Suicide in the military: Army-NIH funded study points to risk and protective factors

"These studies provide knowledge on suicide risk and potentially protective factors in a military population that can also help us better understand how to prevent suicide in the public at large"” said National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) Director Thomas R. Insel, M.D. NIMH is part of the National Institutes of Health.

Although historically, the suicide death rates in the U.S. Army have been below the civilian rate, the suicide rate in the U.S. Army began climbing in the early 2000s, and by 2008, it exceeded the demographically matched civilian rate (20.2 suicide deaths per 100,000 vs. 19.2). Concerns about this increase led to a partnership between the Army and the NIMH to identify risks.

Continue Learning:  http://www.nih.gov/news/health/mar2014/nimh-03.htm

IOM: Evaluation of the Department of Veterans Affairs Mental Health Services

The IOM committee will assess the spectrum of mental health services available across the entire US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA). The scope of this assessment will include analysis not only of the quality and capacity of mental health care services within the VA, but also barriers faced by patients in utilizing those services.

Types of evidence to be considered by the IOM committee in its assessment include relevant scientific literature and other documents, interviews with VA mental health professionals, survey data to be provided by the VA, and results from surveys of veterans to be conducted independently by the committee.

Site visits will be conducted to at least one VA medical center in each of 21 Veterans Integrated Service Networks across the country. In addition, the committee will hold an open meeting of experts to discuss the Secretary's plan for the development and implementation of performance metrics and staffing guidance.

The committee will provide a final report with recommendations to the Secretary of the VA regarding overcoming barriers and improving access to mental health care in the VA, as well as increasing effectiveness and efficiency.

Continue Learning:  http://iom.edu/Activities/Veterans/VAMentalHealthServices.aspx?utm_medium=etmail&utm_source=Institute+of+Medicine&utm_campaign=11.13+IOM+News&utm_content&utm_term

The Rain

The trees were screaming while dying. They never feared the woodsman’s axe. Sure, one or two of them would be killed, but their brothers, millions strong, lived and grew. Their cousins, the bushes and vines, the grasses and the flowers, were always spared. Their friends, the birds and ground animals, would still sing the lullabies, or croon to lovers. Something had changed.

In the thousand years before, it had always been the ax, sometimes, fire. This was different. Nothing was being spared, not even those pitiful, two legged animals wearing green or black.

The trees had seen helicopters before, even losing a few brothers to the sticks of death they fired, but this was different. This was like the gentle rain so many had felt for hundreds of years, on these long-lived creatures of the forest. But this rain was wrong; it burned when it touched.

Their leaves, their fingers in the wind, shriveled and died. The flowers hung their heads and died. Bushes dropped their berries, and anything eating nature’s readymade meal, sickened and died. Great swaths of their brothers were dying, brother trees that had seemed to know Father Time himself were gone - dead, brown, lifeless skeletons with hands stretched towards heaven, as if in a final, unanswered prayer.

The helicopters caused the wind and the rain, a rain of death. Nothing was left on the mountains; they were now just red scars of mud and dirt, jutting up into the sky. Even the bugs were dead, no more songbirds, no more leaves playing in the wind while sunbeams danced with the shadows. Nothing, just a red smear of death. They called the rain Agent Orange.
© Copyright 12/17/2005 by Fred Alvis

Frank Elmore's War

(C) James J Alonzo

It was June, 1967 the monsoon season in the Delta, which produced a hot, humid, rainy night in the rainforest of this particular place in Vietnam. Viet Nam would be the ideal gig for a lazy weatherman reporting the weather, since there were only two seasons in the delta, Monsoon and Dry, and the temperature today, the low is 98 degrees, with the high 100 degrees hot!!

Today's weather; hot, humid, and rain. Tomorrow's forecast, more rain, more humidity, and hot!

This rain didn't slow the seemingly endless firefights Frank could see in the distance.

Frank was 19; drafted out of a Flint, Michigan. He had just started employment at the local Pontiac manufacturing plant out of high school, where he was a star running back, with a GTO Pontiac convertible and lots of friends, mostly women.

Here, he was just another soldier who should have listened to his mom, gone to college and stayed far away from this God-forsaken country. The nearest beautiful and exotic girls were miles away in Saigon.

These were his thoughts as he stood his two hour guard at night watch. His platoon was asleep, while he stood there with rain dripping off his helmet, his thoughts were of home, parents, girlfriends, even his younger sister and brother.

He thought about life, as he wiped the water off his M-16 for the twentieth time in almost as many minutes. His life, mostly: the past, present, and the future.

Was there going to be a future for him, he wondered? War seemed so senseless, however the rich and shameless and their cronies, old men in suits who were country leaders thought these wars up, and sent our nations youth. But not their sons and daughters, the rich don't choose to fight them.

Suddenly, something brought him back to the present, a noise, intuition maybe? He stood erect.

"Who goes there?" (nhung người đi đó?) he called out into the pitch black night.

He wasn't surprised there was no response, but Frank remained cautious, as he had his M-16 trained on the jungle. He gave the alert to his platoon, falling into a prone position, and opened fire on the bush.

Frank heard some (NVA) North Vietnamese soldiers fall out screaming, riddled with machine gun fire. Another VC jumped up and threw a grenade at Frank! The M-16 barked again and he joined the other NVA shot. The whole platoon was in position now and firing, for the enemy had a large force over there in the rain.

The grenade had landed between Frank and his sergeant. As Frank reached to get it, a bullet caught Sgt. Pavlovich in the chest. Frank threw the hand grenade back towards the bushes, but the shrapnel from it hit him in the left arm. Frank bleeding, still managed to field dress his sergeant's wound and carried him back behind the line of fire.

The platoon was able to drive the enemy back into the jungle but the cost was high. There was blood everywhere. Bodies lay scattered, some still alive, some dead, some dismembered.

Dawn was breaking - the rescue choppers were landing in pairs with a third gunship spraying the jungle with gunfire to hold the enemy back. The medic who treated Sgt. Pavlovich credited Frank with saving Pavlovich's life. Frank was put on a stretcher also and sent to the Medivac hospital.

Upon arrival, the doctors thought at first, that he would lose his arm but the doctors managed to save it. However, as Frank convalesced, he found out he would permanently have limited use of it. So he was sent home with a Purple Heart, and the Bronze Star Medal of Valor for saving his segeant's life.

He never heard from SGT Pavlovich and wish he could locate him to see how he has been. The soldiers who had died in this battle were sent home and given proper military funerals.

Frank went to the funeral of one of his buddies from Detroit, Michigan, and as he stood there, listening to the playing of taps and then witnessed the twenty-one gun salute at the funeral's end. That also signaled that Frank's war was over.

