Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - On The Sunny Side of the Street

On the Sunny Side of the Street – Bernie Seiler


“How did you know I was colored?” Zenobia asked as we played in my grandmother’s backyard. I responded with authority, “Because my grandma told me so.” Zenobia, my new playmate, had wandered into my 4-year-old world the day before. She could run fast, knew all kinds of new games to play, plus she could do amazing cartwheels and summersaults. At the time, I had no idea what being colored meant.

A few years later I overheard my parents anxiously discussing a newspaper article from the Muncie Evening Press about Louis Armstrong. After a successful concert at the local college, Louis and his band had gone to a small restaurant near the campus and were denied service. It was the first time I recall hearing about a truly mean spirited, overt display of racism in my hometown. I felt terrible, confused and ashamed about what had happened to this visiting celebrity. How awful he must have felt having his band treated this way, too. On stage or television, he had always seemed so happy and joyous about entertaining us. This was a new, troubling reality for me.


In the summers, I remember being told to always put my bike away, because the migrant workers that came to work in the surrounding tomato fields might steal it. I later became aware of Madison Street, a thoroughfare through town that insidiously divided the town between minorities and lower-class whites on one side and the rest of us on the other side.


Later, when I first arrived at my Ft. Knox basic training unit, it was immediately apparent that I would be living and training with a group largely composed of minorities. I admit feeling fear, unsure of how I would fit in, or if I would survive. It was difficult for me to understand Black idiom, the confusing chatter of the Hispanic groups, the encounter with many deep southern accents, all of which made me feel isolated, as though I had landed on another planet. Not surprisingly, however, it wasn’t long before these strange people, including me, were being equally tormented by trainers. The pushups, groveling in the dirt, the early morning bugle calls, the relentless polishing of boots and brass, plus the terror of the inspection line were all spread evenly among this entire gaggle of trainees.


Following the long introduction to the Army and its leveling influence on race, I eventually graduated from OCS and was assigned as a training officer at Ft Leonard Wood, Missouri. On my first day, I was instructed to report to Captain Boyd, my new company commander in the 5th Army Division. As I was ushered into meet with him, to my astonishment he was a tall, very dark Black man. His demeanor was entirely military, with a no-nonsense air about him. He welcomed me to the unit, but there was little warmth in his voice, as he outlined my duties. For my part during this first encounter, all sorts of unexpected emotions and feelings bubbled up. Why was I being placed in a position of subservience to this man? Would he treat me with respect? Could I tolerate kowtowing to his direction? What did I do to deserve this turn of fate?


As the weeks moved on, I learned that Captain Boyd and I could work nicely together. Although he rarely lost his cover of that upright military demeanor, he was a decent man, a smart man, and determined to do a good job for the Army. Over time, I began to understand the huge issues he faced with regards to his relationships on the post. On several occasions, other junior officers would make negative, sometimes racist comments about Captain Boyd to me, assuming I would think the comments funny. I remember an incident in which a party was planned for several company commanders, the junior officers and their families. My wife and I were invited, but I was asked not to tell Captain Boyd about the planned gathering. He and his wife, Ella and baby daughter Deidra not welcome to attend the event. My wife and I decided that we could not abide by the invitation, made some lame excuse and did not go to the party.


Not long afterwards, Boyd and his wife invited my wife to go on a shopping trip to Rolla, Missouri with them and their daughter. I had to work, but my wife happily accepted the invitation. While in Rolla, Captain Boyd and his wife wanted to make a stop in a store, across from a local park. My wife suggested that she and the baby should take a walk in the park while the Boyds shopped. Taking the toddler by the hand, the two of them walked into the park. Almost immediately, my wife noticed that when passing on the sidewalk, some folks openly glared at her disapprovingly. Eventually, someone driving past in a truck yelled a horrible comment to my wife, something like, “What are you doing with that nigger.” Becoming alarmed and fearful, my wife turned around towards the store where the Boyd’s were shopping, picking up the pace as she moved out of the park. She did not mention the incident to the Boyd’s, not wanting to cause them undue worry. I was angry and upset upon hearing about the story, but ultimately not surprised.


Admittedly, I never mentioned any of the various racial incidents to Captain Boyd because I lacked the courage to be honest with him. I couldn’t bring myself to cross the line of speaking to a superior officer about something so personal as the racial animus that surrounded him. For me, the recognition that had failed to exorcise my own lingering racism was even more frightening.

Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - Starlight

Starlight – Bernie Seiler,br />
It was predicted to be a rare night with no moon, no visible stars due to heavy cloud cover, and no discernible ambient light in this remote part of Tay Ninh Province. The depth of the anticipated darkness made armor units such as ours extremely vulnerable to attack by sappers. Sappers were highly trained operatives from commando units of the North Vietnamese Army or the local Viet Cong. Their individual cells usually included four soldiers, but it was not unusual to have as many as twenty or thirty included in an operation. Having their bodies covered with charcoal dust and grease, wearing only black loin cloths, they were nearly invisible in the dark. Their mission was to penetrate perimeters and then assassinate, destroy and terrorize who/whatever was possible. They typically carried AK 47 rifles, and bags of explosives tied around their waists, as they slipped inside a perimeter. The recent Tet Offensive had produced several sapper attacks in the area, only serving to heighten their reputation as fearsome fighters. The sapper units would take hours to slowly inch toward a target under the cover of darkness, watching and listening for any sign of detection. If successful, near dusk they would slip inside the perimeter to wreck their havoc and then slip back out, carrying any of their own dead.

Earlier in the day, our troop commander met with the four platoon leaders of F Troop to discuss how to protect ourselves that night. There was intelligence confirming that we might be subjected to a sapper attack and he was understandably tense as the four of us gathered around him. We reviewed how the perimeter would be organized in its usual defensive circle. Each vehicle was to have above ground anti-personnel Claymore mines set up in front of them, creating a blast zone out from the perimeter. Taking turns for the entire night, troopers were to stand watch for two-hour periods, during which the primary M60 machine gun on each vehicle was manned. There was to be a total blackout with no flashlights, no cigarettes, no talking, no sounds.

The troop commander then introduced us to a new piece of equipment that had been coptered in earlier that day…the high-tech Starlight Scope. It looked like a stubby, thick telescope and one was to be mounted on each vehicle. Using the smallest source of light available such as moonlight, starlight and any sky glow, it intensified the light source within the Scope and would make a sapper visible for up to maybe 200 yards. With no time to spare, we returned to our individual platoons to explain the urgent plans for the night and what to do with this unfamiliar Starlight technology.

During the night, I took the second watch shift for our track, taking over from the previous trooper at midnight. It was totally dark as I climbed and felt my way into position behind the machine gun. As I listened, I could hear only the sound of crickets, buzzing mosquitos and frogs looking for mates in nearby rice paddies. On edge as I found the on switch for the Starlight Scope, I powered it up. It made a small hum as it warmed and after a moment or two, it revealed in surprising detail the landscape in front of me, viewed as a greenish glow. I scanned the horizon, noticing the tall grasses in our clearing, the tree line off in the distance, the earthen mounds at the edge of a rice paddy and what appeared to be tree stumps dotting the field in front of me. The intensity of the night watch was exhausting as I listened for unusual sounds, and any hint of light or movement. I hunched down uncomfortably looking into the Starlight’s rubber eye piece, feeling the jungle’s heat and humidity while not for a moment taking my eye off the landscape.

At about 01:00 I was starting to cramp up a bit, shifting my position. My eyes were very tired from this non-stop looking into the green glow of the Scope. Although I couldn’t exactly pinpoint why, I suddenly had a sense that there was movement directly in front of the vehicle next to me, but, I couldn’t be sure. In an instant, I was fully alert, intently listening, and scouring the scene provided by the Starlight. After about fifteen minutes of suspense, I was startled to clearly see one of the “tree stumps” stand up. A sapper! My first reaction was to alert the trooper next to me that someone was in front of him at about twenty yards. I got no reaction. I tried the alert again, later learning the soldier on watch had been drinking and was sound asleep. With no reaction coming, I triggered the Claymore mines in front of my vehicle, quickly spreading the realization that the predicted sapper attack had started. The explosion created a flash of light into darkness in front of me, and the enclosed ball bearings of the Claymores spread out like huge shotgun blasts. Without knowing the scope or the direction of the attack, fear quickly escalated as all other tracks triggered their Claymore mines, with tanks blasting their main guns, personnel carriers firing their machine guns and other troopers taking positions between the vehicles with their M16 rifles blazing into the dark.

After some very loud and intense minutes, we were radioed to hold our fire. A Cobra attack helicopter had arrived on the scene and since I was the only one that had identified a sapper’s location, I was told to fire my machine gun towards that location and to keep firing. With flares illuminating the sky, the tracer bullets from my gun pointed towards the direction of the sapper. The pilot repeatedly strafed the area with his rapid-fire cannons.

We were very fortunate that night. Had sappers gone undetected by the Starlight Scope, they would likely have breached our perimeter and killed or injured many. There was no way of knowing how many sappers may have been approaching the perimeter, but if all the tree stumps in the field in front of my location stood up, we could have been facing at least ten sappers. We did find the body of the likely sapper that had been discovered. He was very slight in build and looked like a young teenager. One brave American died, as well. He was a terrific 1st Sargent, the kind of “lifer” whose wisdom and experience we all depended upon. He was one of the first troopers to grab his rifle and take a position next to my track. Recovering from the strain of the night’s events, I gave thanks and prayed for the repose of the two dead soldiers and for their family’s protection. Although I later received accolades for detecting the sappers and avoiding a catastrophe, there was no doubt the hero of that awful night had been the Starlight.

Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - Bronze Star with "V" Device

Bronze Fordham Veteran's Writing Workshop - Star with “V” Device – Bernie Seiler On a hot summer day in 1970, the 11th Armored Calvary Regiment’s F Troop was called to a formation, somewhere in Tay Ninh Province, Vietnam. Surprised by this formation, none of us knew the purpose of this hurriedly called event. As we gathered ourselves into a semblance of order, a helicopter circled overhead and then landed. Carrying the Regimental commander, he jumped out of his helicopter, ducking low to avoid the copter’s rotary, and striding over to our location.

Alongside the company commander, he began addressing this motley group of soldiers, looking every bit as ragged as one would expect for a group of men having been in the field for over 9 months straight. He proceeded to congratulate the troopers on their successful repelling of a sapper attack during the prior week. He talked about bravery, endurance, patriotism, and his pride in F Troop.

At some point during the address, the company commander brought the regimental commander over to where I was standing. I saluted him and to my shock and complete embarrassment, he pinned a Bronze Star with a “V” device on my dusty, smelly fatigues. He thanked me for my dedication to the Army and the part I had played in the previous week in helping to save F Troop from certain devastation. Although I got through the ceremony, I have to say that my most prominent emotion as I looked down at the Bronze Star was fury at being singled out and awarded something that in my opinion, was not deserved. Didn’t he know that during the repelled attack that I was not thinking about protecting the troops, but rather saving my own ass? Didn’t he know that I had chosen to enlist in the Army to select an easier slot in the OCS Armor School program, to avoid winding up as a grunt, slogging through the jungles on foot? Didn’t he know that I did not really support the Vietnam War and was too cowardly to move to Canada or to pursue a deferment by changing my college degree to education to avoid the draft? Didn’t he know there was almost nothing I liked about being in the Army? Couldn’t he see that by awarding me this medal that he was making a horrible mistake?

I recall taking the Bronze Star off, placing it in my storage box and never looking at it until I eventually got back home. As I unpacked my belongings, I saw the Bronze Star and decided to give it to my father, rather than keeping it for myself. I knew he would be touched by the gesture, feeling pride in its possession…unlike my own complicated feelings about receiving the medal. Years later, the Bronze Star was returned to me by my father when he was in a nursing home, along with his own Marine Corp brass, dog tags, pictures and other military paraphernalia. It was a touching moment for me. I think that might have been the moment when my feelings started to change about my Bronze Star and the beginnings of my healing from a bad case of “imposter syndrome.”

Much later I began to volunteer at the FDR Veterans Hospital in Montrose, NY, interacting with veterans and staff on a more personal level. I recall mentioning to a couple of them my struggle with military awards, and they were incredulous that the Army had never given me the medals that I was due, other than the Bronze Star, while in Vietnam. They retrieved the necessary paperwork for me to submit to the Army, so I could rightfully claim my medals. Although about 46 years late, I eventually received a box from the Army with several medals and ribbons for my service inside.

I now have a shadow box hanging next to my computer at home, including my medals, ribbons, patches, dog tags, and Army brass. I look at that small collection on a regular basis now. No longer do I have the extreme sensation that they were somehow a challenge to me, or that I didn’t deserve them. Rather, I look at them with a small measure of pride, but still not completely sure if that young soldier measured up to all that they represent.

Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - The Cambodian Incursion

The Cambodian Incursion

We weren’t told where we were going, but we knew that our 11^th Armored Calvary Regiment was facing the Cambodian border.   There was a general understanding that we were going to cross the border the next morning as the lead unit in what became known as the “Cambodian Incursion.”   The night was spent guarding our perimeter and watching tracer bullets flying overhead, listening to the sounds of sniper fire, along with the sounds of mortar rounds being launched in our direction.   Near daylight we were told to move back away from the border about ¼ mile.  A few minutes later, B52 bombers unloaded their payloads in the area from which we had just moved.   The magnitude of the bomb explosions was terrifying and unlike anything most of us had ever experienced.  The ground shook underneath us in waves of violence. 

At daylight, we crossed into Cambodia and quickly discovered that there was absolutely no resistance as we moved forward. We assumed the bombing along the border had obliterated many of the North Vietnamese, with the remaining having fled the area.  North Vietnamese used the area, known as the Ho Chi Minh Trail, to supply their troops in the south.  Our task was to patrol the Cambodian areas along Highway 13, interrupting the supply line.  The highway was an important link between Saigon and the district capital of Snuol, Cambodia.

As it-turned-out, the time in Cambodia was a relief from the battle-scarred landscape of Vietnam.  The lush unspoiled countryside and jungle, plus the simple, mostly welcoming Cambodian villagers we encountered were wonderful.  The contrasts with the war weary Vietnamese was stark.

