The Barn Wood Sign

Hurricane Fran took the roof off of the barn back in 1996. For days after that we wandered around our swampy property and the nearby area picking up debris. Because we had used the barn as a storage place, our belongings had become airborne and had subsequently been deposited over much of the countryside.

My dad and I drove the tractor down lane after lane searching for familiar objects. Unfortunately, our neighbors were doing the same thing; there was a regular beehive of slow moving rural traffic all around the county. Among the missing items was a collection of our fishing gear. I think Dad was upset about the missing tackle, but he never let on much.

My father was a military man, even after he retired from the service. Everything was in order around our house including the fishing gear. Over the old metal bench in the barn my dad had hung his favorite rods and reels; freshwater gear was separated from saltwater gear and so forth. Between the two sets of rods, hung an old sign; I think he bought it at an auction; but, nonetheless, it was a sign of his retirement pastime. He carved his initials in the corner of the old splintered wood. The only time the sign was moved from its lofty perch was when he headed for the river, and then he would hang the sign on the barn door. It simply read, “Gone Fishing.”

Near a local tree nursery we found several pieces of that old bench, including a couple of bent up fishing poles. But, we never found many whole pieces or the rest of our fishing equipment. My guess is, based on some semi scientific evidence – I knew from which direction the wind came – that most of our stuff ended up in the river.

Dad started getting sick not long after that, had a stroke, and kind of began a downward spiral. He would linger another six years until he joined Mama in the Lord’s kingdom.

Not long ago a cousin and I ventured into an antique store near where we live. As we were poking through the collection of dusty memorabilia I spotted an old “Gone Fishing” sign. No, it was not my father’s sign, though I originally though it might be. And when I asked the shopkeeper about the price, she quoted me a sum that would make my banker blush. It was, I suppose, an antique. I mentioned to her my interest in the fishing sign, and she suggested I check her storeroom – as she said, “there’s a lot of broken junk back there." Her late husband had picked up a bunch of stuff after hurricanes.

I ventured though an old door into a room of chair legs and cracked benches. Leaning across a corner of the room was a slat of wood, the bottom of what was once a sign. It was full of worm holes, and white and bowed because of water damage. But, what caught my eye more than anything were the remains of carving in the corner of the piece. I carried the board to the front of the store. “How much?” She looked at the weathered board, “You can have it; it’s just a broken board.”

I took it home and found a piece of old barn wood, then tacked together and re-created a wooden sign. Then painted above my dad’s initials, “Gone Fishing.” I took that sign to where my father rests today, and hung it over the corner of the stone.

Dead Flies and Soggy Napkins

The fan blades barely turned, creating little more than a turnstile for a hundred flies awaiting their ticket to the grease and dust covered motor. Jerald looked at the sweating rocks glass before him. A curious puddle was forming around its base. The clear brown liquid within the glass, by contrast, remained as still as summer swamp.

“Drink up or leave.” The cigarette rash voice of Wanda, the bartender, broke the silence. She picked up a fly swatter and smashed a lazy fly, then after scooping the carcass onto the floor, returned the swatter to the bar.

Jerald raised his bloodshot eyes toward the woman. “Ya can’t make me drink, it’s illegal, I learned that in AA.”

“Well, ya ain’t gonna stay on that barstool all day neither.” Wanda wiped the perspiration from her lip. Her stained yellow fingers betrayed too many years of smoking.

“What’s it to ya? Not like people are knocking down the door to get in this place.” Jerald watched a fly crawl across the rim of the glass. The fly seemed to look up at Jerald before flying on to join the brethren celebrating the fan.

“It’s early now, but come sun down, all the bums will come in with their stolen dollar and beg a shot.”

“You give’m a shot? For a buck?” That’s not bad. Jerald stop that.

“Rot gut, not like that stuff ya got before ya.” Wanda raised the swatter again but the fly identified her approach and escaped to the ceiling.

Jerald looked at the drink in front of him. He hadn’t touched it, but minutes before he paid five dollars for the liquor and ice.

“Put another chunk of ice in it.”

“What and give you a towel to soak up the overflow, no dice. It had ice, it melted. Drink it or move on. You want something else?” Wanda wiped her hands on the hips of her tight blue jeans.

“Nope, nothing you can offer.” Promises, so many promises.