*********************************************
© Copyright 2012 James J Alonzo All rights reserved.
James J Alonzo has granted Agent Orange Legacy its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

A Vietnamese Delicacy

(C) James J Alonzo

When I was in Viet Nam, 1967 & 1968, I had the luxury of being able to speak Vietnamese fluently, compliments of the military language school at Monterey California. After I got to Asia, I liked the culture and tended to learn as much as I could. One way is to learn about the types of food that the people eat, like dog, insects, monkey, and snakes, besides the normal staples of pig, rice and numerous other types of vegetation.

One day my gunner J J Jackson and I took a vehicle and drove to Saigon, off duty assignment-to view the scenery, enjoy a few bars, and find some female company. After parking our vehicle, we started to stroll down TU DO street, where we could find the things we were looking for, passing many bars, restaurants, including small food stands.

"What the Hell is this?", J J said looking at a stand that had assorted snakes, some dead on in jars and some secured but alive! "Jim these !#%*\} people are crazy!"

"Damn J J, that's a delicacy! " I said exited, "Let's try it, that way we can further understand the people and the culture!"

"Jim, you go understand the people and culture, all I want is to get drunk! What's the matter with you white boys? I an't eating anything that has fangs!"

Laughing at J J's discomfort, I walked up to the snake stand. After some hesitation J J followed me. The stand consisted of tables with umbrellas and chairs, next to a make shift grill with racks and a high food preparation tables.

"Xin chao bao nhieu con ran?" (Hello, how much is the snake?") I asked.

She smiled her toothless smile,

"Do do ban noi ngon ngu cua toi" (so you speak my language") mama-San said laughing, then continued speaking,

“You have two ways to buy G I, a whole snake for five piastas or half a snake for 250 piastas the old woman says, “For five, I gut a live snake in front of you and pour its blood into a shot glass. Then you eat the heart while its still beating! Its very good for you! Bam le Ba (beer) is 100 piastas." (one dollar to a hundred piastas)

I told J J what she said, but J J wasn't going to have any part of this,

"Are you f/$&!)%+ nuts!" J J said, more like a declaration of fact, instead of a question.

"Come on J J, it's not just a job, it's an adventure! So try to feel the freedom of adventure,"

I realized that I would not be able to easily convince my friend to indulge in Cobra easily, but I would try to work him. I had tasted grilled garden snake in Hong Kong, and it was delicious.

"Hey J J," i said trying to convince my friend, "Vietnamese snake meat is world famous!"

"No! So %#\!*off!" J J spoke defiantly, as he sat down at the table, “I don’t eat reptiles, or the devil's spawn,” he proclaimed with arms folded, "but I will have some beer."

“It’s delicious, and a great experience!” I chided, as if encouraging him to eat a bug in front of a group of peers on the school playground. “J J don’t be a punk, it will be really cool to do it together.”

" You are so \#%*!ed up on your definition of “cool.” J J replied, I could hear in his voice he was thinking of doing this.

Mama-san was very patient with us as she went about her work. If she didn't understand what we were talking about, it wouldn't be hard to figure out we were debating about eating her food.

"Come on J J, try this, you will thank me years from now for having done this. You'll be able to tell you grandchildren you ate snake."

"Okay, let me understand this", J J asked, " is the eating crushed up ribs and spine followed by a shot of a snake seeped in fish oil your kind of cool?"

“Yeah! Are you going to try it?" I asked, "or you going to wimp out?" I was putting my life on the line saying this to J J, since he was a very muscle bound, 6'2", 200 lbs, and I was only 5'10", 160 lbs.

“Well, if you going to eat it," J J replied, "I will. But if I get sick, your a dead man!"

"Yeah, let's do it dude." I said, wondering if I went too far with J J. I translated to mama-San that J J threatened me, and she laughed.

Mama-San, a small tired looking Vietnamese woman in her fifties reassured us,

“Dont worry G I, the venom is not dangerous if it goes in your stomach, only if it gets in your blood stream.” which I translated into English to J J.

I’ve never been suicidal in my choice for exotic food, but I’ve eaten a number of odd meats in the states and abroad, rattlesnake in Texas, some kind of snake in Hong Kong, bugs in Thailand, dog in Viet Nam We came this far, so I wanted to live to tell the tale of eating cobra.

Mama-san may have been old but she had the reflexes of a cat the way she seized and handled that live cobra! Showing us the live Cobra, she let the snake wriggle in her hands. We decided we only wanted half a snake. Without the blood, without the still palpitating heart, without the potential for mass slaughter and without the half alive wriggling body parts!

Lucky for us, she just happened to have half a cobra in a bucket of ice. Where she got the ice was beyond me, and I didn't ask. The meat appeared limp and gray, like mackerel that rots in the sun. It smelled like the swamps, and the shape made clear that it once was a legless, carnivourous serpent.

So we sat there, drinking our Vietnamese beer, while waiting for the food to be prepared and cooked. We flirted with the young beautiful Vietnamese girls that walked by in their native AO DAIs. (ow yei) We watched and laughed at the jesters of the Vietnamese police officer trying to control the heavy traffic, all in vain, for these cabs, scooters and bikes didn't seem to pay any attention to the police or the traffic signs!

After what seemed like an hour, but only 20 minutes, of mincing, chopping and filleting, punctuated by the occasional shouts, horns blowing, from the street chaos, and our laughter, we heard moma-San ask,

“I’m pulling out the intestines, would you like to taste the nerves now?”

"No that's okay!" J J said, slugging down another beer.

The woman brought out two small dishes. They included spring roll, snake cake, and snake patty, and two more beers.

Cautious, J J and I eyeballed each other to see if either one of us would punk out. Trying each piece with caution, and a huge smile, we listened to moma-San speaking and I would translate for J J.

I asked Mama-San if she had been bitten and she showed me marks on her arm, presumably snake bites. Mama-San explained that growing up around snakes, she has been bitten so many times that the venom is less deadly to her now. But she is still careful because a bite can make her very sick, even if it is not fatal.

We blindly stuffed our mouths. Mama-san kept a close watch to see how much we were enjoying it (or faking it). Mama-san began telling stories, about the snake community before the Vietnam War. As a young girl, she was the fastest to climb trees and catch the snakes so she could earn money for her family.

Later, she learned to cook snake and serve them in many different dishes and spices., She refused to give the recipe, but talked about how Cobra is a favorite of locals who will eat the snake for virility and energy.