There were two events about my time in Cambodia that stuck with me.

The first was during a time when my unit stopped in a small village to rest.  The villagers were by all appearances very happy to see us.  The children ran alongside our caravan as we arrived and many villagers were along the road, waving as though we were heroes having come to liberate them.  After a few minutes, a trooper brought a relatively young man over to me, introducing him as the leader of the village.   He spoke very limited English, but I understood that he was inviting me into his home.  His house was made of bamboo, had a thatched roof and was on stilts.  We entered his single room house by climbing a wooden ladder, where he then introduced me to his wife and young family.  They were extremely hospitable to me and I had no sense that they were afraid of my presence, treating me as an honored guest.  As we tried to communicate, I noticed a homemade musical instrument made of bamboo, partially covered by snake skin, with two wire strings and a bamboo bow.  I later learned that it is called a Tro – a Cambodian violin.  I asked him if he played it and he proceeded to demonstrate the instrument.  The Tro had the most beautiful, interesting sound.  It was played to imitate the human voice in song.  He noticed how much I enjoyed hearing it and gestured that I could have it. I was very touched and traded food, cigarettes and some currency in the exchange.

I remember another incident in a village several weeks later that left me shaken.  Again, our troop had been traveling for quite a long time and we stopped at this remote village to rest.  As it turns out these villagers had abandoned the area as we approached.  Possibly they were North Vietnamese sympathizers, or they were just simply afraid of us.  It was a poor village with palm trees, a dusty main road with branching lanes, homes on stilts, water buffalo, chickens and other livestock wandering about.  Each home had a garden that supplied the family with vegetables.   After resting for a while, I ordered the troops to get back onto their tanks and armored personnel carriers, to resume our patrol. 

I noticed as the troopers were loading up, joking and laughing, that many of them had stolen vegetables from the villager’s gardens.  I remember being shocked that they would take food that these poor people depended upon.  Even as soldiers it was clear that we had many more material things than any of these people.  I suddenly had an overwhelming sense of rage and anger that these kind, simple people would be treated in this manner.  I ordered everyone back on the ground and remember yelling and cursing at them for desecrating the gardens of people that would likely return home after we left.  What a terrible example of who we were as Americans, I told them.  We were not leaving until they left something of value in the gardens, in payment of what had been removed.  Nearly everyone went back into the gardens and left such things as cans of C-rations, cigarettes, soda, beer, clothing, and money, as compensation.

I’ve often wondered why I was so overcome with anger and rage during this second memory.  Clearly, the anger had to be more than just the incident in the gardens.   Although, a sense of the immorality of pilfering items from people that had little probably played a part in my response, that was not quite it.  I had been feeling worried about leaving this unexpected respite in Cambodia and dreaded the return to Vietnam.  I now suspect that It was returning to the shattered sites like defoliated forests, bomb craters, the burned-out villages, as well as the seemingly never-ending sounds of tank engines and motor scooters, exploding landmines, all-of-which we had distanced ourselves while in Cambodia.  For me is was also the smells of Vietnam.  The smell of the dead water buffalo that someone had used for rifle practice, the acrid burned metal smell of a helicopter that had crashed with two dead pilots still strapped into their seats, the constant smell of diesel fuel, the smell of dirt and most offensive…my own stink.  Upon reflection, it was likely the totality of all these things that contributed to my overall response to the event in the gardens.

After my personal explosion near the gardens, I felt some relief.  When it was over and we were on-our-way once again, I was proud of the troops and their efforts to set things right in the village gardens, plus their matter-of-fact response to their “crazed” Lieutenant.

Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - The Court Martial of PFC Roundtree

The Court Martial of Pfc Roundtree

I entered the post brig for my first meeting with Pfc Roundtree.   As the only available 2^nd Lieutenant at Ft. Leonard Wood at the time, I was assigned as his defender for a court martial in which he was charged with assaulting an officer.  With no legal background or experience, plus no instruction in how to proceed, I assumed the first logical step in his defense would be to meet with him to get his side of the story.  At the brig, I was ushered into a cell like room, with a narrow slit of a window, pale green walls, a grey metal military issue table and two chairs, one on each side of the table.  Eventually, Pfc Roundtree was brought to the room by a guard.  As the guard left, he locked the door leaving us alone.

Introducing myself to Pfc Roundtree, we shook hands before we sat down across from each other at the table.  I noticed that he had a strong grip, with very large hands and long fingers appropriate for a man who must have been six five or taller.  He was a black man from Georgia and although he had a slight air of distrust of me when we first met, he was soft spoken, polite and had a delightful southern drawl.  I, on the other hand, felt small, unprepared and embarrassed with the task of asking him about the alleged assault.

