By Jade Stone
If you’ve been following along, you’ve learned how the military has influenced my life. I had two dads: one biological and one step, both of whom I grew to love dearly. Both were Vietnam veterans. One came back with enough presence of mind to put the pieces back together and start again while the other fell deeper and deeper into the jungles of his own mind.
By the early 90’s dad (my real dad, Ben) had begun to tell such sensational stories about his life. So sensational in fact, that I began to question them. For example, he told me once that he was the head of a mercenary organization currently tracking a target in Columbia. At first, as a naive high school kid, I thought “Wow, that’s pretty amazing” but this seemed just beyond reality’s reach. So, I decided to ask Lynn, the other dad, about the stories. Having been a medic with the 173rd Airborne, Lynn was well aware of the things my dad, Ben had been through, along with the things he hadn’t. He began to explain that my father was a very sick man. He went on to tell me that Ben had done tremendous work with the green berets and had even earned many commendations which included a purple heart and a couple of bronze stars however, for some reason, it wasn’t enough.
Ben, like many others, will always try to make up for whatever shortcomings he felt he had- for example, losing his soldiers who were brothers to him. Many people, who have lost soldiers in a war, come back with tremendous feelings of guilt. No matter how hard they try they struggle with the idea that he or she came back while the others did not. Ben was no exception. Lynn went on to tell me that not only was his mind very sick, but his body was too. He had been diagnosed with kidney failure and there was a possibility of cancer but it was unconfirmed.
As I’m sure you can imagine, this was a tremendous amount to take in at once. Initially, I was very angry with my dad (Ben) for spinning those stories and for withholding his health status…But, Lynn assured me that it had nothing to do with us and more to do with him. Ben believed every word that came out of his mouth. I don’t know if these scenarios had grown from the continual night terrors that continued to haunt him every night or if his brain had really lost sight of reality. In any case, these tales would continue until he died. His real history was such a blur because I had so many experiences with him that made the tales seem very real and more than just a little possible.
I remember during my college years I went to visit dad in North Carolina for a few days. His health was fading and I was worried he was working too hard. He owned and operated a “special forces” pub in Fayetteville just off post. This was no ordinary pub. Imagine a basement space in a strip mall that was hidden from the public. Upon entering the door, you must walk down the dark, damp stairs which were heavily shrouded with camouflage netting. Once you reached the entrance to the room you were met by 6 huge dark walnut round tables that had to have been at least 5 feet in diameter. And while the Viking-like tables were impressive, your eyes were drawn almost immediately to the walls. As your eyes begin to adjust to the dark, smoky space you realize that the walls were not only covered in camouflage netting but also artifacts of the Vietcong from the Vietnam War, many still bearing the blood stains.
There were a few American artifacts but mostly personal and militia-issued things from the NVC. Of all the tales he told, I knew that the story about the acquisition of these items having been personally collected during his tours were probably pretty right on. This basement bar had been transformed into the bush, a place where for some reason, he found solace. As if the atmosphere wasn’t enough, Dad was also picky about his clientele.
While his clients were mostly retired or active duty military, he allowed a select few civilians in based on their understanding of military life and the amount of wits they carried. My dad was a talented poet and incredibly smart, so he appreciated the literary types that wandered in, usually by invitation of a friend.
I will never forget the day I was helping out behind the bar when a strange, gangly young man with a bad attitude strode through the door. He gave absolutely no regard to the steely-eyed gentlemen in the corner nor did he notice that the entire bar was staring at him. This was the kind of kid that defied authority every chance he got and believed he had a God given right to be anywhere he so chose…well, except here. Dad was seated at a large table in the back facing the door with a seemingly harmless dish towel under his hand. About the time the kid reached the bar, my dad’s hand began to curl around an object underneath the towel and it was at that moment that I realized that’s no ordinary towel but rather a towel loaded with Colt 45 bullets.
My smile faded and I’m sure the color drained from my face. The other patrons turned back to their conversations and didn’t seem concerned when my dad suggested that this place “might not be for him”. The kid began to argue but quickly realized there was no arguing with the hand cannon that was now pointing right at him. The other patrons carried on as if this was a normal occurrence and I’m sure it probably was! I’m guessing that kid never came back!
I’ve never felt so weirdly out of place than I did that day. In my world, conflicts were settled with discussions and words, but in his, they were settled with bullets. I loved and respected dad but I felt horribly sorry for him at the same time because he could never leave his Hell. I learned so much about how life is for so many soldiers of that era, giving me a whole different perspective on veterans in general. I knew that if we as a nation don’t do a better job working with our OIF Veterans who suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) when they come home, they too would spend their lives living in self torture just as he did.
These perspectives were also helpful to me when it came time to deal with my own husband and his “issues” after he returned from Iraq. And since we will soon be preparing for deployment number two, I’ll share that with you next time!
Jade welcomes your comments here as well as any suggestions you may have for her future posts. You may also e-mail her at akajadestone [AT] yahoo [DOT] com. To read previous Military Mama posts, CLICK HERE.
