, usually what would be comparable to the National Guard. On occasion, we would have some joint operation with the ARVN. We didn't think much of their fighting prowess. The problems, by in large, weren't the Vietnamese, but ours. We may have had the "America's the best" attitude, let us do our stuff, next case. Probably, it was attitude on our part. After we'd been in the Nam a couple of months, we "got it." Figure out how to stay alive and be there for your buddy. The war was BS to the max. None of us sat around and thought about the philosophy of what it meant to be in Vietnam and how the Vietnamese saw it. And now, I regret it. It was their country. The Vietnamese soldiers were doing the best they could. They were the instruments of a legitimate government in the South, fighting to keep from being taken over by the North or at least with some perspective that might be it. I have come to appreciate the efforts of our Vietnamese allies in Vietnam. In fact, as I think about it now, we were so terribly unfair; they were brave soldiers, many of them dying for their country just as we were. What the hell! Often what amazed us was that the Vietnamese in America embraced traditional American old time values better than most Americans. They had a great sense of family, commitment to each other, and an unusual respect for their new country. What most Americans don't have a clue about and could care less about is what happened to the South Vietnamese. From 1957 to 1973, the National Liberation Front (NorthVietnam) assassinated 36,725 South Vietnamese and abducted another 58,499. The death squads focused on leaders at the village level and on anyone who improved the lives of the peasants such as medical personnel, social workers, and school teachers.

We made a lot of promises to the Vietnamese and then split. But, who the hell knows, many came to the states and have been very successful. Maybe our most successful immigrant group. Over the last several years, I've made it a point to ask the Vietnamese I've met in America two questions: What is your view of life in America? If you had a chance to go back and live in Vietnam, would you? Rarely have I found one who would go; and, I might add my informal research has included a good number. Why am I insistent on asking questions to Vietnamese immigrants? I think it is guilt! I hope that somehow for all the suffering we caused, some good came out of it. The presence of the successful Vietnamese in America may salvage a little of our guilt, Nothing is ever very definitive. I constantly patronize whatever they do, restaurants, nail salons. What the hell!.

I can't help myself, keep glancing across to the family, just a few breaths away. Their food comes. The daughter is sitting closest to me. She is obviously Amerasian. How do I know? I just know, beautiful coloring. They are chatting, mixing Vietnamese and English. The daughter uses her fork to divide her eggs, which are over easy. She makes a sandwich. I smile. Who the hell makes a sandwich out of their eggs? I do for one.

I'm back in Vietnam. It is a time when everything is suspended. It is three days of heaven, war is forgotten, I'm with this fabulous woman. I'm twenty. I'm in love. I am crazy. Saigon is behind us. We are on beautiful beaches in Vungtal. We are laughing, making love everywhere. I am AWOL(absent without leave) but don't care. We laugh and cry. I leave and go back to war. It is all a blur. The Army busts me but in a couple of months I'm back at Sergeant. I want to go back to Saigon and find her. "Forget her. She's a prostitute," my buddies say. Not to me I. Finally the memory fades but I never forgot. I'm through with my tour. I go to Saigon on the way home. I can't find her. Nobody can help me. I catch the big iron bird for the States, land of the free and home of the brave. Buffy is singing Until It Is Time For You To Go. Seems pretty appropriate. The Grandmother looks long at me. A broad smile creases her face as suddenly a long lost memory maybe intrudes. She looks at her granddaughter and gives a big hug. I smile at her.

BLOOD DONE SIGNED MY NAME

Ain't you glad, ain't you glad, that the blood done sign your name.

African American Spiritual, sung by Leadbelly

Mrs. Beal, who ran the boarding house, yelled upstairs for George, which was nothing new. She was constantly calling him for supper, to fix something; or, as she said, "just to look at him." George was easy going, but behind those baby blues was an intenseness that belied an easy manner.

"Folks, we have to get to eating, everything is going to get cold. Would you gentleman like to dine with us?" She knew they wouldn't, but it was polite to ask and she sensed trouble.

The two men came to talk with George. Later on she discovered it was about getting involved with the local Klan. She smiled as she watched the men who were like two banty roosters, switching off talking to him. One of them was Pastor Blessing.

Now, there was a name for a preacher and a piece of work. The only name that would have been better would be Christian; although, in the present environment, it might be pushing it. Maybe Pastor Hypocrite would have been better.

Blessing had a big Baptist Church at the edge of town (not sure which type of Baptist). The pastor and his followers had moved out from the heart of town and built a kind of amphitheater as a tribute to white supremacy and to totally separate from what Blessing called the "local perverters of culture."

The pastor preached fiery sermons and was not above using incendiary sermon titles. One had been printed in the local paper, "Burr-headed Niggers," and; of course, it was read or heard about by most everyone in town.

Pastor Blessing's church and private schools had proliferated like blossoms on a magnolia bush - a reaction to the 1954 Supreme Court Decision integrating the schools and the civil rights movement which was slowly making its way South. Blessing fancied himself as the charismatic chaplain to the Klan. He traveled extensively and was rumored to be one of the most influential men in the state.

"We best be going Mrs. Beal," Harley Corbin said. She smiled again and momentarily thought that they probably didn't realize how lucky they were—fierce eyes just might be called to action. Mrs. Beal didn't know many Vietnam vets, none in fact, other than George, but she could see the signs—he seemed to have an anger that was just below the surface.

Although affable as all get out, still there were times when George was on the edge and Mrs. Beal sensed this might be one of those times. It must have been hanging in the air as Pastor Blessing and Harley Corbin chose to make their exit. "Think about it," was the last word of the two.

George didn't have to think about it. He was not getting involved with the KKK, those fuckin' bunch of retards. There were lots of reasons and one had to do with the very core of who he was.

The Klan seemed to be ubiquitous. They held rallies, fish fries, and had booths at the North Carolina State Fair. What was particularly irritating was that they were so accepted, right along side legitimate groups like the Rotary or Lion's. Their middle name was intimidation. They disguised it, but spreading fear was their purpose. The large billboard just outside town said, Fight integration, Support your Local Klu Klux Klan. How could people be so stupid?

There were rumored to be over a hundred statewide separate Klan groups called Klaverns. They constantly lauded the fact that Klan members were the best, brightest, and bravest. Hence the visit to George, The good reverend had said, "George, we need a Vietnam hero like you to serve with us." Thank God for Mrs. Beal as George was thinking about throwing them down the stairs.

George might have been taken in by the Klan early on had it not been for Mr. Lee. Craven Lee went to a local orphanage to find a teenager to help with his crops. It was a common practice for farmers to take in some young boys and on occasion girls to help to harvest tobacco, in particular. In return, farmers always gave a nice donation to the orphanage when the crops were sold.

The orphans, who were really not orphans in the strict sense (many were unwanted), often were treated like cattle and worked mercilessly. There were no social services, much less anyone else looking after their interest. No one thought about child welfare laws back then and Craven Lee surely didn't because he was a decent man. Even though he had a family of boys himself, he thought it would be a good experience for his own family to know an orphan boy and realize how much they had in comparison. Well, that was his thinking.

George didn't know what it was, but he caught Mr. Lee's eye when it came time to find a teenager to work the fields. Three older boys were ready for work, but inexplicably Mr. Lee asked about George. At first, he was discouraged from taking George. Miss Velma, the head mistress of Pleasant Grove Church Orphanage, told Mr. Lee that George was not too bright and too slight for hard work. "No matter," Mr. Lee said, "I want him for a few weeks."

Mrs. Lee, on the other hand, was not pleased with her husband's choice. She would much rather have chosen a teenager, than slight twelve year old George. Regardless, here he was and through high school he stayed. Mr. Lee treated him like one of his own. The other boys equally were accepting, the more the merrier seem to be the philosophy.

What had always impressed George, even if he couldn't put it in words, was the constant laughter that flowed through the Lee house. Mrs. Lee was very serious, but Mr. Lee was laughing and joking constantly. For George, heaven could not have been better.

The orphanage was glum and its inhabitants were always made to feel that they owed everything to their caretakers for being rescued from starvation. It was not that George was ungrateful, but he did chafe under the constant onslaught of going to church and all that went with it. He had learned to play little games in his head. The singing went on forever and the preaching even longer. He rarely paid any attention and could hardly keep himself from laughing when the shouting started.

Mr. Lee was always asking him about it and loved to hear in detail what exactly went on at Pleasant Grove Church. "Well, what usually happens is the preacher shouts Amen, Amen and then someone else shouts it, usually Mrs. Wilbourne. And, you know Mrs. Wilbourne, the schoolteacher. She speaks in tongues and shouts and then someone else starts up. Pretty soon, most of the church is going to town." By this time, Mr. Lee is laughing and shaking his head.