Wanda reached behind the counter and brought out a can of bug spray; sprayed at the ceiling, then waved her hand at the falling mist. “I’m let’n you sit there cause there ain’t nobody else in here, and you paid for that drink.” She lit a cigarette and at the same time swatted at a fly. “But, as soon as that evening crowd comes in, you either gotta start drink’n or move on. This here’s a business.”

“Yeah.”

Wanda picked up a television remote and pushed a button. “My soap opera’s on, you care?”

“Nope.”

Jerald didn’t listen to the sound, and he barely noticed the flickering screen. Wanda had leaned her back against the bar in order to see the television, thus faming Jerald’s drink in a sea of stretched white cloth. Jerald thought about his life, framed like the liquor, consumed by the alcohol. Why, Lord, why?

A stream from the sweating glass drifted toward Jerald. He pushed a cocktail napkin into its path to stop the flow. The napkin quickly turned from white to gray. Interesting, high life, became dull life.

Another person entered the bar and broke the monotony. Wanda sprang into action and nearly tripped trying to extinguish her cigarette and click the television to a news channel. She looked over at Jerald and gave him a ‘drink up’ sign.

Jerald pushed the drink to the back of the counter; two flies were nudged out of the way and seemed offended at the interruption. Then Jerald stood and walked toward the door.

“Leave’n?” Wanda called from the bar. She was armed with the fly swatter.

Jerald held up two fingers in a victory sign, and walked out onto the street. My life. One day at a time. Thank you Jesus.

A Promise

The radio blared the latest hit while Marsha lay on her back panting. Thank you Jesus, I never thought I could beat her. Seconds earlier she had crossed the finish line, a full stride ahead of her nearest competitor. Wow, the blood is pumping through my head, man that hurts. Then, without warning, an ice-pick-pain crossed in back of eyes and a veil of darkness covered her vision.

Somebody get that light out of my eyes. Bright lights blinded her when she suddenly became aware. Can’t anyone hear me? She tried to scream but the world was silent and her efforts did not intrude. Shadows passed the lights, I gotta get up and outa here. She wanted to get up and run – run like she had at the meet. But, something restrained her; try as she might she could not pull away. What’s this? She lowered her eyes, everything seemed in a fog.

Who’s there? A dark shadow appeared and held her chin. Then the shadow pushed her eyelid and brighter lights flashed in her eyes. Get that light out of my eyes. She wanted to scream again, but no sound came out.

Why can’t I scratch my nose? Her nose itched but she could not raise a hand to scratch; she tried to blow air upwardly but a tube in her mouth prevented any air flowing. She suddenly became aware of all of the tubes, everywhere.

A familiar face appeared over her. Mom! Help me mom. Her mother seemed to smooth Marsha’s hair, a hand passing before Marsha’s face.

Why mom? What’s happening? Why can’t I hear you? So many questions to ask but Marsha had trouble focusing on more than one thing.

Her mother stood, then another person in a white coat stood next to her mother and they seemed to be exchanging words. Are you talking about me? Talk to me. What’s going on? Then the person in the white coat left and Marsha once again began to concentrate on the white light above her.

Time passed, less important than it used to be, she had no clock, no measure of the minutes, hours, or weeks. Sheesh, I haven’t slept this much since whenever.

At some time she recognized the face of her associate pastor. Hey Jimmy, talk to me, it’s me Marsha. Then another time the senior pastor looked into her face. Reverend Samuels, finally someone with some sense, talk to me. Help me! It seemed to her that more strangers appeared before her than ever before. Various relatives also flashed before her, and then the parade slowed until it stopped. Why are all these people appearing before me, is this a dream?

When the parade of faces stopped she just thought about friends and relatives, about church and school, about her boyfriend Bob Bob, I’ll kill him when I get out of this; somehow this seems like one of his practical jokes. She thought about her job, trips to the grocery store, and her silly excursions to the mall. She thought about her little brother and what she could remember of her father – Cancer took him when she was very young. She recalled him telling her, “remember Jesus’ promise.” Mostly, she thought about God, and prayed that God would lead her out of whatever situation she was in. Oh, Jesus, maybe you can make me understand this. In her mind she began to sing, Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so. The old children’s hymn eased her mind.

A familiar face flashed in her vision. Mom, am I glad to see you. Her mother appeared to hug Marsha. Are those tears in your eyes? A man put his hand on her mother’s shoulder. Her mother kissed Marsha’s forehead then disappeared. Hey mister could you dim the light? The man in the white coat reached above her, and then he too departed. However, the lights began to dim.