After some small talk and going over with him the schedule for his court martial, we both seemed a little more relaxed.  I finally asked him what had happened leading up to the incident. He talked about how he had gone off post to a local bar called Miss Bobby’s, just outside the main gate of Ft. Leonard Wood and, losing track of time, had been running late getting back on post.    He began describing a situation in which the Army officer had approached him and started reprimanding him about being late to return to the post.   He said that the officer was in his face and would not accept his explanation.   I could see that he was reliving the incident and was becoming agitated.  His eyes wandered, his body tensed up and he began shifting in his chair.

I then made the mistake of asking him to explain to me what he recalled doing to the officer.  He suddenly jumped up from his side of the table, and towering over me, grabbed me around the neck, pulling me to my feet.  I could feel his large hands completely circling my neck and all I could think of was that he was going to choke me to death, and I had no way of calling out for help.  After a moment or two he let me go, relaxing his grip on my neck and recovering his composure.

It took me a moment or two to recover my composure as we returned to our chairs.  Although Roundtree’s demonstration was not intended to frighten or harm me, I was flustered and felt somewhat unhinged as the interview continued.

The court martial of Pfc Roundtree was an agonizing procedure during which I was given a binder, whose sole purpose was to walk me through his defense.  As the rushed court martial proceeded, I was flipping pages in the binder trying to keep up with the inevitability of the outcome, but trying to help Pfc Roundtree who was obviously being represented by an uninformed dolt.

Military justice was served and Pfc Roundtree was convicted.

Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - Ft Sherman's Jungle Warfare School

Fort Sherman’s Jungle Warfare School

Seriously, Lieutenant Brookstone, I had doubts about getting through this training from the moment I landed in Panama City.  When I deplaned, the heat and humidity, as well as the smell of the jungle, gave me my first hint as to what was in store.   I didn’t yet know about the sights, sounds and terrain of the jungle, as was probably true for you, too.  It’s hard to forget the screaming monkeys, the full-throated croaking frogs, the unidentifiable sounds of the night and the screams of that other trainee having a nightmare during our first bivouac.  I certainly wasn’t assured of this graduation day once I discovered those afternoon rains, the mud, the huge bugs, and the piranha fish that we suspected were in the river that we swam across.   Did you notice that our “Jungle Expert” graduate certificate is embellished with the graphic of a snake?  How appropriate, right?  Honestly Brookstone, how did we both wind up here? 

There were a couple of times during our training that seriously almost caused me to wipeout.  The first was when we were learning how to cross the river using a zip line.  Not sure how you felt, but it sounded like fun until I saw what we were expected to do.  First, it was the sight of that monstrous tower up on the bluff at the river’s edge.  It must have been close to fifty or sixty feet high and displaying that spindly looking ladder on the side that we would climb to the top platform.  I don’t know about you, but I was such a wreck by this time that I could barely recall our instructions.  All I remembered was to hook our harness to the zip line, look for the ready signal from the other side of the river, jump, go into a tuck position to control spinning and then brace for a hard landing.   I was near the middle of the line of maybe 25 trainees starting the climb to the platform.  My old fear of heights bubbled up and I seriously wondered how I was going to even get on the ladder.  In the beginning, I took some comfort in the rhythm to the process, which helped to control my panic.  One soldier jumped as another reached the top platform, while one was half-way up and the next was waiting for the OK to start the climb.  After a few minutes of this, I noticed a couple of guys too frightened to climb off the ladder and onto the platform, starting back down to the howls of ridicule from the trainers.  Eventually, it was my turn and I somehow managed to step onto the ladder.  Shaking and sweating, I tried not to look down but felt really sick to my stomach.  I debated going back down, but just couldn’t face the consequences and the loss of face.

Finally, after that agonizing climb to the top, I dragged myself onto the platform.  Lining up behind another soldier beginning his jump, I felt dizzy.  As I tried to focus on how he was doing his jump, he got his signal and then leaped forward.  You probably remember that this is when everything went wrong.  Right away he started screaming and his arms and legs were flailing…he was completely out of control, spinning all the way down.  From my vantage point, it was obvious that he had been injured when I saw the trainers on the other side removing his harness.  They placed him onto a stretcher with a collapsed lung, so I hear.  During this commotion, I was standing on the edge of the platform, tethered to the zip line for maybe ten minutes, with nothing to hold onto before the medics finished with the injured guy. I just stood there waiting, feeling wobbly and honestly, just praying my ass off.   Finally, I got the signal to jump, took the leap, went into the tuck position and took the ride of my life.  The landing was hard, but I was thankfully in one piece.