In all the years that George was at the Lee home, he never saw Mr. Lee get mad, but once. It was when Chuck, the middle son, used the word "nigger". Talk about getting flailed, he got it. George didn't understand Mr. Lee's anger because the word was used all the time. It was only after George joined the Army that he honestly knew how demeaning the word was to blacks.

It was just a few days later when he got the full word on why Mr. Lee felt so strongly. Mr. Lee's father and four uncles had come to Eastern North Carolina from Ireland to work in the tobacco fields as indentured servants for seven years. The arrangement was a little sketchy but what Craven Lee did know was that five brothers had been victims of considerable brutality.

Archie Lee, Craven's father, was not reticent in talking to his children about the humiliation of those days. Working from dawn to dark, being talked to like a dog—those were some hard years. The day came when their obligation ended. Threatened that the landlord would stop him from leaving, Archie, as the lore goes, told him simply that he would kill him if he tried to stop any of the brothers because their servitude had ended. After all, this was America.

The brothers, all five, banded together with the idea that they would harvest entire crops of tobacco and guarantee how long it would take. Tobacco was labor intensive and work was steady. It was during tobacco harvesting that the Klan tried to recruit the Lees. In the early days, the Klan mainly was supposed to be a vigilante group that rode herd over ne'er-do-wells of all stripes. Soon came the idea of burning crosses and whipping blacks.

This didn't set well with the Lee boys, who were fiercely independent and prided themselves on live and let live, no way would they be a party to the same inhumane treatment that the Klan now wanted to impose on black people. During one encounter, an argument ensued resulting in a fight—from that point it became fuzzy. One of the Lee boys had logged in at least some time in prison, directly related to how the culture treated blacks. Archie's family was not going to foster the same injustices that had befallen them, even though this was not the attitude of the time. He drilled his children in the phrase, "all men are created equal," from the Declaration of Independence.

Despite their encounter with the Klan, the Lees slowly but surely got a foothold in this new land. A couple of the brothers went West while one of them was killed in a sawmill accident. Archie and Josiah eventually farmed acreage that they managed to obtain just by paying the taxes.

George thought he knew hot; but he never knew anything like this. The sweat was rolling off his body and the smell was simply pungent. Damn, what kind of place is this?

"Hey Cracker, bet you wish you were in them bacca patches, don't you?"

He looked over at Dryer and smiled. Kenny Dryer was a slight black with light chocolate skin who had a knack for speaking perfect English and switching effortless into slang. He was George's best friend. Who would have thought it?

Their friendship didn't start out so great. Almost from the minute they arrived at Bragg, there were fireworks. Both had just come from airborne training, commonly called jump school. They were sitting around the replacement detachment waiting to be assigned when Kenny tried to pick a fight with George.

George had been assigned a bunk next to Dryer, and when he started to put his duffel on it, Dryer threw his down on the same bunk. "This is taken, whitey." George moved to the next bunk with his duffel and Kenny followed. It was fight time. Both were about the same size. George picked up his bag and walked to the other end of the building. Laughter followed him.

"Motherfucker, don't want to fight", he heard someone say. George knew it was only a matter of time. What Dryer didn't know was that George had been fighting all his life, if not physically, emotionally.

The one thing George soon learned and liked about the military is that he and all the enlisted guys were all in the same boat, all equals. George didn't have to fight for his "place at the table" any more. Growing up was good with the Lees; but, even then, he was not truly "blood"- not one of them. Even though he was a good athlete and average student in high school, he felt like an outsider. In the Army, he finally felt that he belonged.

George and Kenny were both assigned to the same battalion, company, and platoon, but different squads. The platoon sergeant was the biggest and blackest black that George had ever seen. He had shoulders that went on forever and hands like hams. His teeth were like ivory and so white they sparkled. The day they arrived, the platoon sergeant announced that the platoon had won a reenlistment contest and were going to get a bunch of chutes to jump from choppers all day. This was their prize. What?

"Hey boys", the platoon sergeant said, "I'm the jumpmaster today and here's what we do: think of it like you are at the state fair. He must have noticed the blank look on their faces, as Dryer and George were the only ones who didn't seem to know what he was talking about. George surely knew all about the State Fair. It was a regular outing at the close of the summer. He first went with Mr. Lee. It was just he and "the man", as he often referred to Mr. Lee. George never quite got why the other boys didn't go with them. It was this enormous singular treat. They looked at animals and crafts, ate the great food, and Mr. Lee even treated him to one or two of the rides. Mr. Lee said constantly, "Georgy boy, drink in that smell" and then he would bear hug George--one of the few times George felt accepted.

"You boys don't know nothing bout the State Fair do you? It is the best in the world and they have all these rides and this here chopper is just like one of them." He patted the helicopter. "It will take you up and you sit and look out at the great scenery and just fall out the door and your trusty chute will do the rest and you'll float to the ground. Just like the State Fair, boys." He smiled. To George, it seemed a little unreal. Up to now, jumping was an ordeal. With all the equipment strapped to the body, walking or sitting around waiting to jump felt miserable, like having to go to the "john" and "throw-up" at the same time. And, this was just the normal uniform. And this was supposed to be fun like the fair? Wow!

Dryer and George bonded literally in the weirdest way. They both had to display the machismo of excitement about jumping; when, in fact, they were petrified. Jumping from a helicopter was vastly different from a C130 or a 141. On a C130, they'd been taught to make a vigorous exit, literally leaping out. If they didn't, they could be washed back into the side of the plane and their chute might not deploy—they were working to get all the terminology right. On a C141, all they had to do was step out the door of the plane and go bye, bye. What in the hell to do out of a helicopter?

George did his five jumps at Benning to become a five jump commando. He'd only volunteered for airborne to earn the extra $55 a month and planned to save all his money for a farm. In fact, the Army was part of his big scheme--join up, save money, get out, and buy his own place. He had some ideas.

George and Kenny were seated on one side. When the jumpmaster said go, George fell over the side and his chute opened and he just started floating down. "I could go for this," he thought. The chopper landed and he noticed out of the corner of his eye, Dryer getting off. The platoon sergeant was giving him no never mind as George had heard constantly growing up. Suddenly, the platoon sergeant grabbed Dryer and threw him into the chopper, stepping in behind him. For what seemed like an eternity, the Sergeant was in his face, shouting. He got out and motioned for George who hustled over. "Get your ass in here for your second jump," he said. George could have sworn that Dryer was almost white. The platoon sergeant, ordinarily the blackest man that George had ever seen, also looked different.

Sergeant Smith gave the thumbs up and the chopper lifted off. In almost no time, he felt the platoon Sergeant's foot as he fell out again and his chute opened. Pretty easy. Almost simultaneously, there was a yell and George glanced and saw someone tumbling and at the same time yelling. It was Dryer. His chute was only partially open. George slipped right under him; and, in a flash, thought to himself, that he didn't know what he was doing. Amazed that he remembered the idea of slipping, moving your chute from right to left. The thump on his chute pushed it down right on his head; and, without thinking, he reached around and grabbed Dryer and pulled him beside him. His eyes were wide as saucers. George held him in a bear hug and they were falling fast. Dryer's chute had totally collapsed while George's was mostly opened. George put his face right next to Dryer, "Get your feet together, get your feet together", he yelled. George didn't know much about jumping, but knew enough that they just couldn't plow into the ground, because they would buy the farm for sure. The ground was coming up fast. "Feet together, Feet together." They hit and George held on tight to Kenny, rolled to one side and then just started rolling and rolling.

George's whole body was numb. It seemed they were three feet into the sand. Lucky, the sand made it more like a pillow, but hard. He stood up and brushed himself off. Kenny lay there. George nudged him, "Get up, here comes the Sarge." He struggled to his feet. "Goddamn you soldier, you better spend the rest of your life thanking Hurdle here or you'd be laid out lizard length. He's saved your ass. Get the fuck to the pick up point."

George was bone weary. His squad had pulled three straight nights of a tiger and every single night, they were in heavy contact. Kenny liked to remind Hurdle he was now called Sergeant Dwyer. "You may be a three striper but I outrank you, Cracker," Kenny's tone was the type reserved when someone is your special friend.

What in the hell kind of last name is Hurdle?" he went on.

"I don't know Junior; I think the orphanage pulled it out of their ass."

"I told you not to call me Junior." Hurdle laughed, "I told you not to call me Cracker."

"But, that's what you are, Cracker."

Sergeant Dryer was quiet for a moment. Just about the end of the whisper, four VC came ditty bobbing down the trail. George opened up with an M60 and Al on mortars popped off a couple of rounds.