She awoke suddenly on a grassy field surrounded by a mist. Standing in cooling air was Jesus, just the way she had pictured Him all of her life.

He reached out His hand. “Come to me child, for you are home.”

____________________________________

But God will redeem my soul from the power of the grave: for he shall receive me. PS 49:15 (KJV

This Could Be Interesting

My head pounded with the constant drumming, drumming which combined with fumes and soot to choke and gag me. I struggled to raise myself but something burned on my scalp, a cut or a scrape was my guess. I reached to touch my head but my jacket pulled at my arm. Whatever it was that was on my scalp found its way through my matted hair and dripped into my eyes.

The clerk told me the tux was a 40 long - he lied. The threads tore as my hand extended toward my head. Somewhere in the night, time had stopped, or perhaps it had raced forward – in the darkness I couldn’t really focus. My mind raced though events. The last thing I remembered was the beautiful woman I met at the opera, we had left together after the first encore. The ebony red head sat across from me saying those things only grownups say in uncomfortable situations. The coat had hampered me then too, as I tried to reach across the ornate table setting to touch her polished fingers. We were lost in the moment and the music – a solitary violin slicing the night.

The violin, yes the violin, I remember. Earlier, at the opera house, I had enjoyed the music. On the stage a master had stood playing the Strat. Oh, how inviting the notes seemed to be, with each careful stroke, the master had sent strings of beauty, horror, challenge and intrigue. Surely, no master of the violin could have been so proficient. But, he disappeared. What happened to the music? What happened to the beautiful woman? Where was the wine? Oh, the wine. It must have been the wine. My tongue felt like sandpaper. But, the wine, the acid taste lingered in my mouth.

My hands felt the platform around me, “cardboard.” Only a slight echo answered my call. I think I am on a box of sorts.

The drumming continued, and I tried to place the sound. “A piston, definitely, a piston.” Years of working in the ship yards had paid off, at least I could recognize the sound of an engine.

I finally managed to free myself from my tux jacket. In the darkness I searched the pockets and eventually reached into the jacket vest pocket, the secure feeling of the key to my Jag met my hand. At least they had not stolen the car. But, then what car thief needs a key any longer. I continued to feel inside the pocket, at last the silk flap revealed a book of matches. I remembered, I had picked them up off of the table in order to light a cigarette for the beautiful redhead. “Who was she anyway?” I tried to focus my mind. Beautiful women and wine, a volatile mixture.

I struck one of the matches against the surface of the booklet, and it exploded with flame, the same as it had the night before when it highlighted beauty. The new match however, only pierced the darkness, revealing an arc around me; more boxes, and a few cages - a monkey, maybe a dog, or other small animal. The match burned my fingers and I dropped it, the small cinder fell into the darkness. I counted to ten before it disappeared. It suddenly registered to me. I was on top of a stack of boxes. “Precious...,” I held my tongue as I cried into the darkness, my silver cross burned into my chest, glad I didn’t jump, I bet I am twenty feet up. I struck another match and peered over the side of the box. I couldn’t see the bottom.

Suddenly, the boxes shifted and I rolled to my side. Frantically, I grabbed a sharp cardboard edge. It finally added up, I was in the hold of a ship.

“So,” I managed to clear my throat, “this could be interesting.”

When Misty Walked With Jesus

She never heard them coming. Suddenly, hands ripped at her clothing and her feet were knocked from beneath her. When she fell she tried to catch herself but someone grabbed her arm as her chin bounced off of the curb and her teeth pierced her lip. Expletives showered down upon her like a spill from a steel furnace. Blood began to fill her throat; then all went black.
----
“She’s conscious, let’s clear the room, Shirley, get Dr. Simmons, stat.”

The hospital intercom call system barked, “Dr. Simmons, Dr. Simmons, room 325, stat.”

----

She opened her eyes and tried to focus on her surroundings. Suddenly, she realized that stiff strings were hanging from her face, and her body seemed restrained. A shape was bending over her and shining a light into her eyes. She felt no pain but had an odd sensation pulsing through her body. She closed her eyes again, but someone began shaking her. It was the shape, saying something to her, she couldn’t understand. Then the shape changed. The voice was deeper and sharp. She blinked, trying to get her eyes to register the sights around her.

“Misty, Misty, wake up.”

The words configured in her mind. Her name was being called.