Cobra meat is said to be an aphrodisiac, and people who eat the meat or drink the whiskey are believed to take on the snake spirit. Prior to the War, commoners and aristocrats could enjoy the protein of a snake for dinner. Nowadays most snake traditions, especially Cobra eating, is only for the very rich.

Reminiscing on her city, she pointed to the buildings that replaced her jungle trees, illustrious of the dying traditions being replaced by Saigon's growth since the war began.

After about 30 minutes, the snake had been prepared, and was ready to eat. The meal began with Mama-San pouring 2 shots of snake whiskey, one for me and one for J J. Additionally, I asked for a beerto wash down our meal with. I actually thought the snake whiskey was pretty good.

I felt cautious, aware of our power and subjectivity as visiting soldiers. I continued translating, and told J J to smile with every bite, that way we showed respect for the snake eating tradition.

J J didn't look too happy and said,

"If I didn’t know it was Cobra, maybe it would taste good. But I can't stand eating this !*%#}!, the gnashing of bones, and the smelly meat makes me sick!"

"Just drink the whiskey and the beer, and eat the snake spring roll." I advised, "It will help you keep it down."

Being stationed at Ft Campbell Kentucky and Ft Benning Georgia and having visited Thailand for 7 days, I have experienced spirits some home made some commercially made from different places. The snake whiskey was much smoother than I expected, but still retained all the kick of moonshine. Not to brag, but I swallowed mine like a champ. J J, who shall not be named, did not even finish his and the little that J J drank, was sipped in tiny amounts.

Still, I could not get the taste of spine out of my mouth. In a last ditch effort to enjoy the experience and not offend Mama-san. I stored the snake in my cheeks like a cartoon character. I thought I could pretend it didn’t exist, and spit them out later, but Mama-san caught my game. Mama-san asked laughing,

"Are you feeling alright, your face was swelling up?"

I stuffed another mouthful in and said “Delicious!” in Vietnamese, "khaoi tra", smiling with meat clinging to my teeth, my nose running.

After we took pictures of each other eating snake, and toasted each other, we walked away from the snake stand, J J kept complaining about nausea and he may shortly evacuate his stomach,

"When I feel better I'm going to kick your butt for talking me into this adventure!"

I didn't say anything because I concealing two cheekfuls of snake lodged in my cheeks.

*****

“I’m glad I did it, partly because it was worth it, but mostly because I shall never have to do it again”- Mark Twain

© Copyright 2012 James J Alonzo All rights reserved.
James J Alonzo has granted Agent Orange Legacy its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

My Father Died In Viet Nam He Abandoned Us

(C) James J Alonzo

I had served in Viet Nam, two years,1967 & 1968 as a member of 2/17 Calvary, 101rst Airborne Division, known as the "Screaming Eagles."

After Viet Nam i got into law enforcement and it became my career of sorts. It was 1988, and there were times that some days were rougher than others, so there was this bar I would go to commonly called a "cop bar" for it was patronized by mostly cops.

There was this one bartender that frequently had the late night shift, so she and I became well acquainted. Often it was just her and I at the bar. One night in particular it was about 1:30 am, and we were just talking while I nursed a potent rum and coke.

The bartender's name was Rose, a blonde, had a slender figure and about twenty years younger than me. She had asked me once if I had served in Viet Nam, so she knew I was a Viet Nam vet.

What I didn't know was that her dad had been killed in the war. For some reason this late night she decided to tell me about it.

"You know my Dad was killed over there." she said, as a matter of fact, like she was telling me that it just started to snow. Her statement caught me off guard and I paused to look her in her blue eyes.

It was then I realized Rose had something to get off her chest.

"No I didn't know that." I responded firing questions at her like a machine gun, "I¹m sorry. How did he die, if I may ask? What outfit was he in? Do you know what happened?"

"Yeah, he was an army helicopter pilot." Rose said, "Mom told me that my father flew a Huey and was on a night rescue mission with another helicopter. They had to rescue some soldiers that had been trapped and surrounded by the enemy. My Dad's chopper was shot down as they came in for the rescue. My mother told me he flew a lot of rescue missions."

Even though she was staring somewhere beyond me, I could see she wanted to talk more, so I asked,

"How old were you when he died." I asked

"I was just a baby, when he left us!" she said sharply." he volunteered for a second tour!"

I could hear some anger in her voice, and that maybe she was still mad at his dad for dying and leaving her.

In psychiatry we are taught that this a normal reaction, we all tend to have some anger at those that die. We feel deserted, left alone to drift through life without their support. I could see Rose's anger at her father is still causing her to suffer.

"Can I tell you a story," I asked, as I started to repack my pipe, and lite it.

"I want you to imagine your nineteen years old", I started, "You are away from home for the first time and like many young men, you¹re in the military and in the middle of a war zone."

I paused as Rose lit a cigarette and sat down on a stool behind the bar. Once settled I continued,

"imagine you're out with a patrol, it hot, the mosquitoes are eating you alive, the sweat is in your eyes, trickling down you spine, it's night time, and it's so dark you can't hardly see your buddy in front of you. Suddenly a much larger force of enemy soldiers has ambushed your patrol."

I stopped to take another sip of my drink,

"In mere seconds, a few of your guys are already down, some wounded (WIA's) a couple killed, (KIA's), and your platoon is fighting for its life! You're scared, crazy scared and you hear the radio operator calling in for help, as red and green tracers are flying back and forth,

("Red Dog 2 to Red Dog 1! Red Dog 2 taking fire, overwhelming Victor Charlie, we have KIA's and WIA's, need immediate evac! Will pop smoke!")

"The radio operator is told there is no help available! You realize your platoon is gonna be left out there in the dark to die! You think nobody cares enough about you to save your life. But in truth there is no one willing to make a night evacuation under fire, especially at a hot LZ! (landing zone) Your guts are shriveling into itself in fear. You and your men don't want to die but death is out there in the dark trying to get at you."

Rose clears her throat, and drinks her beer, shaking her head at what she is hearing. At this point she is no longer looking at me or anything in the room. She is seeing what i am seeing, but like me she is living it. Her eyes are glazed with a tear in each eye.

"So there you are and it can't get any worse." I said, my voice starts cracking, I too am having a hard time controlling my emotions.

"Suddenly the radio crackles and the voice that we hear comes out is like the voice of god himself promising salvation! "Red Dog 2, this is White Bird 4 & 5, hang on we¹re coming!" There are two of us and we can get everybody out! Pop smoke, we will verify."

I had to clear my throat, I was choked up a bit, so I downed the remainder of my drink and continued,

"We soon heard the chopping of the air from the rotors of the helicopters. It was the pilot of the lead helicopter and he somehow had heard about us and just couldn't leave us out there to die. I don't know who that pilot was, but I'll tell you Rose, whoever that was, that was your old man."