It had been this way constantly and none of them had gotten any sleep for days. Talk about relief, when the word came down they were going to bridge detail, they could hardly believe it. Bridge detail, this was like a vacation. Bridges usually were the juncture of places where the VC and on occasion spies slipped into friendly territory. There wasn't a hell of a lot to do and not much preventive action; it was light duty, quiet, and occasionally a chance to flirt with some Vietnamese school girls, not to mention a prostitute or two, if they had a mind, which George didn't.

This was the wonderful thing about Vietnam, unspoken, yet true. Camaraderie was what it was all about. After awhile, they all knew the war was bullshit. Do your year and get the hell out. But, while they were there, the feeling that their friendship was special could not be denied. Most didn't have a clue at the time how special it was or how to verbalize it. Only once they were back in the "world" did it surface. The "civilian world" became the hostile place and the time in Nam the "real" world. Watching each other's back, telling stories about home, sharing in the future plans was the real world for a soldier in Nam.

This was one of those quiet nights. George and Kenny Dryer, Jr. were leaning up beside their sandbagged bunker watching the bridge traffic.

Yes, Junior was his name. He was a junior, Kenneth Jones Dryer, Jr., but he didn't cotton to anybody calling him Junior.

"Know what Cracker?"

"No, what?"

"I've thought lots about the time you saved my ass when we first got in Division. Yeah. Really, I never thanked you."

"What the fuck is wrong with you," this was George's way of saying forget it, being uncomfortable with somebody expressing that kind of emotion.

"Really, I've been thinking about it. I don't know how you knew to do what you did. And, I don't know if I'd done the same for you."

George didn't say anything. It was quiet for a minute.

"I'd have to say this. This is the first time a white man ever did anything for a brother. Why'd you do it?"

"I don't know what the fuck you talking about." George was saying enough of this, a little too heavy for me.

"Well, think about it, Cracker."

George smiled because he knew Kenny used the word as a pleasant familiarity not as derision. Their relationship was very good but there were times it seemed a little strained and he didn't know why.

"Why would you say you the way you are?" Kenny persisted.

"What do you mean?" Might as well engage, George thought. Kenny was not going to let it go.

"Well, most crackers ain't like you. You the only one who seems to not give a shit. I don't know. Come on Cracker, what you think it is?"

They were silent for a minute. "I don't know what the fuck you talking about. Maybe being raised in the orphanage and then going to live with the Lees. I don't know. Mr. Lee wouldn't put up with any bad talk from his sons or me." By bad talk, Kenny knew he meant the "N" word.

Long silence.

Al from mortars came bopping over. Like most of the guys in the platoon, they all had their "homey" things they loved to talk about. With Al, it was the great tractor he was going to buy when he got back to Iowa. Memphis was thinking about opening a barbeque restaurant in San Francisco. Butch boy wanted to marry the Chinese waitress he'd met in Birmingham. Why? "Well, she'd be the only Chinaman in his hometown." This was the way it was. Men from every place in America. Presently, their world consisted of a broken down wooden bridge outside of Hue, South Vietnam.

"Al, get the hell away from here, can't you see the Cracker and I are having an intelligent conversation. Or, is it Cracker and me. I can't ever remember. Did you learn that in English, Cracker?"

"I did, but you didn't, Junior, should have paid more attention. It is me." Al laughed.

Al sauntered inside the bunker.

The silence was permeated with some firing on up the road on QL 551. Both men were silent as though mentally preparing themselves for a firefight. The firing stopped and it was eerily quiet.

Kenny said, but more quietly. "Go on, Cracker, I want to know, why you seem to not be bothered by black and white."

George didn't say anything for a moment; and, in a sense, didn't want to answer because he'd possibly have to admit that he didn't think about it and maybe that was not very good.

"I think that because we always worked together; there were lots of black people working side by side with us."

"Did you ever eat together?"

"Of course."

"But, I bet you didn't go to town or to the movies, did you?"

George thought about it for a long time. "Well, I don't remember ever going to the movies anyway. Oh yes, I did go see Burt Lancaster in From Here to Eternity. I'll never forget it. My mouth got as dry as cotton."

It was black, other than the lights shining in the edge of Hue. "You know what, Cracker, before we leave the Nam; I'm going to save your life. I ain't going to my maker owing no fuckin' whitey nothing." He laughed and patted George on the back.

Scotty popped out of the bunker with an audible expletive spewing out. "I hate this bridge duty," he seemed to be saying to no one in particular. Only about 5'2", he was a giant in combat and was constantly cleaning his weapon. Unlike the rest of them, Scotty lived for firefights and action. "Don't you two paratroopers ever get tired of 'bumpin' your gums", he said mostly to no one.

The quietness hung in the air until Kenny said, "If you keep bothering us, the next time, I'm lettin' your ass drown." Scotty gave him the one finger salute. It was funny, they were crossing what they believe was a shallow stream. Scotty had the typical infantryman's load: a 60 pound ruck, his M16 and a bandoleer of ammo including half dozen grenades. He was about ankle high in water and suddenly disappeared. He came up sputtering and then went down again. Kenny grabbed him and held him just above water until a couple of other guys got there. Scotty never lived it down and had to take a constant "ration" for it. But, from then on, he never complained about making sure someone was around when they came to water. George made sure someone assisted the "midget" as they good naturedly called him, "OK, who is in charge of the midget?" It was Nam.

What do you do in the Nam when you are not fighting? Well, you talk and you better believe that George and Kenny talked. George sometimes thought Kenny was obsessed with the whole white and black thing. But, then again, he didn't have to face it like blacks did, he reckoned.

There were history lessons but George didn't mind.

"You can't imagine, Cracker, how bad it is, not being first class citizens. Having to be looked down on, going to the back door, can't eat in some restaurants. Makes me want to kill somebody."

George did understand more than most. He'd always been intuitive even if he didn't know what it meant. When he'd go with Mr. Lee to sell tobacco, he'd sit around and listen to the tall tales and then he'd think about them. And, there was unbelievable irony in this situation and he grasped it immediately. Here they were in Vietnam, fighting for freedom; and, yet, Sergeant Dryer did not have freedom in his own country. "And, that ain't right," George said to himself.

During long moments of lull, Sergeant Dryer and George talked about lots of things but much of it had to do with skin color. Once, Kenny said to him: "You white guys only think about race when it's called to your attention if ever. Us blacks think about it all the time."

This stressed George over and over. He thought about growing up in his hometown. The schools were integrated in 1954 but he never saw a black the entire time he was in school and somebody told him that it was the seventies before any ventured into the so-called white high school. He was ashamed to admit that he didn't even know where the black school was.

Southerners discriminated against blacks simply because they viewed them as second or third class citizens. It was terrible and made George ashamed of himself and these people that he loved. George never thought about being poor or deprived of what others had. Sure, the Lees were poor farmers, but he always had enough to eat and always felt that he was in a place where maybe he didn't think he was equal but nobody else seemed to notice. And, that was no small thing.

As George thought about it during those star filled nights out by the Hue bridges in Vietnam, his story was not personal, more a broader picture. He really didn't come in contact with blacks other than working in the fields. In his little town, there was a demarcation line—blacks on one side and whites on the other. They had their own school, stores, etc.; the townspeople never saw them. If need be, the whites could go across the invisible demarcation line, but the blacks could not come across the line to the white community or they didn't.

Now, this is one strange thing, George did not remember a single racial incident. To think about it, this was remarkable. Then again, it was from George's perspective, not from someone like Kenny. Being born in the South carries with it a kind of schizophrenic personality that never leaves. There are many myths wrapped around Dixie. We talk about the new South; and, yet, there are those who are still fighting the Civil War and in many ways, few things had changed.

George was developing a little routine. Usually, he didn't eat breakfast. Mrs. Beal was constantly after him for not eating "the most important meal of the day." Still, he drifted into the coffee shop, Butler and Carroll's, around seven. Sitting at the counter, he had coffee and read the paper.

Williamstown County seemed to be a little different from the rest of eastern North Carolina. More backward in a way. Why? George didn't have a clue but was learning quickly. He didn't question his decision to settle in the county. There really was no reason not too. In some ways, it was a business decision; his chances for buying small allotments of tobacco seemed better. Small farmers were poorer than those where he'd grown up. Maybe it had to do with some bad memories of the orphanage. Mr. Lee was gone and the family was scattered. In a sense, he didn't have a home and so why not Williamstown. He surely didn't discount the fact that it was Kenny's home and somehow, it honored his memory.

He had developed a special bond with Kenny's Mom, Bessie. Kenny's insurance money had helped them buy their home and even send his two sisters to college. This gave George a lot of personal satisfaction. Bessie Dryer would often hug George and say things like, "You are our last contact with our beloved Kenny."

George bought several small patches of land and along with them negotiated the tobacco allotments. He had forty acres of land which could be a big money-maker. Most farmers had little acreage and thus a small government allotment. This would be his first year of putting his plan in motion.