The second instance wasn’t nearly as intensely scary as the first, but it really tested me in a way that I had never imagined.  Awakened in the middle of the night we were told to get our gear and climb into the back of the truck parked outside.  Driven for several miles down the dirt road we were unloaded into the pitch black of the jungle’s night.  As you probably recall, we divided into groups of five and were handed a glow in the dark compass and told the group’s coordinates to follow.  We were ordered to remain totally silent during the exercise and to start walking.  The instructors climbed back onto the truck, driving away.  At first, I didn’t know what to do.  Not sure how it worked in your group, but in ours one fellow holding his compass started to move in the direction we were given.  As we all quickly discovered, there were no trails or cleared spaces in the jungle, so this was not going to be easy.  Someone soon noticed that the hats we were wearing had a small glow in the dark patch on the back.  It was so dark that you couldn’t see anything else, except the patch and the compass.  Eventually, we figured out that we should hold the shoulder of the guy in front of us, as we silently moved as a unit in single file.  Going through bushes, bumping into trees, climbing over rocks, getting entangled in hanging vines, we managed to move forward.  At one point, our group had to sit down as we slid down a steep and wet slippery slope, walking across a shallow stream at the bottom and then crawling back up the other side.   The only sounds as we moved forward, besides critters, were our boots crushing the foliage, and the grunts from the occasional trip and fall.  Unable to see anything but the patch, my biggest fear was that we might walk off a cliff, or be attacked by a wild animal lying in wait for us.  Of course, we encountered the alarmed monkeys, the monster frogs and heard the unrelenting sounds of crickets.  A couple of hours later we emerged onto a road exhausted, but relieved to see a military truck waiting for us. 

I can’t imagine I’m saying this, but I was happy that we learned how to capture one of those screaming monkeys.   Who knew that if you ever got lost in the jungle and needed something to eat, this is what to do.  Find a coconut, punch a small hole in the side, drain it out, stick a wadded-up piece of foil or something shiny inside, hang it up and then wait.  As we learned, monkeys are very curious and will stick their hands in through the hole to retrieve the shiny object.  They won’t let go of the shiny foil…no matter what.  And congratulations, we just caught lunch.  Fortunately, I thought monkeys tasted like chicken.   Brookstone, what did you think?

Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - Trouble in F Troop

Trouble in F Troop

I spotted trouble when he climbed out of the supply helicopter that had just landed on the road next to our encampment that night.  In contrast to the rest of us, his uniform was clean, his boots were shined, his hair was freshly cut and there was a hint of a swagger in his gait as he cleared the rotary of the helicopter.  Stepping high over the foliage separating us from the helicopter, this burley new trooper made his way in our direction.

Our troop commander had informed me that a soldier from our headquarters in Xian, would be joining our troop.  Apparently, he had been in a fight with an officer, or some such offense, and for his punishment was sent out into the field to be with a fighting unit.   Frankly I was pissed that he had been assigned to my troop as punishment.  You should understand that it was critical to our survival that each member of the troop work closely together, and over time we had managed to become a cohesive, effective team.  The idea that jerks back at the headquarters would send us their spit-and-shine trouble was demeaning to our daily sacrifices and perpetuated the dangers we faced. 

As expected, the new troop member was nothing but trouble.  He was always unhappy with his surroundings, not seeming to notice that the rest of us had been there for months without a break.  When we had a troop assignment, he was vocal about how stupid it was and always seemed to be lagging.  He was very slow to take orders from me and in general made everything we had to do harder.  For example, if I gave an order to mount our vehicles to move, he would display a sour look on his face and always was the last trooper to climb aboard, delaying just long enough to get my attention.  Without doubt, he was the most difficult solder in F Troop to deal with.  With a scowl or a smirk, he always managed to undermine what we had to do.  I constantly struggled to get him to follow any direction.

Although many members of the troop tolerated him, some members found him disruptive and found it hard to deal with his constant complaints.  They noticed that he wouldn’t take direction and it unsettled them, knowing that he was someone that could not be trusted to do his part when there was an emergency, as frequently was the case.  I was becoming concerned that another trooper might try to harm him, just to get him sent back to the rear area.  Although I had hoped he might adjust, I concluded that I was going to have to confront him about his attitude and his uncooperativeness for our sake, and his.

The next afternoon I called him over and we walked a short distance from the encampment and I asked him to sit next to me on a fallen tree.  Not being sure how to approach him, I jumped in and simply asked him what was wrong.  Why was he being so difficult to work with, why wouldn’t he cooperate with me or anyone else?  Could he explain to me why he resisted everything he was asked to do? Surely, he understood how important it was that all of us work together.  To my shock and surprise, he started crying…no, sobbing.  After he got himself under control, he explained to me that he was terrified.  He felt that having been sent out from the headquarters to our unit in the field had been a death sentence.  It turned out that he had only 2 weeks left in-country and he was afraid he would die before he got home.   After his explanation, my feelings about the situation with him shifted.  I was caught off guard, but in understanding this trooper was troubled, I felt sympathy and empathy for him and felt somewhat protective of him.  

