The Last Act to Atone for Regrets

“IN DEFENSE OF OUR REPUBLIC”

by OPOVV, ©2013

(Aug. 3, 2013) — No, this is not one of those “Crying in My Whiskey” declarations full of remorse and “Golly, I’m so sorry.” On the contrary, it’s one of those “I didn’t do it then but, by God, I’m here tell you I’m going to get it done now.”  It’s one of the kind that brings justice to the overlooked, the under-appreciated, the stepped-on, the “Watch what you say, he’s a Vietnam Vet,” the losers, the defeated ones, the “aren’t they ashamed to suffer America’s first defeat?”  In other words, it’s the few hundred thousand American citizens and I who got the shaft from Uncle Sam, from the Executive and the Legislative branches of government and, especially, from the Pentagon, the rearrest of the back echelon that was insulated and in complete agreement with the War College tactics of “If you can’t move the pieces around the board, what good are you?”

The trouble was, the game board that the Pentagon was playing on was missing the humidity, the heat, and everything else that made up the reality of “The Field,” the “Boondocks,” the battleground and, truth be told, the battle-water because there are enough ponds, ditches, creeks, stream, rivers, and coastline making up the playing field where trench foot and jungle rot were occupational hazards.

I got a dose of jungle rot, but mine came from the Philippines.  Every day since May of 1965 I’ve had to rub cream on my foot; every day, without exception, or else within a very short time when I take my boot off at the end of the day I’m able to tip the boot and pour blood down the sink. Seventeen years of waking up in a cold sweat, of whimpering, or crying in the middle of the night and feeling ashamed of myself in the morning for not exercising “appropriate” self-control, afraid to look at the love of my life in the eyes in fear of seeing a disappointing glance…of drinking myself senseless in the evening with one prayer on my mind, one goal: to sleep until morning without being haunted, once again, by the recurring nightmare that never changes.  It’s the exact same one every time, in living color and stereophonic sound.

I’m not the only one. Audie Murphy said he could see the faces of every German he killed at night, and he slept with a M1911 Colt pistol under his pillow. Thousands brought home nightmares from the Civil War. It’s the same with every war before and after. Many don’t want to talk about it for fear of being thought of as “not being able to take it.” I just wish I had sought help when I got out, but I was too proud, which translates directly into “I was too stupid,” and the price I paid was a divorce and regret. Since then, I cured myself, decades ago. I said goodbye to the drinking and the nightmares. The nightmares ended first.

But that’s the price paid by any veteran, isn’t it? It’s not anything especially unique in any way: it’s just the way it is, it’s the price one pays to defend his homeland, that is, if one was out there, doing the dirty work or else caring enough for those out there to lend a supporting hand.

When I got back from my Southeast Asia travel tour I walked into a diner, sat down at the counter and when the waitress came over to take my order I pointed at one of those stainless steel malted milkshake shakers and asked her to fill it up with milk.  She did, and when she brought it over to me she asked if I just gotten back and I said, “Yes, I just got back,” and then she said, “It’s on the house.” Welcome to America, welcome and thank you, dear lady, who I never saw again. She was about my age, and if she’s reading this I want to thank you again and again; you’ve absolutely no idea how much your act of kindness did for me.

This editorial wasn’t easy for me to write because of the possibility of the slippery slope of revisiting a recurring dream, but it was important to relate to you that our sacrifices, the price that we vets paid, will not be swept under the rug and will not have been made in vain.  Those of us who died and suffered during the Revolutionary War up to the poor soldier who got a foot blown off in Afghanistan this week didn’t come all this way to give up our country to a Lying-Muslim-stolen Social Security number-de facto president Obama, aka Barry Soetoro, fake BIRTH CERTIFICATE.  The nerve.  No way, shape or form.

That’s it. We are armed. And because we remember how our government has lied to us in the past (Benghazi, Pentagon Papers), we are, and I cannot stress this enough, more than enough motivated to act in defense of our Republic and its Constitution.

Semper Fi

OPOVV