Mostly, Williamstown County used manual labor to harvest tobacco, but George had another idea: one of the new machines, a tobacco harvester. He had seen one demonstrated. It could easily handle four rows of tobacco in a fraction of the time of cropping it by hand. Literally, it could do all the work with a minimum of labor.

Raising tobacco and harvesting it the old way was a hard life. George knew all about it. He graduated early on, maybe about eleven, from being the drag driver to a cropper. The drag driver was mainly reserved for the youngest. The mule pulled the drag or sled as the uninitiated called it. It was like a long box that carried the loose leaves of the tobacco plant from the field to the barn where the stringers tied it on long sticks which were placed in the barn to cure.

By the time he was sixteen, George was said to be one of the fastest tobacco croppers in the county, if not the fastest—a fast cropper was much in demand. In those days, the pay was about fifty cents an hour, with a possible raise to seventy-five cents if you were a good worker.

To crop tobacco, the cropper started from the bottom of the stalk and made sure to pick the two to three leafs that were ripe. A good cropper could literally get all three leaves in one swing of the hand around the plant. It all had to do with technique. To be the fastest, it was also important to make sure that the movement to the drag was expedient; the best row was the one beside the drag, assuming one is right-handed. The cropper would crop with his right hand and then in one motion, put it under his left arm and hold it until he got so much he couldn't go further and then he'd take it to the drag and lay it neatly in. It would really irritate the people at the barn if it came just thrown into the drag.

What would devastate a cropper in tobacco was the early morning juice off the tobacco leaves. As the dew was still on the tobacco early in the morning when work started, if the cropper kept his mouth open or did anything like talking, by ten o'clock or so, he'd be sick as a dog, throwing up. However, taking too much time being sick was a no-no too.

There was always method in the madness of the tobacco. When the dragged filled up, it was driven to the barn, but the croppers didn't wait for that; a well-oiled operation, had two drags moving, one arriving just as the other one was dispatched to the barn. When it got to the barn, someone took it out of the drag and laid it on this long wooden bench where it was picked up by the handlers and handed to the stringers. This is an operation! The stringer had the tobacco stick stretched across something like two saw horses, made especially for this operation. The stringer tied the tobacco in bundles of four to eight leaves from about six inches back in the stick to six inches from the other end. As soon as the stringer was finished, someone removed it and stacked it in rows on the ground to be ready to go into the barn for curing when the day was done.

George was thinking about these very things when a local sat down beside him. "George, how are the plans coming along?"

"Good," he said without volunteering anything else.

"Still thinking of getting the new fangled machine for the tobacco?"

"I think so."

Long pause.

The local whom George had seen often in the coffee shop, seemed to want to say something but didn't know how to get it out. "You know you could get you some niggers who are pretty good croppers and you don't have to pay them hardly anything." George looked at him while thinking how stupid these people are. Maggie poured him some coffee. She smiled at George and as though being a part of the conversation said, "You know, George don't like the word, nigger".

Maggie instantly hated she said it. She really liked George—he didn't have a clue how much. Not only was he different, but always a gentleman. Every morning, her emotions were glued on the door, hoping he would show.

Maggie moved on with her coffee. The local didn't respond, but simply walked back to his booth next to the window where three other men were seated.

George took a deep breath. He had said jokingly, one night when Maggie had used the "N," word, "You mean black, don't you?" George remembered she had looked at him intensely. He had already gained a reputation as the outsider and simply a little strange. He didn't mingle; they never saw him at night. A hard worker with different ideas was an anomaly in Williamstown County.

Nothing was planted on his farms but George was asking questions and talking to people. Mainly he spent an inordinate amount of time in The Bottoms, the black part of town. The white folks didn't like it. Things were changing and outsiders like George were bringing it on. All they knew about him was that he was a Vietnam vet and was spending time with nigger veterans in The Bottoms.

George heard the word, nigger-lover bandied about. Maggie came back over and poured some more coffee. "George, I like you." She paused as if not knowing what to say or do or where to go next. "But, I think you lettin' yourself in for trouble. The Klan is just too powerful here and they don't like it when somebody has a different idea." She just wished he would get on out; she could sense trouble brewing.

George grinned and kind of nodded. In his mind's eye, he didn't know where to go with it either. Most people were beginning to see Vietnam vets as crazy or victims mostly based on the movies.

George didn't know how to respond to Maggie, he didn't know her all that well but liked her. She was dark with olive skin. She had small breasts. It made him smile to himself when he thought of things like that. In the Nam, they would talk about breasts, shapes, sizes, wants and desire—mostly in fun but it was about women most of the time. Dryer had a way with his speech. "Man, more than a mouth full is wasted anyway".

Maggie had bedded most everyone in town according to the gossip. She seemed to know everybody and treat everybody the same. Not a bad thing in a small town. George often smiled at her attempts of being an armchair psychologist. "Well," he thought, "She is going to the junior college studying psychology. Why not?" She had told him the names of all the Klan leaders in town—all unsolicited as if he needed to know. The only persons he recognized were previous visitors: Pastor Blessing and Corbin, who owned the local hardware store.

What attracted George to Maggie was her piercing eyes. She had this funny way of looking at you but not seeing. And, then, when she wanted too, she could focus and suddenly you were the recipient of her full attention.

The Army taught George to confront things; sooner or later, you had to face the enemy. For soldiers in the Nam and probably all wars, the military could easily become the enemy, the military bureaucracy. It helped in Vietnam to be able to bad mouth the higher-ups. In the civilian world, there was not a common enemy or maybe there was-racism. If you didn't deal with a bigot, things only got worse.

At least that's what he believed. He made a decision. As he drained the coffee from his cup, he remembered a movie with Glenn Ford, one of his cowboy heroes. Glenn, a rancher, was confronted by a cattle baron who wanted his land. He knew immediately that he had to deal with the situation. Ford challenged the cattle baron; and, in his case, whipped the toughest of the tough. George wished it was that easy.

Maggie looked at him long and hard, willing him to leave. He stood and glanced at the four racists staring at him as he walked toward them.

"Want something, nigger lover?"

George grinned and said, "No, not really but wonder if I could speak to you alone."

"Say whatever you want to say."

"No, really, could I just speak to you alone," he fixed his eye on the one who had approached him earlier.

"Say it, mother fucker."

The chatter in the shop froze, not a dish rattled. He lowered his voice. "I don't want any trouble. I'm just trying to get started here. I don't want to fight, but," and he paused and looked back toward Maggie who was staring at him intensely, "But, if I have to fight you and he glanced at all of them, I'm not going to fight. I'm going to kill you. I'm going to fuckin' kill you. You can count on it." He turned and walked away without anyone saying a word.

First squad had moved into the South end of the ville. George was walking point. Although this was a "free fire zone", the village still had to be purged—could be either rice or possibly even a weapons cache. A ploy of the VC was to hide rations and weapons in burned or abandoned villages for later use. Intel turned up various VC schemes to hide supplies —sometimes even in graves.

The most ingenious hiding place had been a big elaborate Buddha in a pagoda. Most GIs were reluctant to search religious monuments. Under the big Buddha, however, they found five AK 47s and enough ammunition for an Army. So much for religion.

George entered each building and checked for booby traps. Second squad was snaking its way toward the ville when suddenly, Sergeant Dryer, in third squad as reserve, thought he detected movement at the far end of the village. If so, George could be walking into a trap. George needed to hold it in place for a bit, but he didn't have a radio. Kenny watched him from the crest of a hill. He was sure he saw something as he scanned the area again with the binoculars. Nothing but he could feel it in his gut.

"Lieutenant, I think I saw movement in front of first squad."

"What was it?"

"I don't know, but if there's somebody, Hurdle is walking into a trap."

"Too late", he said, "looks like he only has a few more hooches to check out."

"But, shouldn't we do something?"

"Like what? Call in some artillery".

"Hurdle knows what he's doing."

Mother fucker. Dryer ignored the Lieutenant and picked up his M79 grenade launcher and leveled it at George's position. He fired about twenty meters in front of him causing George to instinctively dive to a corner of the building and open fire.

Suddenly a trap door popped up in front of Sergeant Hurdle and three figures sprinted toward the wood line. George fired again and one of them went down while the other two scampered safely into the trees.

"I saved your life, Cracker, I told you I would." Kenny laughed.

George smiled. Kenny strutted like a peacock.

Three days later, Sergeant Kenny Dryer was killed by friendly fire. George could hardly believe it. They were still in the same AO, and were putting artillery on a village. A short round got him and two other members of his squad. Friendly fire happened much more than anybody wanted to admit. The Lieutenant reported the incident as killed by the enemy. It was almost standard practice. Who wanted to be killed by their own people? A person was just as dead.