“Misty, honey, it’s daddy, look at me sweetie.”

A new voice, familiar, on her left side.

“Put her glasses on her,” a female voice in the distance.

The person on her left started placing something on her face.

“They will have to rest on her nose; I can’t stretch them around the bandages. Glad we had this spare pair at the house.”

Suddenly, a rush of bile and blood entered her throat and she tried to cough but to no avail. Then all was silent.

____

“Code, get the crash cart! Let’s go people move, give me some room.” Simmons climbed onto the edge of the hospital bed and opened his patient’s mouth with his fingers. “Get me a trek kit!”

Minutes later oxygen was being pumped through a hole in her throat.

“Oxygen in bloodstream is increasing,” said a nurse at a monitoring station.

Dr. Simmons nodded, “good.” Then, he picked up a clipboard. “Let’s get her into surgery, call the floor, and tell them we’re coming. I need Dr. Allen too; he should be in the Trauma Center.”

“Yes, doctor.”

----

A week passed and she couldn’t wake up. She heard sounds, but couldn’t connect them. Sometimes she felt touches, but couldn’t figure where the touch originated. Mostly though, she slept. She sat at a table with Jesus, the apostles; she walked with Moses in the desert; she visited Ruth and her new husband; she stood on a hill with Elijah and watched the masses pass; and watched as David slew the giant. Finally, Jesus took her by the hand and led her to a balcony.

“It’s time to start for home, my daughter.”

----

One day a bright light interrupted her sleep. For the first time her eyes focused on a face, and she heard him speak.

“Okay, I’ve got brain activity, and eye flutter.” His voice was directed away from her.

Another voice chimed in. “I’ll call her mother.”

She could feel her body, there were pains, subdued, but pains; her mouth was dry and she tried to open it and it felt like her lips were splitting.

An excited voice shouted, “She’s active, we’ve got her back!”

A Dust Particle

It was night. Not a dark night, not a bright night; just night. Marion stared at the cold television set, picked up a cracker and chewed on the stale powder. The dim reflection of a street light bounced off of the gray television screen. “God why have you forsaken me?” She looked around the cluttered room, her own voice had startled her. She slumped lower into her single overstuffed chair. The chair was her friend, besides the old broken television, the ripped and torn chair was the only furniture left in her apartment – a metaphor for her empty and torn life.

She closed her eyes and tried to ignore gnawing hunger pains. If she had the will she could go to the soup kitchen, the mercy clinic, and all of the other help agencies her village provided, but that would mean leaving the chair, besides it was night, nothing special, just another night. A cooling breeze from a broken window blew through the clutter and a small picture flipped over. A previous tenant had been Catholic and in the clutter were remnants of their old trash.

“Nailed you to a cross too.” Marion toed the small card with a crucifix imprint. Her heart pained and she grasped at her breast. “God, just take me away, send me to hell I don’t care, it couldn’t be any worse.”

Marion laughed at herself, took a deep breath, then began laughing again. “I’m so funny, maybe I should crawl into that old television, let the world see me on the screen. ‘Oh, look,’ they would say, ‘Marion is a star.’ Right, a star, more like a spark, maybe an explosion, poof, and she’s gone. That’s what they’d say.” Marion snickered.

She threw her legs over the arm of the chair and tried to rest her head on the opposite arm. Her chair was uncomfortable but at least she wasn’t on the floor. She closed her eyes but reoccurring visions interrupted any possible rest. Days earlier some boys came in and took what little furniture she had; nobody called the police; nobody really cared. She gasped and shook her head violently, “No, no, no,” she cried. In her mind she could see the government people taking her daughter away. Then, her jumbled thoughts turned to the man who promised to take care of her. “Wonder what happened to him? I supposed his wife would be shocked if I showed up on his doorstep.” She laughed. “He probably wishes I was dead or gone away.” She held her hand up over the chair so that the faint light reflected off of her dirty fingers. “Maybe I will show up at his little lily white church and sit in a pew with his little lily white family, and say ‘hello, remember me, the woman your father said he loved more than anything else. Yes, yes,’ I would say, ‘it was a delightful love relationship, sort of an extra thingy, oh I didn’t mind being put out on the street when he was done with me, I bet he tells you too that a little adversity is good for the soul. Yes, isn’t that just like him? Oh, I see him coming down the isle, I’d better scoot cause I promised not to bother him any longer.’ Oh, they’d love that.”