I Then stood up to leave, slowly placing money on the bar, grabbing my jacket.

Rose looked like she'd been clubbed. There were tears streaming down her cheeks and she seemed incapable of movement. After a bit she turns to me and says,

"I didn't know, I didn't know."

"There was no way you could of known." I said, "I think your dad was a man that placed more importance on the lives of others more than his own"

At the city of Buffalo marina, there is a memorial to the Deceased personel that were from Buffalo of the Viet Nam war and the names are engraved in the granite. Rose told me her dad's name was on the wall and asked that I give him my regards. I did that the next time I was there, and looked his name up. I was glad he got his relationship with his daughter back. A girl needs her father even if it is just the memory.

© Copyright 2012 James J Alonzo All rights reserved.
James J Alonzo has granted Agent Orange Legacy its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

The Moon Baby VN

Mặt trăng bé

(C) James J Alonzo

Even in war there is down time for the soldiers, so when this down time became available we would secure a vehicle and drive to Saigon. Saigon had the best bars, and brothels, and beautiful women. (At that time in Viet Nam the economy was such that $50 could cover a G I for the whole month. $300 was a good years salary to Vietnamese people)

John Brubaker (from Altoona, Pennsylvania), and I did just that, and when we got to TU DO street, we parked the truck and started to window shop so to speak.

It wasn't long before we were surrounded by the begging kids, and street hustlers, ranging from 7-10 years old, all shouting in broken English! American G I's are known to the Vietnamese as having a generous nature, a desire to help, so are easy victims to scams.

"Hey G I , I shine your boots, 100 P!" (Piestas) said one kid. Another offered dope for sale.

Another young kid offered,

"Hey G I! You want short time girl 300 P!" (equal to $3)

Another just tried to steal your watch by snatching at it, or your wallet. Or another kid would try to reach in a pocket while others were distracting you.

"Hey G I, you number one! You give me money!" shouted one kid while another tried to stick his hand in one of my pockets. Snatching his hand, and twisting his wrist, I spun him around and gave him a boot against his butt, shoving him away.

"Get away from me! Di Di Mau!" I said in Vietnamese.

"Hey G I, you number ten!" said the kid that was discouraged from stealing my money.

Once the kids realize that we were no one to play with, they ran away shouting more insults at us! Laughing we continued sauntering down TU DO street looking at the open shops, girls walking by wearing long dresses called AO DAI (ow yi, Vietnamese)

While trying to decide if we were going to drink at one of the bars, or go to one of the brothels, a young girl about 16 years old, with a devastated expression on her face, approached us carrying a "package" all wrapped up in a blue cloth, trying to hand it to us.

"You take! You Take!", she shouted at us, continuously thrusting the package at us. "you give me American money, you take!"

As she drew the cloth back, it was like a slap to our face, the smell of death hit us as we started to look at the package to see what she was selling. I jumped back after I saw what looked like a baby. Only this baby had a huge head the size of a basketball, and looked like an alien from space! But what was worse was the baby was dead, and decomposing.

"Jesus!", Brubaker exhaled, "What the "&@$/! happened?"

"I don't know!, I responded frustrated, "just give her some money, and let's get the (&$!/! out of here!"

I couldn't then, and never did get that image that dead baby out of my mind.

After Brubaker gave her some money, we quickly entered a bar nearby, and looking out at the girl with the dead baby, we started to tell a couple of other soldiers what we saw.

They too had run into the same girl. As we watched the girl, she handed over the "package" to another Vietnamese lady, and the new lady took up the same procedure as the first girl walked away.

When we got back to base camp we mentioned it to the soldiers in our platoon, and some had seen the same thing. The tragedy of the story was that the baby died, and these women were using it to get money.

Years Later, I realize I may have seen my first Agent Orange baby, but at the same time I always wondered about the real mother and if the baby was ever properly buried.

© Copyright 2012 James J Alonzo All rights reserved.
James J Alonzo has granted Agent Orange Legacy its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Ghosts Of Viet Nam

(C) James J Alonzo

When I arrived in Viet Nam in early 1967, on getting off the plane, I felt I had live here before. As a believer of reincarnation, I had lived here in another life. I was overwhelmed with a huge "Da Ja Vu all over again." I saw many things that were so familiar, especially the ghosts.

Ghosts; Viet Nam now is a different Vietnam than in 1967, 1968, 1969. I remember as being an infantryman for the US Army and fighting in the jungles, 1967 & 1968. I remember the smell of napalm, the jungle, the rust smell of blood, the sounds of helicopter blades. I remember seeing some of my friends die, I remember the dangers of the jungle. I remember one of my men dying after being bitten by a venomous snake. At the time I was told that the snake is known as a three stepper snake, because it can kill you after you take three steps. However, he died two hours later at the Evac Hospital. When I was researching years later, the snake was a Puff Adder.

Ghosts; There are Vietnamese stories about the 'tree ghosts of Vietnam'. Legend has it that wandering spirits around the countryside of Vietnam need a place to live and they take up residence in the trees of the jungle. It is said that if you cut down a tree without asking permission, you will be cursed or you will face bad luck. The people of Vietnam have been known to perform a ceremony asking the entities to leave a tree and to move onto another tree before cutting it down. But then, along comes the Americans in their planes spraying defoliant named Agent Orange, to destroy the jungles.

Ghosts; When I left Vietnam, unknowingly I brought back Agent Orange contamination, PTSD, and residuals from being wounded during a fire fight. At nights, I would wake up in a cold sweat as I battled these Ghosts. Ghosts that will always remind me of the jungle. I will always remember the ghosts.

Ghosts; Over a thousand years, Viet Nam has been at war against foreign countries or kingdoms that wanted to conquer or control Viet Nam. With the many wars, came suffering, torture, tragedies that Viet Nam has witnessed and experienced, Vietnam has many, many ghosts.

Ghosts; I fell in love with a lady in Viet Nam. Her name was Kim, and she and her family were killed by the communists during TET Offensive. Kim was 20, full of life, a vibrant, beautiful, refreshing, delicate flower of a woman. Vietnam was her country,
A country that she visualized as paradise. I asked her if there are ghosts in Vietnam and her response was 'many'.

Ghosts; Soldiers in my company, when on guard duty at night, often claimed they saw apparitions staring at them from some trees in the jungle. One soldier even approached a tree, where he saw one but the ghost vanished in front of his very eyes. He was sure he saw the tree ghosts of Vietnam.