For the first time in that sorry war, George was distraught about his friend. He was angry at the artillery, at his friends, at Kenny for getting killed. He hated God. How could something like this happen? They left him alone.

It had been two weeks or more when the word came down. Sergeant Hurdle was to escort Dryer's body to North Carolina for burial per the family's request. George said no.

"Sergeant, this ain't no fuckin' democracy," the Major said. Major Sanford was the XO and a no bullshit sort of guy. He hated most everybody and more or less ran the battalion.

The trip to Williamstown, North Carolina was a blur to George. He had gone by way of Dover, Delaware where the Army morgue was housed. From there he was to accompany Kenny's body to the funeral. He was in a daze. The big briefing took place in a movie auditorium where he, along with fifty or so others, had it impressed upon them how important this job was—never leave the body till you deliver it to the funeral home. Deliver it, an "it." George wasn't sure he could do this and thought to himself, I ain't going back to the Nam, no way.

The train ride to someplace-George didn't know was not very eventful. George slept in a sleeper car next to where Kenny lay. He wanted to cry but was numb instead. What was he doing here, should be back in Nam. What could he say? Was this a cruel joke? The emotions ran from anger to a kind of depression that fell over him. He expected it to linger and it did.

George didn't think that he had ever been to a black funeral. Was it different than any he'd known, growing up? He didn't think so. He didn't know how to act as he stood around in his pressed uniform.

Kenny's Mom and Dad cried and said things like this must be God's will, did he suffer—all the things that George guessed people needed to say. Please God, let this be over. He guessed this was all honoring Kenny; and, if that were the case, he would have to stand it.

There was a liaison officer from somewhere. George disliked him immediately—fuckin' butter bar. When he asked George where his medals were, George thought about punching him. The truth was that George had refused to put them on as an act of defiance and respect to Kenny. One night they had talked about medals and how bogus they were. When you did something important, you got shit. When you were kind of present for duty, they slapped one on you. George had plenty. Kenny said he'd never wear them once he escaped the Army.

Mercifully, the torturous funeral experience ended. He could have had a leave, but decided to get back to Nam. He needed to be with his men, kill some VC, and suffer.

The Klu Klux Klan owned Williamstown County, everybody knew it. They intimidated the various officials and preached a gospel of hate and more hate. To some, it was ignorance; but if it didn't bother them personally, they chose not to speak up.

A Klan Klavern is an insidious thing. Most southerners rarely admit they are in sympathy with their goals. The Klan was a domestic terror leech on the side of the status quo. Unfortunately, many still viewed them as a benign vigilante force or a Friday night beer fest at the Elks' Club. But, these bullies were far from harmless. Their bullying and intimidation extended everywhere and even those who professed wanting to do right accepted who they were. George didn't know how it all might play out.

For George, it played out in the worst sort of ways. Although he lived at the Boarding House, he spent most of his days working his plan or investigating buying other acreage to put his plan in motion. George intended to be the biggest tobacco farmer in the area. He didn't know the politics of the county.

It had been Maggie who kept George informed, even if he didn't want to be. Maggie was a kind of town crier, "The school is going to be integrated this year."

Hadn't that already happened? Here it was fifteen or so years down the road and Maggie is telling him the school is about to integrate. What is it with these people?

The morning it happened, George didn't even know it was coming down. Suddenly, there were all these people in the street—newspaper people, kids everywhere.

The school was a block back at the end of Main Street; it was old time brick and mortar. A car came through the end of town from The Bottoms and stopped across from the Boarding House. A neatly dressed, black girl got out with an adult and started walking toward the school. She had on one of those long dresses with a long white bow. Kids began to taunt, little kids, young teenagers. It was in a way that only kids can be cruel. Many had cameras. Some of the kids were spitting on her. The shouts were "Nigger, go home." People were throwing things. Where were the adults? The Sheriff? What about the school officials? George stood on the porch watching it.

Shocked to his core, he made a decision as he stood watching the debacle. Memories of rejection flooded over him—even when he didn't have too, it seemed he was always fighting for his spot. Well, all but one place, Vietnam. It was there where all were equal, the camaraderie, the sense of watching each other's back. No wonder they never got over it, for many, it was the only time they had ever had such a thing.

When George saw his Vietnam compatriots dressed in those old fatigues at parades, he understood exactly. Although he didn't go to many memorials or parades, he got it—those guys were trying to recapture that which they had known in Nam.

The call came early one morning from Darlene. Scotty was in jail in California and needed some help.

What happened?

Scotty had been harassed by some locals while he was reading meters for PG & E, the gas company. He then enacted a little payback.

Like what? Well, he reduced their low rider to rubble by emptying two full magazines from an M16 into it in the middle of the night. He didn't want to hurt anyone.

George flew out to Oakland and bailed him out.

Scotty had been his fire team leader. Mad Dog was what the guys called him. He was fearless and relished firefights. His transition to civilian life had not been smooth to say the least, even though he'd married his high school sweetheart. If the squad had seen one picture of her, they had seen a thousand. They knew her. All Scotty talked about in Nam was going back to the "world", marrying his girl, and moving to California—his girl and the California sun were an oasis in the middle of his desert. It was a fantasy. The "world" never lived up to its billing.

Like most combat vets, Scotty couldn't get his life together. Nobody's fault really. Landing the job with PG & E was a big break and Darlene said he was actually settling in. George remembered the late night calls from Darlene over the years when Scotty went crazy. She was religious and didn't believe in divorce. George hoped she'd hang in.

Most of the time, George could talk some sense into him. Drinking and smoking a little weed, not to mention guns everywhere, seemed natural to Scotty. Darlene said he slept with a loaded 45 under his pillar. She worried for the kids.

Now, they were way up in Weaverville where everybody could raise a little cash crop of marijuana and survive. Scotty seemed a little more content. Most of the charges had been dropped as the police were pretty much in empathy with him. He merely had shot up the car of a bunch of punks, anyway. The other charges were reduced to a misdemeanor and a fine. He even got to keep his job with PG & E. Being a pole climber in wielded out Northern California was not all bad.

The night it happened would be one the people in the county would long remember. The first blast went off at Bill Johnson's feed silos. It shook the earth and woke up everyone for miles around. It sounded like a bomb. Bill Johnson was the son-in-law of the Sheriff and a leader of the Klu Klux Klan Klavern and probably the biggest racist in town. He had made a small fortune with his five silos, storing feed. An hour later, the Benfield General Store went up in flames, and then it was Harley's Hardware. Next came the Elks Club and finally the Wakefield Chevy dealership. All the places belonged to Klan leaders.

When light finally made its way to Williamstown, people were in shock. George arrived at his usual time for his visit with Maggie and sat at the counter as she recounted the theories of the night. A few people drifted in. "Got to be something planned and coordinated," she said. "What do you think?"

George pursed his lips and looked past Maggie and was silent. Finally, he said, "I don't know. You know me, I try to mind my own business." She looked at him with one of those mordant looks.

The Mayor stepped to the podium. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he said, "We are here today to honor the memory of Kenny Dryer, one of Williamstown County's most revered citizens who lost his life in Vietnam. Our special guests today are first and foremost all his family. We are also pleased to welcome our Governor and Superintendent of Education and all our good friends from throughout the State who have come to share in this great event. "

The Mayor proceeded. "The Kenny Dryer Middle School will be one of the most innovative in the State and we hope a model for all."

The sun was high. Maggie squeezed George's arm and glanced at Scotty and Marlene who had flown from California for the festivities. She smiled at George. He smiled back.

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 impossible 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"

On the drive back home, I decided to stop off in Fayetteville or as I still called it, Fayettenam, and call one of my Nam buddies, Julian T. Manfred or as he liked to be called, TM (The Man) or Mangy.

Mangy straightened out "Cherries in the Nam." He'd tell the newbies, "You just call me, The Man." The name "Mangy" was given to him in Nam. He was known for wearing the same fatigues until they fell off him. One day someone said, "You are one mangy mother fucker." It stuck.

Mangy was into everything, legal and illegal. One of the things he'd gotten into was storage facilities. Before then, he'd been into these rip-off check cashing stores and then he'd had a pawn shop or two.

He was a good businessman and entrepreneur and one of the few guys I knew who had never left Vietnam and yet was fairly successful. He channeled his PTSD (post traumatic stress disorder) into productive activity, at least money making. I think he smoked pot every day and was known to do about everything else known to mankind that harmed his body. I always gave him hell and the most I got out of him was a smile. He'd been generous though with a few of my projects. Several of us had contributed to building a school in Vietnam and he'd come through big time even if his comments had been, "I don't owe them Cong, nothing," mimicking, Mohammed Ali in his comments, "I ain't got nothing against them Cong."