Marion flipped her greasy hair over the arm of the chair. Her heart was beating rapidly. “Okay Jesus, you see what a sinner I am, not worth your forgiveness, blast me away; I am so far away from your mercy.”

“Marion,” a soft voice echoed in the room.

“Huh?”

A dust particle sparkled in the dim light. “I...love you.”
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Golden Haven

He sat on the edge of the bed holding his face in his hands. The mattress rested on a plywood sheet balanced between cement blocks - spaced around the base; and where sheets once protected the surface, now only a torn Army blanket graced the yellow stained surface. He once owned shoes but those like his life were stolen sometime in the night. His feet were covered with the remnants of once white socks and dirty red toes protruded from the threaded openings.

“Oh, God.” His moaning plea verified his pain. A lone cockroach looked up, and then scurried to a darker corner. Smoky plastic sheets flapped in a missing window frame and somewhere a distant train whistle added to the music of the room. “Oh, dear Jesus.” His voice was more prayer than expletive, yet a veritable concert in the hollow space of his soul.

He brushed a mop of hair from his eyes and tried to focus on the brown paper sack resting on a folding chair in the middle of the room. The chair back was stenciled “property of Golden Haven Hotel.” Why is it there? He rose and attempted to move but the vitamin E deficiency made it difficult to stand and focus his gaze. He held on the bed, then stood and balanced against the wall. With one foot sliding forward he took a step and waited for the world to catch up. One hand rested on the wall. Pieces of dried wallpaper crumbled beneath his grip.

“Where are you now doc?” he yelled into the empty room. The doctor at the clinic gave him a shot and a piece of paper. The shot wasn’t bad and he felt better immediately. There had been promises of help, the numbers were written down for him; but he lost the paper. He didn’t need literature to tell him that his end was near, and if he could reach the sack, the end would be sooner than later. Thank God for small favors.

Somewhere a siren echoed through the streets, he cocked his head then remembered he was not on the street, he had crawled into the old hotel sometime in the night. Time and places had little meaning. Another step. Maybe crawling is better. He sunk to his knees and tried to put a hand down on the floor, but missed and his palm slipped out beneath him and he bumped his chin on the cracked linoleum . He rolled over on his side, the searing pain in his stomach made him double up in a fetal position. “Augggg.” A tear ran down his face and dropped onto the floor, a curious red swirl snaked through the liquid.

He thought he saw something move across the room and reached a hand to grab it, but only air was in his grasp. Only the remnants of abandon spider webs hung in the filtering light. A banging sound momentarily distracted his attention. Somewhere outside the door voices were shouting, or fighting, it didn’t really matter. More strangers in the darkness moving about caused dust to fly. “They don’t care,” he shouted toward the empty wall.

He waved his hand about until he managed to stretch to the chair and with his fingertip he touched the leg. “Aw, please,” he begged toward the chair. Finally, he worked his other hand free and pushed his body forward, his arm rocked the chair. The chair tipped then with a loud crash collapsed onto the floor. The sack fell with the chair and a strange shaped plastic bottle fell out and bounced on the floor. An ounce of brown liquid splashed on the linoleum. With another loud “Augggg,” he thrust his hand through the sticky liquid and then licked his fingers. A flash of the doctor’s warning blinked in his memory. “Who cares?” His shout bounced off of the vacant wall.

“I care.”

The voice startled him. He rolled from where he lay and searched for the source. An image silhouetted in the window opening was standing with open hands.

“I care.” The voice repeated.

Somewhere in this the recesses of his mind he remembered a God of old. Something he thought he believed in during his youth. He remembered the white washed church, the families gathering on the lawn. He remembered the touch of people, of love, and life; and he remembered his belief, and the stories of faith. “What happened?” he heard himself say as he heart answered, “help me Lord, is it you Lord?” The anguish twisted his face as he cried, “forgive me Lord.”

“I care.”
______________

The article in the next day’s paper read “Transient man found dead in closed hotel. The former Golden Haven is known to be frequented by the city’s homeless. Police are searching for relatives.”

A Quiet Hero

Nelson Gables loved to walk along the river. Each day during his walk he would stop by the hotdog stand in the park. There he would purchase a Coney dog and a big orange drink. Then he would walk over to a park table, sit and eat. The only days he missed his trek was when it snowed very hard, or the rain blew in such a way that walking along the river was too difficult.