Ghosts; After the Viet Nam war, there are many tourists that visit Viet Nam, some claimed to have seen ghosts. In one area of the Delta, where the Australian troops served and fought in during the war, tourists have claimed they encountered a phantom soldier that was wearing a hat that was flipped over on one side. He appeared to be bleeding from the side of his face and holding his neck as if he were trying to stop the bleeding. They could hear the soldier say in English with an Australian accent: "I need help, where am I?" Then the soldier would walk away fading into a thick tree.

Ghosts; Tourists that have explored the tunnels of Vietnam, have made claims of seeing moving figures in the tunnels. There were so many tunnel complexes in Viet Nam, some very elaborate. In Cu Chi the tunnel system is over 200 miles, with many escape entrances and exits. Near Long Binh base Camp, there was a tunnel complex that was three stories deep, and included a mess hall and hospital.

Ghosts; Could some of those ghosts be the dead American soldiers, that were picked because of their short height and small size and called tunnel rats? Could these ghosts be the American Tunnel Rats who bravely crawled into those underground dwellings looking for VC (Viet Cong)?

Ghosts; How many tunnel rats died tragically by poisonous booby traps? Those poisonous booby traps being bamboo viper, venomous Krait and scorpions placed strategically in places of the tunnels by the VC. If these biological booby traps didn't get them, or the shrapnel from a grenade or a discharged projectile from an AK-47 would have made its mark. Those soldiers in Vietnam that went inside these tunnels were facing death. How many ghosts of the Viet Cong and America soldiers are in these tunnels?

Ghosts; Khe Sanh was an area of hills overlooking part of the Ho Chi Minh trail. 5,000 American Marines were surrounded by over 50,000 North Vietnamese soldiers. (NVA) the job of the NVA was to kill and destroy the Marines, but they failed. Many lives were lost, and now tourists claim they see the ghosts of both sides wandering the area.

Ghosts; Vietnam had many wars, over the last thousand years. The American Vietnam War was just one of those conflicts. With all of the tragedies of Vietnam, I believe there are many ghosts. So when Kim told me that there are ghosts in Vietnam, I believed her.

© Copyright 2012 James J Alonzo All rights reserved.
James J Alonzo has granted Agent Orange Legacy its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

A Conversation In The Viet Nam War

(C) James J Alonzo

As a squad leader there were times I had to check on the guard details at base camp. For the past few days whenever I had to go down to the perimeter at night, i would pass by him, which in it's self was unnerving. He was always at the same place, leaning against the same pile of sandbags. Whenever i saw him, my first reaction was a fear, an apprehension of the unknown.

Part of me didn't want to deal with him, however part of me felt that if i got to know him a little better, the fear would go away.

Throughout my life I had been taught that there was nothing to fear from people like him. But still, I've always had misgivings of people like him. I knew that overcoming those feelings would be well worth the effort. There were too many of his kind around to let my fear and prejudice rule me.

That night was a hot choking humid night, and the mosquitoes were hungry, the jungle outside the perimeter was pitch black. This particular night I walked up and sat down beside him like I'd known him for years. I felt sure he wouldn't mind, i could see he didn't to mind the heat or the mosquitoes.

We looked at each other for a while and then I sort of struck up a conversation. I wanted him to know the reason I'd singled him out was because, in my ignorance he scared me, and I always made it a point to face my fears.

After i had spent a little time with him, I feel some empathy with him. I knew that before my tour in Vietnam was over, we might have a lot more in common than we did now but I hoped not.

Knowing that part of his life was a story similar to my own, there was no reason that in another time or place we could of been friends. I spoke to him about his life and I was assured that he had had known happiness and sadness, love and anger, fear and strength.

I knew as we talked, he too had held a woman's hand at night, watched the moon and stars reflecting off the water, hearing the laughter of children, thinking of how beautiful life was going to be after the war.

It seemed to me that we had a lot in common in our lives and this war. Like me I was assured that he too marveled at a beautiful sunset, and laughed at a silly jokes. and yet we came from different places, a different culture, yet he didn't seem me.

I remember as I was talking to him, thinking he looked like crap! He smelled, but that was expected, and understandable, for this was war. He had messy dirty hair, his skin like dark leather stuck to his thin face, the hollowed look of his dead eyes.

Looking back to that time in Viet Nam, I was glad I'd taken the time to have an imaginary conversation with him. He was dead now, just another soldier like me, who had tried to live his life the best he could.

His life was ended now, but not for me. His death made me want to keep my wits, concentrate on the skills I was taught by the training i had received.

© Copyright 2012 James J Alonzo All rights reserved.
James J Alonzo has granted Agent Orange Legacy its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

The Concussion And The Worm VN

(mini-TET May 13, 1968)
(C) James J Alonzo

In Viet Nam I was driving in the middle of a 50 truck convoy in the Iron Triangle, going from Long Binh to Cu Chi. On the way through an area that was near the Michelin Rubber Plantation we were ambushed. The area was commonly known as "ambush alley." The enemy tactics was to disable a few of the trucks with road mines, (IED), setting up the convoy to fire small arms, rockets and mortars to destroy the rest of the vehicles.

J J Jackson, 6'3", 200 lbs, african-american, was my best friend and the machine gunner riding in the "shotgun" position of the tractor trailer, (18 wheel vehicle) I was driving. The vehicle was loaded with 155 MM artillery shells, and it was a high explosive load.

Driving through this area we were vigilant, we expected to get ambushed, I just didn't understand, that when it happen, I was still caught completely surprised! As the two lead vehicle were blown up, the small arms firing started, J J Jackson with grim determination on his ebony face opened up with the machine gun laying down heavy grazing fire to suppress the Viet Cong's charge.

Explosions of mortar or rocket fire continued. However, that was the last thing I remembered. Apparently I was near an explosive force from one of these rockets or mortars that landed nearby. My 160 lb. Body was lifted and thrown from the concussion of the blast! I was told later that the force had lifted me and thrown me off the truck landing about 15 feet from the truck.

The convoy commander Lt Best and J J Jackson later told me what had happen; As the fighting started, J J opened up on the enemy with the machine gun, and I was bringing more ammo belts to reload, when the blast occurred and he had ducked down looking back where I was supposed to be. When he saw me flying in the air doing a couple of somersaults and a 1/2 pike before hitting the roadway, landing on my head. Seeing my demise, he knew I wasn't going to be assisting him.

Through the enemy small arms fire and fellow explosions, J J Jackson disconnected the machine gun from the mount on the truck, continued firing at the VC, and ran to my unconscious body to see if I was alive. Having established that I was alive, still carrying the machine gun in one arm, he scooped me up like a baby and ran with me to better cover.