Just as I was getting into my car, Mangy drove up.

"Sarge, what's going on?"

"Oh, just decided I'd drop by."

"Got time for a drink?"

"I might have if I'd been able to find you, you sorry mother", I said, hugging him. I just wanted to tell you about Sergeant Bowman."

"Sergeant Bowman, boy, haven't thought of him in a long time, not since you told me all that stuff about the money you guys found in Nam." I'm telling you, Sarge, you should have paid the VC off and carted those bucks out of the Nam."

I didn't tell him so, but had always wondered if maybe Sergeant 'Bowman hadn't figured out how to do it. I had wondered for years and was thinking of it even as we talked. I couldn't see how he could. We aren't talking about a few dollars, but money stacked waist high, everywhere, all around. It must have been quite an effort to get it into that hole. How did the VC do it?

The Mary Black Retirement Center was in this wonderful little town or so it seemed, Spivey's Corner. I had read one of those historical markers where it was named during the Revolutionary War. Spies literally convened to share their notes. This was my interpretation. The truth was that messages were maybe passed. All the marker said was "a historic meeting took place here." The little town had a town square with a big courtroom, I guessed, and looked probably like it did 200 years ago.

Mary Black had been a Baptist Missionary for years and had actually bequeathed her sprawling old home place as the very first building. Now, there were dozens of buildings spread out throughout the several acres: cottages, a gigantic common area, beautiful kitchen, and other facilities. It reminded me of a college but most of the people were gray hairs. Some used walkers, canes, and most had various physical or mental ailments. Damn, this getting old was no picnic.

Here I sat in the special Alzheimer's unit. It was a long building with small rooms jutting off from the sides of a long hall. These must have been the residents' rooms. I had made the mistake of saying patients and one of the nurses corrected me, "We call them residents."

"Sergeant Bowman, how's it going?"

"Well, I'm doing just fine sir."

Long pause.

This was actually my first visit since the funeral. Why? Well, I owed it to my Sergeant. This is the way I still looked at him. He was my squad leader.

"I'm glad to see you", I said. "Are you doing OK?"

Long pause.

I continued, "How do you like this place?"

"Well, I guess it's OK. There's some strange fellows here," he said, kind of glancing at a man sitting at the other end of the couch. I was pretty excited; he'd spoken and maybe knew who I was.

"Strange, what do you mean?"

Sergeant Bowman got up and walked over to the man who immediately stood and said, "How are you? I hope your day is going well."

Sergeant Bowman just stood there and the man said again, "How are you. I hope your day is going well." He repeated it over and over. I got the picture.

I decided to risk it, "Sergeant Bowman, do you remember Vietnam?" Long pause.

"You know they took away my car."

"Who are they?"

"And, I can't find my checkbook."

"Your checkbook?"

"And, this is what worries me most, my son is stealing my money and he won't tell me where he's hiding it. What I worry about is my bills."

Long pause.

"I think it is time for me to go now."

"Go where?"

It dawned on me that I wasn't carrying on a conversation with Sergeant Bowman. This man I was talking to was not Sergeant Bowman; I didn't know who the hell he was.

"I'm thinking about moving to the Mary Black Center."

I smiled and decided it was no use. With a big sigh, I leaned wearily back into the cushion of the sofa and then stood. I put out my hand and with the other one reached down and placed Sergeant Bowman's hand in mine. I squeezed and smiled and turn to walk out the door fully expecting this to be my last visit.

The attendant came over and asked me to sign out, I did and he punched in a couple of numbers on the code to let me out. I turned and looked at my squad leader and gave a hell of a weak smile. _F..._

He walked toward me and gave a half-assed grin like Sergeant Bowman always did in Nam, "Jake, you come back to see me, OK?"

Phil was on R and R to Thailand. Sergeant Bowman was in at the fire support base doing some paperwork or something. It must have been important as the Sarge rarely left the field. I don't remember, but I was the acting squad leader. No big sweat. Things were in a lull. We'd had some activity the night before but not heavy action.

"Jake, stay relaxed and just be cautious if you get in any shit," the Sarge had said.

"No sweat. Don't you be hangin out in no villes", I replied. I knew he wouldn't, but it was a usual thing when a guy went in to the fire support base or especially the base camp( and God forbid if he were to get into Hue or somewhere) it could be a good time...Getting laid was a good possibility. We didn't get to do that.

Bowman was always saying, "When you are trying to kill Charley and he's after you, pussy is down the food chain. But, let's don't rule it out" We'd all guffaw.

Tim was a handsome guy who had black hair, combed straight back. He shaved everyday and kicked our ass if we didn't do the same. I idolized him but didn't know it at the time.

It was about three o'clock and the dark was coming. I always hated the dark. Everything happened at night. Our platoon leader didn't know shit. He'd only been around a week or so and I hadn't even talked to him. The briefing of our mission was about what it always was. Bowman had told them that while he was gone, we needed to lay back. Let 1st Squad take the lead.

We loaded up and moved out. I was a little uneasy. Without the Sarge and Phil, who was a really seasoned soldier, I was the next guy in line. Most of the squad had been in the Nam less than three months; but, in this hellhole, that was a lifetime.

We packed our shit up and sat around. It was about an hour before we moved out. I was walking point. I did it lots, but for a weird reason, I felt safe. The Sarge would have kicked my ass; but, we weren't the lead squad and so if Sir Charles was after us, we wouldn't get hit.

Over to my left was a cherry, I didn't even know his name, maybe in Stitch's fire team. Stitch was a trip. Big tall, drink of water, as Bowman called him--skinny and black and scared shitless of everything. The thing that kept him going was Bowman who hassled and philosophized to him about everything and made him respect himself.

It happened so fast that at first I didn't know what it was, but there was screaming and shouting and firing. Somebody had stepped on a booby trap and then there had been contact somewhere in front of us. I saw the explosion and started crawling on my hands and knees and screaming, "Stay put!" into the radio.

What often happened with booby traps, a bouncing Betty (explosive that propels upward about four feet into the air and then detonates) in particular, is that when someone stepped on one, the others panicked with the natural tendency to get away, but then they were in jeopardy of stepping on others.

The VC were masters at laying down these deadly little fuckers. The cherry had been blown to smithereens when I got to him. I picked up his boot with his foot still in it. I immediately threw up.

"It's not your fault", Sergeant Bowman said. "This is war and it ain't no day at the beach. Get your ass together, Jake".

I was lost in thought about a dozen times since I had seen Sergeant Bowman. Calling me Jake had blown my mind. Here was a man who was supposed to be out of it.

I immediately got on the net and started learning more about this insidious disease. What I discovered quickly was that there was no typical Alzheimer's victim. It appeared that with many people it happens in stages. At first it is the simply forgetting names, places; and, then as it progresses, there's a loss of reality. There are a few lucid moments when he seems to be with it.

To be honest, I knew more about Alzheimer's or maybe dementia, nobody seemed to differentiate very much between them, than I thought I did. My father-in-law was a full blown case and I had watched it progress. In fact, I'm the one who first noticed that he was affected.

When I would float through on a brief visit after he retired, I could see changes. And, toward the end, I once said to my wife, "Your Dad has really gone down." What I meant was that he was constantly repeating himself, and seemed to exist in a world, not totally glued to the earth. But, nobody seemed to be concerned. I put it as classic denial. Next case.

When my mother-in-law died, they realized quickly how he had "gone down." My mother-in-law's Dad had been a pastor for over 60 years. She was the quintessential pastor's wife and had made sure she was a positive representative for her husband and church.

What I suspected is that my mother-in-law was a very proud woman and had covered up her husband's sickness for years. She was embarrassed. I didn't quite get it. What to me was sickness, maybe to her, was weakness. I don't know. In some ways, this was the same as Sergeant Bowman's wife--strange that the circumstances were similar.

I had read about the brain plaques, the brain tangles. What fascinated me was the concept of "janitor" cells. Janitor cells are protein cells that vacuum up these awful gooey secretions (which eventually become plague) that steal our memories.

In my mind's eye, I could actually see this goo being vacuumed onto these cells. This is awful; I couldn't get it out of my head. Alzheimer's patients have lost their janitor cells.

I guessed that the old Sergeant Bowman was in there somewhere. He forgot he had been a soldier, but he did call me by my name. He couldn't remember Vietnam, so he didn't really know me or did he?

Sergeant Bowman asked me several times, whenever I visited, did I know that his wife died. He said that he had been to a funeral, but didn't know who it was for. Yet at the reception, I had watched him talk to people like he was very much with it. Maybe if the family had known he was progressing so quickly, his condition could have been arrested. Damn.