We talked a bit more and I assured him that he was not the only one terrified.   I then made him a promise.  If he did everything I asked him to do without complaint or opposition for the next two weeks, I would do my very best to get him home in one piece.   Starting at that moment “trouble” went from being the 50^th least cooperative trooper in my unit to the most cooperative.   He followed me everywhere, constantly asking what he could do to help.

I can’t quite remember the last time I saw “trouble” before his two weeks were up and his chopper ride was there, but I know that I had witnessed the making of a proud new member of F Troop.

Without any way of knowing, I suspect that “trouble” might have reverted to his old ways of fighting, arguing and being uncooperative.  I can say for certain that he probably faced his first real challenge as he came back to the U.S. mainland.  We were warned that when we landed in San Francisco there was a good likelihood that protesters of the war would be there to greet us at the gate.  We were told that regardless of what happened, we were not to stop, or to escalate a challenge from the group.  As happened upon my arrival, they heckled us as we came through the gate and a protester hocked a louie at me…I kept walking.  However, I rather suspect that “trouble” having once again landed, predictably got into a brawl.

My real hope for him is that he arrived home to a nice family, felt like a war hero and patriot, and is now regaling his grandchildren with stories about his close calls and heroic deeds while in Vietnam.  There is part of me, however, that would love to see him as an old biker, with a long white ponytail, wearing a black leather jacket, with all sorts of military and patriotic paraphernalia attached to it, riding a big shiny hog in a 4^th of July parade.  Acting the part of a tough guy but being just a regular guy underneath.

Fordham Veteran's Writing Project - Close Encounter

“Close Encounter”

A hot summer’s night In Washington, DC, I wandered,

looking for a place to have a peaceful dinner, alone.

Chinatown so close, I headed toward the gaudy, neon signs.

An old woman in a heavy, ratty fur collard coat took notice of me.

She - a diminutive black women, missing teeth and about sixty -

touched my arm.

“I need money so that I can eat for the first time today.”

Unexpectedly, I felt a welling up of emotion,

a feeling of tenderness, as if I were looking at my mother.

Would anyone have helped her?

Against my instinct to turn away

I blurted, “May I buy you dinner?”

In a nearby Subway Shop to a skeptical clerk

I said, “Give her whatever she wants and I will pay for it.”

She ordered a large roast beef sandwich,

a family-size bag of chips and a full liter bottle of Coke.

Afterwards, as we were leaving,

she turned back to the clerk

and tried to sell her the unopened Coke.

She refused to take it.

Fordham University Writing Project for Veterans - R & R in Paradise

R & R in Paradise

I had an excellent gig as the house photographer at the Ilikai Hotel’s revolving restaurant on Waikiki Beach.  My job was to roam the restaurant trying to entice patrons into having their photographs taken, commemorating a happy occasion in a beautiful place.  Although there is the occasional birthday or graduation event, most patrons of the restaurant were either hotel guests, business people, random tourists or the occasional Vietnam soldier who is visiting with his wife or significant other.  It’s a beautiful time of the day as we slowly turn above the hotel, watching the sun set over Diamond Head off in the distance, the green Pacific Ocean, and the lights of Honolulu, depending upon which direction the table faces.

The easiest group to convince that they needed a picture of an event being commemorated are the Vietnam soldiers in Honolulu on their rest and recuperation leave.   At one table sits a Vietnam soldier and his wife on the same seated side, in a booth that looks like a clam shell with a wall covering behind it of various sea urchins and stylized Hawaiian canoes.   The couple seems a bit shy, but happily agree to have their picture taken.

What I first notice about the young man is his heavy tan, his wispy brown mustache, and his sports jacket that seems too big for him.  His wife Mary looks lovely, smelling of Shalimar and has a winning, outgoing personality.  They are holding hands under the table as I took their picture.

Later, when I am developed the picture to be sent to the couple, I take a closer look at the results and notice something different about them that I hadn’t recognized before.  The husband has a tired, unfocused look in his eyes and his smile seems slightly forced.    His wife, through a smile, looks a bit pensive and as if she might be someplace else.  Perhaps they are both just uncomfortable finding themselves in such a strange place. 

Both are young and I have no idea what Vietnam had subjected them to or what might be tormenting them about what is yet to come.  I worry about them as they are pictured, rotating with the restaurant, not quite knowing what to look at, staring out at the paradise of Hawaii, trying to have a good time.

I often attach stories to the people I photograph and I assume the couple on R & R are simply in shock about what has happened to them over the course of recent months.  He, flying in from a brutal combat zone and she, arriving after a long flight from New York to meet someone about whom she is sick with worry.  For them, the ostentatious revolving restaurant is probably just one more stop on a surreal week in paradise.