After the battle, I and other wounded soldiers were medivac by chopper, to the 24th EVAC Hospital at Long Binh. I was admitted with concussion of the brain, cuts, and abrasions of my face, hands and arms.

After the doctors finished with me, I was x-rayed, bandaged,and was admitted for 24 hour observation. When I became conscious, I no longer had my clothing, boots and weapons. I found out later that J J Jackson took my weapons back to the my company unit. I was also informed that I had to stick around.

"Ma'am, do I have to stay in bed?" I asked the nurse, who like all the nurses had officer rank, but she was American and pretty and I did stare at the first American women i've seen in long time.

"No, sergeant," the nurse responded, "there's the latrine, and after you clean up put this hospital gown and robe on. Then you're allowed to roam at will. The mess hall is down on 1B, since you can walk, you won't be served. And sergeant,,,,, don't bother the nurses!"

Well that had been clear enough, i just got my orders. As I roamed the other wards that day I heard a lot of laughter and excited talk from the nurse and medic station. Upon approaching the station desk, it became clear that all the attention was focused on a pill bottle that one of the nurses was holding. Seeing me this pretty blonde nurse smiled and said,

"Hey soldier, take a look at this."

The nurse handed me the pill bottle, and I found myself looking at some kind of worm about an inch long, but nothing else that would make me excited like these people.

"I've seen bigger worms in the jungle."

"Look closer, soldier, this is an intestinal worm," she laughed, " I bet you haven't seen one like this with sutures (stitches)!"

Looking closer, I did observe several pieces of knotted thread stitches on this worm.

"Your right, I've never seen anything like this before."

Still excited the nurse said, these are surgical sutures! Can you believe it?"

"Now why would anyone want to suture a worm? I asked puzzled.

"The worm," the nurse laughingly explained, "had been found in a stool sample collected from another soldier that was also wounded very severely in his stomach. We take samples to see if he has intestinal worms as a precaution, since it is common in this country. If he has them we give medicine to make the body evacuate the worms through their stools when they defecate."

"So how did the worm get sutured?" I asked.

"That's what got my attention," she laughed, "we were in surgery, and I noticed the sutures Doctor Johnson had done on the boy's stomach and intestinal area. Doctor Johnson thought the worm was a vessel and had tied it off by mistake. When I showed him the worm, Doctor Johnson was very proud of the sutures!"

She may have thought it funny and that doctor may have been proud, but I didn't see anything to laugh about! All I saw was a big screw up!

"How can a doctor make that kind of mistake?"

"Soldier," she lashed out in defensive tone, " these doctors work long hours in a lot of bloody bodies so they do make mistakes!"

"Right, well I'll see you later," suddenly feeling tired, I was glad that I had only been admitted for a brain concussion. If doctors sew up worms and are proud of this, I didn't want to be operated on.

© Copyright 2011 James J Alonzo All rights reserved.
James J Alonzo has granted Agent Orange Legacy its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

Returning Home to The Village (PTSD Viet Nam)

(C) James J Alonzo

After serving my time in Viet Nam, I was given my 30 day leave prior to following my written orders to report to Ft Hood Texas. I was pissed, I wanted to extend my time in Viet Nam because I only had 9 months left on my enlistment time.

However, when I sent a letter home and explained to my wife, if I extended six months more in Viet nam, I would get an "early out", or a waiver of the last three months. Nanci wrote back that besides her de-nutting me when I got home, she would divorce me!

So I returned to the "world", (USA), without any debriefing or de-sensitizing of any kind. One minute I was in-country, in combat, then 22 hours layer, i'm standing on a sidewalk unarmed, in the USA!

However, the military did give me some "choices" of duty assignments. They asked if I was interested in be assigned to the "Old Guard" at Arlington, Virginia to guard the Tomb Of The Unknown Soldier, and Honor Guard the burials of the deceased soldiers. But I was in no mood to be in such an honor assignment and have that awesome responsibility.

So they gave me a choice of going to drill instructor school at Ft. Benning, Georgia, and then be assigned to a basic training company. I was in no mood in training the "new meat" and send them to that damn war. How was I going to train these kids how to deal with being scared "shitless"! Or how to deal with the stench of death, tagging and bagging the bodies of their buddies, or their buddy's blood on their clothes, the heavy rust smell of blood, treating wounded while under fire, or the heat and humidity of this Asian country. How was I going to train them that if they survived, they weren't going to like the "welcome home" from the US citizens.

Having not picked any of their choices, I received my orders, I was being assigned to Ft Hood, Texas, and I hope Nanci was going to be happy, because I wasn't.

When I arrived in sunny California, standing there in my tailored dress uniform, with my medals, no one prepared us for the American citizens that would be greeting us at the airport! We were greeted by hippy type assholes, screaming accusations, and profanities!

As we walked through the crowd, I saw police officers near by, but they were doing nothing to keep these clowns under control. I couldn't believe what I was seeing and hearing; the insults, the resentment, the terrible comments, all from American citizens towards the military that served their country.

They were taunting us, daring us to assault them, as though they knew the cops on the sideline would arrest us if we attacked.

What have we done to deserve this? Didn't we do our patriotic duty to God, Country, and apple pie? When we were kids, all we heard was when you serve you country, and the citizens will thank you, like they did after World War 2, and the Korean War.

The crowd is angry and hostile, and we had to push back and struggled to make a pathway through these clowns. I am unarmed, however, it is not me that is fearful of being hurt, but my instincts are still razor sharp, and I feel coiled, ready to strike out. Wanting to strike!

Getting to the street curb, I grabbed a taxi, and I feel uncomfortable, for I immediately notice there is no wire mesh over the windows.

"It would be so easy for someone to throw a grenade," I thought, "Never mind, I'm home in the US."

"Take me to the San Francisco airport please." I said.

"How'd you like your welcome?" asked the cab driver, laughing,

"It sucks," I responded.

"Well, I'll give you some free advice. Before you get to the airport, I'll stop at a clothing store, and you get some civilian clothes to wear. There are a lot more protesters at the airport."

"Okay, I don't want to have any run ins like back there."

"It's a good thing there was no fighting," the cab driver said, "If there is fighting the police are ordered to arrest the GI's, but not the hippies."

I followed the cab drivers advice buying civilian clothes, changing into them, he took me to the airport. I went to pay him and he said,

"No son, you don't owe me a thing."

"Thanks again."

"Remember what I told you," he advised, "Don't tell anyone on the plane you served in that Viet Nam war, or you might get spit on!"