I read that most Alzheimer's patients are "hardwired" into certain things. They can't remember what they talked about or had for lunch ten minutes ago, but can recall in great detail past events. Sometimes, there's a moment of lucidity that is uncanny.

"Sergeant Bowman, it's good to see you again. How's it going?"

"Fine and you."

"Well good, thanks for asking, do you remember me?"

"Of course, I remember you. How's the wife and kids?"

"Good," I said, realizing that he didn't have a clue. I sat down beside the bed. He was laying on it, watching TV.

"What are you watching?"

No answer. I stood up and walked over to the window.

I had decided to visit Sergeant Bowman one last time for closure. He really wasn't Sergeant Bowman. It was almost like the invasion of the body snatchers; but, in this case, it was the invasion of the mind snatchers. I was intrigued while at the same time feeling this overwhelming sadness.

An attendant came in and announced lunch.

Tim stood up and said, "Let's go to chow, Jake, what about it."

I almost fell over. We walked over to the dining area. An attendant called on someone to pray and this short man immaculately dressed offered the most beautiful prayer I've ever heard. I knew this was part of being hardwired. The man didn't know who or where he was; but, when asked to pray, it was like pushing a button and out comes this activity he has done all his life. Hardwired.

At the viewing of my mother in law's body came my first "whoa" when my father-in-law prayed the most beautiful prayer. His wife was in the casket and he placed his hand on hers and said something like, "Dear God, thank you for all these wonderful years of dedication. We have had this wonderful life. We've tried to be good servants and now take my loved one into your bosom and prepare me for that time when I will join her." There was not a dry eye to be found, mine included. Fifteen minutes later, he was asking, "Who are we having this funeral for?" Hardwired.

Suddenly Sergeant Bowman said to me, "Jake, let's go outside to a restaurant." Still stunned from the Sarge's suddenly being "back", I tried to recover. With the staff's approval, we loaded up and drove downtown to a local diner. We sat at a table in the far corner, one that Sergeant Bowman led us too.

The Sarge looked around and said, "Jake, guess you wonder about the money we found in Vietnam?"

My mouth was dry.

"Well, yes, I guess I've thought about it over the years."

"Was that some day or what," he laughed.

"The firing and mortars went on well into the night. I thought I was a goner. I couldn't get out of the hole as it had collapsed. The platoon was close to wiped out and everybody in the squad was either killed or wounded. Nobody knew I was in the hole. I finally got out sometime in the early morning. Everybody was gone. I couldn't wait to find somebody and tell them about the money. Fortunately, I had my radio and when I got on it, the battalion could hardly believe I was still alive. They extracted me back to the hospital at Phu Bai and not the battalion. I didn't have any wounds and they let me go. I was still wired and had to hitch a ride back to the rear. I saw Buddha. Our mess sergeant. Boy, was I lucky. Buddha and I had come to the Nam together in our first tour and were assigned to the same battalion. He went back to the States with me, but then volunteered to come back and I followed him by a couple of months later for my second tour. For the first few days, before I went up country, he put me up at Bien Hoa. We got to be great friends and he was always looking after me and my troops. I could call on him for anything. It was amazing that I had run into him. Everybody knew Buddha dealt in the black market because it was how we got this great chow. Remember the time we had lobsters in the field? He was so glad to see me and had heard I'd been killed and had actually come to Phu Bai looking for me. He could hardly believe that here he was looking and suddenly there I am. The back of his truck was filled with supplies of various sorts. He kept hugging me and saying, 'Man, I can't believe this.' I immediately told him the story of how the platoon was hit; I didn't know where they were or what had happened. Then I told him about the money. His eyes got as big as saucers.

'How much do you think?' he wanted to know.

'Fuck if I know, it was stacked up higher than me.'

Buddha was quiet. He knew a bar where we could have a beer. It was then that Buddha laid out his plan. 'Let's get the money and get it out of Vietnam.'

'What?'

'Are you crazy? No way, even if we could, we'd get caught.'

'Could you find where it was again?'

'Of course, I have the coordinates.'

Buddha made me promise to sit on the story for awhile till he could check out some things."

I could not believe my ears. My adrenalin was pumping and my blood pressure was maxed out. The only thing that might have been more was the advent of a good fire fight in Nam.

Long pause.

I had to sit on my hands to keep my asking questions. Finally, I said, "Sergeant Bowman?"

It was one of those times when he was looking at me but not seeing me.

"You know I am thinking of moving to the Mary Black apartments", Tim said.

I thought, he's already at the Mary Black home. "Tim, you are already there."

"You know I think my son is stealing my money and somebody has taken my car. They say it is in the shop but I don't believe them."

"Well, Tim, you don't drive anyway."

Long pause.

I was searching for something to say but suddenly there was no meaning in anything he said.

"My secretary quit. She didn't like the new janitor."

"What secretary?"

"I think we'd better go as the roll call happens soon and if you are not in your room, a big black man chains you to the bed."

I had lost him. I didn't know it then, but suddenly I was guilty of something that always happens with relatives and friends of Alzheimer's patients. We keep trying to deal with the person as though they are normal. We asked them questions. We try to respond to them but it's no use. They are not the person we have known. Invasion Of The Mind Snatchers.

The mess tent was in the Artillery section. Bowman had sent me to the rear to get two new cherries who were being assigned to the squad. He told me to check in with Buddha and tell him that Bowman said he had better send his ration of Bourbon or he was coming in to kick his ass. "And, you better deliver the message exactly as I said it," Sarge said.

I stood looking at this rotund man chewing out some GI. Damn, how did a man with that big belly get in the airborne? No wonder they call him Buddha. He must have read my thoughts as he glanced my way and said, 'What the fuck are you looking at soldier?'

'Sorry.'

'Don't be sorry motherfucker, be smart,' he walked my way. 'Want a cup of joe?' It was as though the switch had turned off on nasty and he was kind and human. A good combination and not found often in the Nam. Later on I discovered that Buddha always looked at a soldier's boots. If they were the boots of a grunt, there was nothing he wouldn't do for him. If they were shined and like some REMF (rear echelon mother fucker), he wouldn't give him the time of day. I gave him Tim's message and without warning, he put me in this bear hug. I was kind of taken aback still when he handed me a big bag which obviously was the fifth of Jack Daniels...

I couldn't believe the last time I saw Bowman he was so alert. He remembered me, the money, and Buddha, so I continued to visit.

Tim had more stories to tell about Buddha. Their second tour, Buddha talked Tim into going into Saigon before they went up North to the 101st. North always meant combat to Tim. In Saigon, they wandered around alleys, through little openings in various buildings. Suddenly, according to Tim, they were face to face with this unbelievable American western type saloon. All the Vietnamese wore western garb, several were dressed up like Tom Mix or Gene Autry or Roy Rogers. It was surreal. And, according to Tim, scantily clad females were everywhere.

What always amazed him and me too was the music. The Vietnamese entertainers could sing American songs with perfect English. Hey Jude, I'm Leaving On A Jet Plane, anything, but could barely speak a little pidgin English.

Buddha was like a king. His staff and most everyone else bowed to his every whim. Tim always suspected that there was more to it than Buddha let on. After all, Buddha was a dealmaker and Vietnam was his playground.

Buddha laughed when Tim questioned him about it.

"Good Sergeant, sometimes to know less than more is better. Look at that bar, would you believe that it is fashioned after a bar in Tombstone where Wyatt Earp once leaned on."

Bowman would often lower his voice and come out with a kind of reverence in defense of Buddha: "Buddha always felt guilty for his wrong doing." Buddha had a soft spot for grunts because they were the guys living and dying over here. Who couldn't agree with this?

My mind was a jumble of "what ifs" and confusion as I headed down Hwy 95 toward the Mary Black home. I have to admit that I could not stop thinking about what Sergeant Bowman had told me. I had to quit calling him Sergeant Bowman, that was forty years ago, but he was still the Sarge to me.

Even though I had read books and done research, I still understand little about Alzheimer's. There was no way to feel good about it. To see someone like Bowman end up like this was so painful.

Four and one half million Americans are estimated to have the disease. I can't believe that we can't do something about it. I didn't want to feel so helpless about it, because I always over think things anyway or so people tell me. But, who could be happy about a disease that eats up the mind, decays it really? OK, I'm going to say it: Alzheimer's is a disease that existentially eats up the self. I know it sounds so Californian, but it's true.

These thoughts were still hanging in my mind as I pulled into the Mary Black Center parking lot. That's it, I'll think of it as a _Ship of Fools_. I remembered the old allegory which _describes the world and its human inhabitants as a vessel whose passengers neither know nor care where they are going._

No way, these were all people, like Sergeant Bowman, who had lived productive lives, made contributions, and now were different people. This was more like Invasion of the Mind Snatchers.