Fordham University Writing Project For Veterans - The Stock Car Race

The Stock Car Race

Alex and I climbed into the model T Ford that he had bought and restored.  We were about to test drive his model T on a circular dirt track that he had created near the back of his parent’s forty-acre property.  Alex was calm and confident as he always was when it came to anything to do with cars.  We were both about fourteen or fifteen at the time and I didn’t know that he knew how to drive yet.  He fired up his new toy and the old car shook and rattled itself awake.  It was a black convertible with wooden spoke wheels, old worn black leather seats and a flat upright glass windshield.  As was typical for me, I worried about neither of us being old enough to drive and yet excited to be seeing this magnificent new track and the prospect of taking a ride in a cool jalopy.   Although Alex was calm and in charge, I was becoming increasingly nervous and didn’t tell him that I was having second thoughts about this ride.   Too late.  The old car roared forward, starting its journey around the track.

As often happened on a summers Saturday night when Alex and I were young children, we were taken by our uncles out for a family night to the old Mount Lawn Raceway just outside of New Castle, Indiana.  It had an egg-shaped track that was about 3/10 of a mile long where multiple car races took place on any given evening.  We always tried to get a seat on the old wooden bleachers near the top, so that we could see all the action on the track.  The old stock cars were often covered with bright paint, large numbers roughly painted on their front doors and plenty of dents from previous skirmishes.  It was very exciting to hear the engines roaring as the races began and to watch the old cars jockeying for position in the noisy twisted mass of machinery moving as a group around the track.  Wrecked, overturned cars were the order of the evening and the entertainment never wavered.  From the announcer starting the race, the large lights that lit up the track as the evening progressed, to the roar of the crowd, to the cars slamming into each other, it was all heady stuff.

As Alex and I began our trip around his new track, I started reliving some of the early feelings that I had experienced at Mount Lawn.  The model T engine roared, the wheels slipped in the dirt as Alex gassed the old car.  If I could just hold onto the seat, my anxiety would dissipate, we would be flying around the track, feeling the wind and seeing the dust billowing up behind us.  We would be laughing and whooping with excitement, going as fast as the old model T would allow and recreating the excitement we used to have at the Raceway. 

Although I was holding onto the seat, it occurred to me that maybe Alex didn’t know what he was doing. Was he too confident, too reckless, going too fast and pushing the old jalopy beyond its capabilities.  Did anyone know we were doing this?  What would I do if everything started to get out of control?  In an instant, I imaged myself having time to throw myself on the floor if we rolled over, maybe grabbing the steering wheel to keep us on the track, running for help if we crashed into a tree.  What would Uncle Harry say?  Would the model T be taken away from Alex? Would the dirt and dust on us give away our secret drive around the track?  Of course, I could just yell for him to stop and let me out.

We circled the track building up speed with each lap and I had a death grip on the seat.  The ride was bumpy and the noise from the mufflerless car was deafening.  I started to ask Alex to slow down, but he couldn’t hear me.  I began to panic as we went into a sideways slide with the dirt churning and the dust billowing up over my side of the model T.

Favorite Chinese Fortune Cookies

Not long ago I received the following fortune cookie message from one of our favorite Chinese restaurants...the Panda House in Danbury, Connecticut. I wish this for all of you, too.

"As you slide down the bannister of life, may the splinters never point your way."

Just received another interesting fortune cookie message. Hummm...Can't say just yet, but it might be a very important clue for something about to happen (keeping my fingers crossed).

"You have an important new business development shaping up."

In pursuit of the perfect fortune cookie, I have ventured out to a different Chinese restaurant. This one came from Empire Hunan in Yorktown Heights, N.Y. Just hoping the bird mentioned lands in my tree with good intent!

"Keep a green tree in your heart, and one day the singing bird will come."

On Labor Day (2011) went to the Pacifica Restaurant/Hunan Cafe in Wilton, CT. Not only do they have the best Chinese food in the area, their fortune cookie messages are pretty good, too! Please weigh in on what this means...I thinks its a good thing.

"The joyfulness of a man prolongs his day."

Spring, 2011

Sometimes when you take a vacation day in the middle of the week it turns out to be just what the soul needs. Puttering around the garden, feeling the warm sun, watching new growth, finding a robin's nest, enjoying the cherry tree's bloom petals on the ground...doesn't get much better than this.

Do You Know Jean Michel Laurent?

Just bought this oil painting for a song! The artist, Jean Michel Laurent is a known French painter of seascapes, who was born in 1898 and died in 1988. His works have been sold through some important auction houses, but otherwise I don't know much about him.

I hope to find out the name of this painting and any other details about Laurent that are out there. I believe this may be a painting from a series he seems to have done about fishermen on the French or Dutch coast.

Any suggestions about where to look? The Web hasn't turned up much yet. Thanks for any input.