As I closed the cab door, I could hear him laughing. I kept thinking, " What the Hell happened? When I left this country, people weren't like this. "

I was in Viet Nam and during that time, Malcolm X, Martin Luthur King,, and Bobby Kennedy were assassinated! Civil Rights riots in the cities! This country has lost it's mind!

I caught the plane to Buffalo by way of Chicago, and there wasn't any further problems. However, i spent too much time in my thoughts, my mind was rapidly scanning through the last couple of years of my life. When I went to war, I was 18 years old, married, a child on the way, and a squad leader in a combat unit. I decided to try and drink away these thoughts, and called on the stewardess to keep the drinks coming.

When I arrived in Buffalo, I was still clear of thought, but yet numb to the strange things I saw. I noted the lack of sand bags, and the fields of fire for these structures.

My family having heard I would be arriving that day poured out of the structure when i arrived. They are in a hurry to greet me outside, but i am in a hurry to get inside, undercover, even though it is now night time, and there shouldn't be any fear of snipers.

Some are people I have known, and some are people I grew up with, and some are family members, however, I feel so detached from all of them. A feeling of shame comes over me with a quick memory of where I had just come from, and I find myself avoiding any conversation.

Besides, I learned that getting to close to anyone means more hurt and heartbreak when they are taken away.

The years have passed as I try to live in my home village of Buffalo, and the fortifications around my home have improved along with the weapons that I keep exceptionally clean and ready to use. The attitude of my fellow citizens has changed to the better, and I associate with others that have been through what I have been through.

We had needed to discuss our memories, or quietly we will meet again when night falls,,,and dream the dreams and walk the walk again,,, here in my home village of Buffalo.

© Copyright 2011 James J Alonzo All rights reserved.
James J Alonzo has granted Agent Orange Legacy its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

The Monkey Attacks

(C) James J Alonzo

1967-1968, In the Iron Triangle, known as the delta, there in the heavy jungle of Viet Nam are many types of monkeys. There are small Spider Monkeys, some are Gibbons, brown and reddish fur, however some are all black, called "Howlers", for the noise make when ever they'ed spot us. They call out loudly "oooo! oooo!" and point towards us. These howls would echo very loud, and would carry for miles, and this would piss us off!

After all, we are either trying to sneak up on the Viet Cong, or recon patrolling without being seen! Some of the soldiers threw sticks or stones up at the monkeys, but the monkeys instead of being afraid and running away would throw something back at the soldiers. The monkeys if they didn't have something readily to throw back like branches or fruit, they would crap in their hand and throw the turds at you! And shit, they were accurate!
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From the central highlands to the DMZ, in areas known as the Rock pile, the monkies, no matter what they looked like or type, they were call "rock monkies." Slightly different from the Howlers or Gibbons, about 3 1/2 feet tall, but just a nasty.

This particular incident we were pulling security for Army Engineers who were doing land clearing operations for a new forward base camp in the A-Shau valley.

Our platoon leader, a Lt. Best from Hamburg, NY, was sitting in his jeep while his driver, Larry Christy, Chicago, a big Mountain of a man had been messing around behind the jeep, laughingly throwing rocks at the some of the largest rock monkeys I have ever seen!

They were about 60 yards away, were light brown to reddish brown in color, and about half the height of an American. Usually you'd see them sitting on their haunches and picking at themselves, and were active at night, though some reports indicate they trooped in the day as well, and were sometimes mistaken for patrols of North Vietnamese Regulars. Our troops would ambush them and add to our enemy body count.

Maybe they might be classified as chimps or small apes. I guess Christy thought it was funny getting the monkeys throwing rocks back at him. Suddenly, there was a loud thump of a sizable rock impacting Christy's big head!

As we were laughing, hooting, shouting, and jumping up and down at Christy's demise, the apes must of decided we deserve the same destiny, and began to throw rocks at us. Shit! These rock apes were accurate.

Deciding to join the fun, some of the other soldiers picked up some rocks and returned fire, the apes were more than happy to throw them back, and they threw a wicked fast ball!

When Christy came too, he didn't think it was funny anymore, for beside the headache, he had a cut on top of his head, accompanied with a large lump. and when getting to his feet, started hollering mixed curses, growls and various descriptive adjectives to the apes that had bonked him.

"Sir! Let me shoot these f--king apes!" whined Christy.

"At ease!", ordered Lt Best, laughing. "No one is firing a weapon at the apes.

When this rock throwing episode started, no one bothered telling PFC Jimmy Davis from Sweetwater, Tennessee, that he shouldn't be taking a nap in a fox hole within the firing range. Davis was there sleeping through all this noise, but he was tired since he had been on perimeter guard duty the night before.

This newly found rock throwing contest, as all games had some serious mistakes since it wasn't really thought out by the apes throwing rocks or the human idiots that were throwing them back.

One mistake, no one told Jimmy Davis what was happening and that Lt Best said there would be no shooting.

The ape's fatal mistake was hitting Jimmy Davis while he slept.

Davis upon being awoke from the sudden pain of the rocks hitting him, and thinking that an attack from the Viet Cong had started, jumped up screaming,

"incoming!"

Meanwhile grabbing his M-79 grenade launcher, he put a High Explosive round right in the middle of the apes.

Kaboom!!!!! All four rock apes disappear in a bloody rocky mist!

I guess the lesson here is don't mess with a sleepy Jimmy Davis

- The M79 can fire a wide variety of 40 mm rounds, including high explosive, ant- personnell, buckshot, flichette, and high illumination. The M406 40 mm HE (high explosive) grenades fired from the M79 travel at a muzzle velocity of 75 meters per second. The M406 contained enough explosive to produce over 300 fragments that travel at 1,524 meters per second within a lethal radius of 5 meters.-

© Copyright 2011 James J Alonzo All rights reserved.
James J Alonzo has granted Agent Orange Legacy its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.

I Was Just There Last Night

© James J. Alonzo

“Jim, do you still think about Viet Nam?’ asked Dr. Tallutto, My shrink at Veterans Hospital.