"I'm sorry," she said, "Mr. Bowman is on a little outing with some of the other residents. We try to give them exercise other than what they often do which is walk back and forth. She seemed like such a kind person, about early forties, African American. I had read that caregivers only last a few months and the pay is abysmally low, which, in my opinion, is close to criminal. The working poor popped into my head.

"Does Sergeant Bowman ever talk about Vietnam," I asked her.

"Never heard him mention it," she said. "To be honest, he jabbers a lot, but usually it is a chorus along with others and so it's hard to know."

I am thinking to myself that this job must be impossible. These folks have to be saints. Someone like Sergeant Bowman might get agitated and become recalcitrant and these underpaid committed workers, in a sense, have to be just that: caregivers.

The Mary Black caregivers met the residents where they were in a particular moment, in their reality. The experts called this validation therapy. If they were in 1937 and survived the stock market crash then that was exactly where they were, 1937. I was astonished that these workers could do this. I wanted to learn more about how these people did it. They could teach the education and business world a few tricks.

"No, Juanita, you can't do that, that's not your room. Come over and meet this nice man."

The attendant walked over to a very attractive 80 year old woman and gently nudged her out of a room. She walked down the hall.

"She is a former Church Organist, a good musician. You should hear her play sometime. We have to keep our eyes on her all the time because she goes into others' rooms, sometimes gets in other patients' beds. We try to make sure that no one is in the same bed." She smiled.

"We have several ministers here and there are rumors that the musicians are involved with the ministers and so we have to be careful." I smiled.

"You mean in the sense that the organist is sleeping with the minister?" We both laughed.

Tim was out of it. Agitated and walking, he didn't seem to want to give me the time of day, much less acknowledge that I had come to see him. He was pacing. "Looking for his wife," said one of the attendants. I had heard the stories and the sad one of his being bereft with grief of his wife's passing and like my father-in-law, in the next breath, asking who the funeral was for. This was a sad existence to me.

I could only shake my head. I learned a lot hanging out at the Mary Black, hoping that Tim would float back into reality. It wasn't just for the curiosity of our mutual experience in Vietnam, but the incredible sadness I felt for him. Inwardly, I constantly was shaking my head at the loss of reality for him and the others.

"I don't think you ought to think of it like that", Elisa said.

Elisa was a rather large black lady. As my Mom would have said, "big boned." I had come to know and respect her enormously. She was so very good with Tim. His family had actually hired a private nurse to come in and sit with him; but, for some reason, in a lucid moment, Tim had dismissed her and had taken to Elisa.

She was great and had a kind of "Zen" quality about her, even if she didn't know it. Later on, I discovered she was a minister in the Church of God in Christ. Her ability to be in the moment was Zen through and through, based on what little I knew.

Wherever her charges were or who they wanted to be, she was there for them. "So," she told me, "just go with where Mr. Bowman is. If he's in Vietnam, or at a business meeting, be there with him. You might find it relieves your sadness." I didn't know my feelings were so apparent.

As a culture, we are incredibly uncomfortable with Alzheimer's. No doubt about it. Memory is and was a big issue; and, to be honest, I'd never thought all that much about it.

To be able to recount the wonderful memories of life is a wonderful gift. For Tim and me, those memories included Vietnam. It was a pivotal time in history and in my life. Hardly a day passed that I did not think about it. I had to feel that it was the same for Sergeant Bowman. He had been a soldier's soldier, a natural leader. In my heart of hearts, I knew that I could have never been the leader he was.

On most of my visits, Tim did not come back. More than likely, he came in, sat on his bed, and stared into space. He was still able to look after most of his personal hygiene-shower, shave- but other than that, his dementia had taken over.

I was close to giving up. I'd come back on the several visits out of respect, but I could not help my friend anymore. God bless him.

"Jake, what the fuck, boy. Am I glad to see you." I almost fell over.

Go with it, Elisa had said.

"Sarge, great to see you."

I had to learn to play along with where he was. I'd watched the other residents who were more open about fading into their past lives: the professor, the opera singer, the church musician. But, here was my Sergeant, my squad leader, back for the moment.

"Jake, how the hell are you, man?" Bowman bear hugged him.

Suddenly, we were back in the Nam.

"I could have used you to get those greenbacks out," he lowered his voice. I could hardly believe it.

"It took a conex container to unload them from that hole", according to Buddha. I don't know how he did it and got away with it. I think he got some help from the CIA or something, but after I got back to the States, he called and told me that I was to expect some trunks arriving from the Nam and I was to simply store them till I heard from him.

I was scared shitless. I didn't want anything to do with all that stuff, because somehow it had to be illegal. I could just see my ass holed up in Leavenworth for the rest of my life. Damn. Jake, where were you when I needed you? I thought you were dead. I'm so glad to be telling you this story. I've thought about you so much over the years. This has been miserable."

He half grinned and slapped me on the back.

"Would you believe I didn't touch those trunks for four or five years? My grandpa had a farm and I stored them out there in an old shed. I figured, 'hell, I'll just wait and see what happens.' Those fucking trunks took over my life. I would have given anything if we hadn't found that money."

There was a long pause and I silently prayed, "Please God, don't let me lose him again when we are this close." I decided to venture it. "What about Buddha?

Pause.

"Damn, you won't believe this? I talked to Buddha on the phone and gave him a sitrep and I was to sit tight. He was going on R and R and he'd take care of it. Don't talk, just wait. Nothing. I'm telling you, nothing. I went back to my old job at the mill and started trying to survive. Don't you remember? I called you a couple of times."

I did remember someone calling me but didn't know it was the Sarge as he didn't leave his name. It was soon after Nam and I was out of it myself. Nobody wanted to hear us or talk about Vietnam and we buried it.

The second time he called, I thought there was a familiarity on the machine but couldn't be, the Sarge was dead. Then, it just got to be OBE (overcome by events) and more or less I forgot about it until that day on the TV. Damn.

My squad leader, the good Sergeant Bowman was sitting in the chair beside his bed. I was sitting on the bed. He was shaking his head.

"Damn, Jake, you wouldn't believe it. When I didn't hear from Buddha, I didn't know what to do. I knew he was at Campbell or Bragg, but didn't know shit. Finally, I remembered, Wichita, remember him? His Dad was retired military and lived in Hopkinsville just outside of Fort Campbell. I got the number and called his Dad. Wichita had gone off the deep end and hadn't been heard from for months. His Dad told me Buddha was dead. I almost flipped out. He had been waiting for a chopper; and, when it came in, it lost powered, crashed on its side, knocking the blades loose. They were still rotating and chopped Buddha's head off."

Damn. I was taken aback. It was one of those times when you're hearing something but you're not quite sure you are hearing it. I was stunned is the mild term. I waited for the rest of the story.

Long Pause.

I sat there for 20 minutes or so and Tim didn't comment, only stared, lost in some far away galaxy. I was exhausted. This was so crazy, I had half of the story, but there were so many more pieces to it.

Why did I want to know? I guess I wondered how it all came together, if all that money had made Tim's life different. Well, sure it did, he was rich several times over and it had to be the money. Although now, what difference did it make. Nothing.

How would the money have changed my life if he had shared it with me? After all, I did help find it. Finders keepers. No, hell, put that out of your mind.

I came to see Tim a couple of more times. The last one I definitely came to say goodbye, hoping that just one more time, my squad leader would come back. I didn't want to hear anymore about the money, but I wanted to say goodbye and say thanks for keeping me alive in the Nam.

"He's gone," Elisa said.

"It happens," she says. "And, it is subtle or it's quick. Suddenly, I have an opera singer who is warming up her voice every morning as she is waiting for the role of a lifetime. And, then," Elisa's eyes misted up, "you come in to wake her up and she's gone--doesn't want to get out of bed. More likely than not she's had her final performance here on this earth." She paused and said, "Mr. Jacobson, your Mister Bowman has decided it is check out time. I'm so sorry."

I was sitting down beside Tim's bed and stood. Tim was staring.

"I'll give you just a minute alone."

There have been a few times in my life when I felt more sadness, but I couldn't remember when they were.

"Sergeant Bowman, travel well."

Sergeant Bowman took my hand and pressed something into it.

"What is this, Tim?" He stared into space.

I put the little note in my pocket. Walking to the car, I opened it:

Swiss Credit Bank -Zurich CH27 00568 002378944591

Union Bank of Switzerland CH17 01832 000521981433

Bank Leu (AG) - Zurich CH55 02945 001173649282

Swiss Bank Corporation -Basel CH24 00524 048911290367

Swiss Volksbank- Berne CH89 00928 002783442575

Password—buddhajacobson

Secret Questions:

What was your unit in Vietnam?

Answer: A company, 1/501st Airborne Infantry.

Who is your favorite Native American?

Geronimo