Nelson never bothered anyone, didn’t speak, and didn’t seem to have acquaintances. Nobody seemed to notice Nelson, so the day he quit coming to the hot dog stand, there was nobody around to inquire about his absence.

The river rolled on, excited children purchased Coney dogs and sweet drinks, and the city moved at the same pace it had before Nelson quit walking.

A few weeks later, the hot dog vendor opened the newspaper and read a headline to an article on the second page. It said, “Remains of elderly man found in abandoned house.”
The article went on to say that the remains were of Nelson Gables, a WWII veteran; a man who had lived in the village all of his life after the war. He had no known occupation, belonged to no civic groups, and there was no known church affiliation.

The probate judge said there was enough in his bank account to bury him; so a committee from the VFW organized a grave-side service. Three older men fired rifles in the air. And a woman from the auxiliary placed a small American flag next to the plain headstone.

When the probate judge ordered his bank-box unsealed they found only three boxes and folded piece of paper. The boxes held two purple hearts, and an odd shaped silver star; the paper was a Presidential citation signed by Roosevelt. The contents were sent to the local historical society, where they were put into a drawer with other WWII memorabilia.

The Veterans disability check showed up for two more months. A court appointed estate attorney begrudgingly sent the checks back, listed the house for the sheriff’s tax sale, and hired a junk man to clean out the house.

About a year later, an elderly woman entered the bank claiming to be Nelson Gables half sister. She was directed to the court house, and managed to speak with the appointed attorney. The last anyone saw of her was when she left the courthouse and drove away.

For years after that, a small flag and a single rose decorated the Gable’s grave – at least every Memorial Day. Eventually, that practice too, stopped.

A couple of years ago the state decided to widen the highway. The tiny village graveyard was in the way. Amid much ado the families of the deceased were all notified and arrangements for relocation of the graveyard were made. That is, except for Nelson Gables.

The cheap marker had crumbled away, and although the authorities knew that someone was buried there they could not identify the plot; so, they had the grave moved to a section of the new cemetery designated for unknown individuals. A white cross was driven into the soil at the head of his grave.

Now, as cars drive by, Coney dogs are consumed, and the river rolls on, the forgotten remains of Corporal Nelson Gables stand their final watch.

Short Writings from Pain II

I looked at my watch; it had been an hour since the Captain gave our patrol front control. A flare lit the night sky. My men and I sunk lower into the trench. In seconds we would probably hear the explosions on the wire, and then we would raise up and target the men, women, and children climbing through the razor wire. We waited.

“Sarge, when?”

“Hush, Ollie, you’ll know the signal.” Oliver Mason was a new body in our short patrol; fresh out of high school and thirty days out of basic. He was a big kid, so we strapped him with an M-60, and two belts of ammunition. With four grenades hanging off of his flak jacket he looked like a metal cow on two legs. He also had a big wad in his back pocket.

“Ollie,” I whispered, “what’s in your pocket?”

“Grenade, Sarge.”

“Man, you fall on your tail and you’ll kill us all.”

Nunez the Rat took a half step to the left of Ollie and glared back at his heavily armed comrade. The Rat held an unlit cigarette between his lips, but he sucked on it like a baby’s bottle. Nunez was a slight kid, about nineteen years old, perfect for poking down tunnels. He was always nervous about tunneling, but followed orders. I liked to say he was patroling the underground. I think he was still partially deaf and stunned from discharging the 45 in a tunnel earlier in the afternoon, but we needed every warm body we could find on the line that night.

I had the Tremor Dog on my right, not a four-legged one, but a man of unusual viciousness and totally uncaring. I didn’t know much about him, except I wanted him next to me. I had seen him rip through a charge of our dark enemy – his M-16 chattering from his right hip and a stolen AK firing from his left hand. He wore the notches on his knife handle like a badge of honor. Often at night he left camp only to return in the morning with another notch and a string of ears. Nobody controlled the dog.

Reynolds, the lieutenant, was on the end the back row with Big “O,” the radio guy. They were both new, simply replacements for body bags. I think Reynolds got a commission from a cereal box, I had spent most of my off minutes teaching him the art of surviving. On paper, Lieutenant Reynolds was our leader. I guess that is why he was behind us.

Big “O” the radio guy was a communications specialist. Somebody told me he was a disc jockey before the draft. He supposedly was our communications back to the line. Communications guys don't last long on the line.