“How do you stop thinking about it.” I Laughed, “everyday for the last 40 plus years, I wake up with it, go to bed with it. Yeah, I think about it, I can’t quit thinking about it. I don't think it will never end, but most of the time I have learned to live with it. I’m mostly comfortable with the memories, the flashbacks, I’ve learn to stop trying to forget, and I am trying to learn to embrace it. It just doesn’t scare me anymore.” “Jim, if you weren’t being affected by the experience of war, combat, and death," he instructed, "that would be abnormal." When he told me that , it was like he’d have just given me a pardon, “Go ahead and feel something for that place, Jim. It ain’t going nowhere. You’re going to wear it for the rest of your life, so you might as well get to know it.” A lot of my “brothers" haven’t been so lucky. For them the memories are too painful, their sense of loss to great for them to adjust. One time I was speaking to my sister, and she said to me, “Jim, I have a friend, and her husband was in Viet Nam.” “Yeah.” I responded. “I asked him when he was there? Do you know what he said?’ “No.” “He said to me, “Just last Night.” I had to explain to her what i thought he meant, but it took my sister some time to understand what he and I were talking about. “Just Last Night.” Yeah I was in Nam, when? “Just last night”. During dinner with my wife, on my way to work this morning, during lunch, working in the office. “Yeah I was just there.” My kid brother informed me, once, after I had gotten home from Nam, “You’re not the same brother that went to Viet Nam. He informed me, "Dad says that when you went to Viet Nam, that the Jim we knew, died over there. That the Jim that came back, is not his son, or my brother.” Another time, my wife and I were talking, “You won’t let people get close to you, not even me.” “You’re probably right.” I responded. Ask a veteran about making friends in Nam, and you will find out it is risky. Why? Because we're in the business of death, kill and be killed, death was with us at all times. It wasn’t the poetic death of, “If I die before I wake.” This was the real thing. The kind where young men scream for their mothers! The kind that lingers in your mind and becomes more real each time you luck out and cheat Mr. Death. You don’t want too many friends that close, when there is the possibility of dying is real. When you do,,,friends become a liability. While in Viet Nam, I feel in love with a Vietnamese woman. Her name was Kim, she was young, 22 years old, smart, educated, beautiful. She lived in ‘Cholon’ a neighborhood or district in Saigon. She worked for my commanding officer, but she was in love with me. When the TET Offensive hit, many communists soldier and Viet Cong attacked many cities at the same time. When they hit Saigon, I was in bed with Kim, and I was AWOL, for I had misappropriated a vehicle, and drove 21 miles from my base camp to Kim’s home that night. We were awakened when the fighting started, gun fire, the explosions of RPG’s and chi com grenades! “You have to go!” Kim demanded, “There are many VC in Saigon, they will kill you and my family, if they see you here!” I told her I would stay but she insisted that it would be better if I was gone. After I escaped, and for the next 30 plus days, on missions, during the TET offensive, I heard nothing of Kim and her family. After TET, I would find out that she and her family were among the 10,000 south Vietnamese killed for associating or being employed by the Americans. "DON”T GET CLOSE TO PEOPLE WHO ARE GOING TO DIE." Sometimes you can’t help it. You hear Veterans use the term ”my buddy” when they refer to a guy they spent the war with. “Me and this buddy of mine…” Friend sounds to intimate, doesn’t it. “Friend” calls up images of being close. If he is a friend, then you are going to be hurt if he dies, and war hurts enough without adding to the pain. Get close,,,, get hurt, it’s as simple as that. My wife knows a few people who can get into the soft spots inside me. My daughter Sherri, my grandson, and her. She’s put up with a lot from me. Nanci will tell you that when she signed on for better or worse, she had no idea there was going to be so much of the latter. But with my daughter and her son Devin, it is different. They will be there in my life, and that is the good part of life. I can still see the faces, though they all seem to have the same eyes, the thousand yard stare. When I think of us, back in Nam, I always see a line of “dirty soldiers” sitting on the running boards of the convoy trucks or the skids of the choppers. We are caught in the first grey sliver between darkness and light. That first moment when we know we’ve survived another night, and the business of staying alive for one more day is about to begin. There was so much hope in that brief space of time. It’s what we used to pray for, “One more day God. One more day.” And I can still hear our conversations as if they had just been spoken. I can still hear the way we sounded, the hard cynical jokes, our morbid sense of humor. We were scared to death of dying or being maimed, and trying our best not to show it. I still recall the smells, too. Our body odor, mixed with the odor of bug repellant, (DEET), the smell of sweat and fear. The way the smell of cordite and gun smoke hangs on the air after a fire-fight. Or the pungent odor of rice paddies, and the mud. So different from the black dirt New York State of farm land. The mud of Viet Nam smells ancient, somehow, like it’s always been there. The smell of rotting jungle vegetation. It is hard to forget the way blood smells, like rusted metal, sticky and drying on my hands. I spent a long night that way once. That memory is etched in my soul. I remember how the night jungle appears dream like as the pilot of a Cessna ‘forward observer’, at 1200 feet, buzzes over head, dropping parachute flares until morning. The artificial sun light would flicker and make shadows run throughout the jungle foliage. It was worse than not being able to see what was out there sometimes. During a starless and moonless night, I remember looking at my buddy, J.J. Jackson next to me, as a flare floated slowly down from overhead. The way the light made shadows on his sweat covered ebony face, and around his eyes were so deep, that it looked like his eyes were gone. I reached over and touched him on his arm. And without even looking at me, he touched my hand, “I know man.” And at that moment he did. God, I loved those guys, my buddies. I hurt every time one of them died or was severely wounded. We all did, despite our posturing, despite our desire to stay connected, we couldn’t help ourselves. I hurt when I hear another brother in arms died by agent orange. They died way before their normal life expectancy. "Killed in Nam, died years later at home." I know why some veterans write their stories, I know what gives other Veterans the ability to create poems so honest. One can cry at their horrible beauty. It’s love. Love for those people who shared the Viet Nam combat experience. We did our jobs like good soldiers, and we tried our best not to become as hard as our surroundings. In some way, we all touched each other and said, “I know.” "I know." Like a mother would say, holding a child in the middle of a nightmare, “It’s going to be alright.” We tried not to loose touch with our humanity, we tried to walk the line. We tried to be the good men our parents had raised and not to give into that un-named thing we knew was inside us all. You want to know what frightening is? It’s a nineteen year old boy-man who’s had a sip of that power over life and death that war gives you. Despite all the things he has been taught, he knows that he likes it. It’s a nineteen year old who’s lost a friend and is angry, scared, and yet determined that some, “.*&%#$ is going to pay!” To this day, the thought of that boy can wake me up from a sound sleep and leave me staring at the ceiling the rest of the night. As I write this, I see an image in front of me of two young men, with writing tablets on their laps. One smoking a cigarette, both stare without expression at the camera. They’re writing letters to their loved ones back in the world, staying in touch with places they would rather be. Places and people they hope to see again. My wife Nanci, doesn’t mind of the love I have for these men, or even of Kim. She knows she’s been included in special company. She knows I’ll always love those people who shared that part of my life, a part she never can. And yet she understands how I feel about the ones I know are out there yet. The one’s who still answer the question.  "When were you in Viet Nam?"  "Hell, I was just there last night."