The only other member of our team was Liam our forward man. He was buried under some brush - just before the wire. If the perimeter was breached he was to sit up with the fifty and begin shooting from the rear. Hopefully, his friendly fire would not find one of us. Also, if we were all down, he was to find a way to our line before the enemy caught him.

The sparks from the flare descended from the sky. I peeked through my scope at the wire, nothing was moving. I could feel my heart rate slow. “Martin Luther” never was in this situation.” I slid down the trench beside Ollie. I could see his eyes peering beneath helmet. Big white circles circled in black grease. He kind of looked like a raccoon.

“Relax Ollie, everythings smooth. Nothing moving for two clicks.” I tipped my helmet back.

Nobody felt the earth shake, nobody thought about the pain, and nobody expected the end. But, there it was, at least for us.

I heard Big "O" yell, "medic!" He was paniced.

The last thing I remember before the wire lit up, was a voice whispering to me. “Who’s in control now?”

----

Short Writings from Pain

We weren't expecting much action, we had been moved to a rear area for real beds and hot meals. They called our job recon, we had been out, but we were back; so, we certainly had not anticipated a body bag count. But, there it was, at least for seven of us. I was one of the lucky ones, in the can for midnight dysentery; I didn’t hear the explosion, didn’t feel my body being lifted off of the wooden seat; indeed what I have said so far had to be told to me later.

It was December 1967, the nights were freezing and the days were rainy. We were on flat ground with only concertina wire for protection – we simply called it “the wire,” two strands of razor wire interwoven – virtually impossible to penetrate by hand after sloshing though knee deep mud. I was an interrogator; putting it in polite terms a part time interviewer. A dubious honor bestowed because I spoke both French and Spanish. Neither language did my interviewees know. We spoke English, they spoke something else. I had a keen ear to their inflections, and with that we determined their fate.

A nurse waved her hand in front of my face and tried to mouth some words. I had a card from my girlfriend, so I picked up the envelope and wrote: “what do you want?”

She took my pencil and wrote beneath my scribble. “Your dad is here.” She tossed the envelope on my chest and walked out of ward. I was accustomed to the surly attitude in our ward. Thank God for Demerol.

My buddy, in the bunk next to me, poked me and pointed at the note. He got no mail and seemed to delight in reading the letters I was receiving from my family. I felt sorry for him, and wanted to ask him for an address so we could write, but I never did. He looked at my note, then slapped my arm, and seemed to be quite delighted. I hoped it was for me. I think he was yelling something down the ward. Because, when I lifted my head there were men applauding and seemed to be shouting with glee.

Our hospital ward was akin to a skin rash with bursting blisters; a cesspool of blood and bandages; a virtual example of, well lets just say, for the wounded and dying. Our government closed its eyes to returning men and women. I think politicians were more interested in killing college kids.

Two large black men in white tee shirts suddenly appeared at my bedside. One picked me up while the other slid pants over my legs including the cast. Then they handed me a class “A” shirt, said something, and left. A wheel chair soon appeared. A cute nurse, I had never seen before, pushed it to my bunk. She patted the seat and indicated for me to sit. I hopped on one leg out of my bunk and waved to my buddy. The note said I was going to see my father, I guessed it was visitation day, and I was going out for awhile.

The nurse rolled me down to a sterile lobby. There, seated on a couch, was my father and another man, I assumed the man was our family physician. Both stood when I rolled in. The nurse said something to my father then handed him a large brown envelop.

The other man rubbed my shoulder and bent down to look at my ears. I looked up and saw kind eyes of the gentleman. Minutes later I was sitting in the front seat of my father’s huge sedan. The other man sat in the back and examined my ears and head; otherwise investigating me as best he could from the rear seat of a car.

Again, thank God for Demerol. I think I slept from New Jersey to home, so I obviously missed a couple of stops. When we arrived at my parent’s house my mother and sister met me at the car. The physician wasn’t with us then, but I began to hear the sound of the neighbor’s barking dog – the first sound I had heard since December.

There were no parades, although our pastor and a number of men from the VFW stopped by and talked to my dad. Each day my hearing improved until I began to understand words. Eventually, I fully recovered. Now, nearly 40 years later, my hearing is again leaving, I still walk with a limp, and a check arrives on the first of the month. I never knew the physician’s name, I didn’t ask. My parents are gone now; I suppose the physician is tending to them.