Why I Love the Vietnam Vet

I have the utmost respect, admiration and gratitude for all veterans of all our armed services.  But I've always had a special affinity for the Vietnam-era veteran.  And not just because I'm the proud son of the one pictured above.  I feel a special duty to try to make up for the honor and recognition they deserve but were denied for so long, to make sure as many Vietnam vets as possible know they are appreciated.

Vietnam-era veterans, following the example of their fathers and grandfathers, stepped up when their nation called, and wrote a blank check for an amount up to and including their very lives.  They fought with every bit as much determination, valor and love for their brothers as did their fathers in the Greatest Generation, even as they were maligned and mistreated by a nation that lost its way.  Don't believe me?  Read the citations of Medals of Honor awarded for gallantry in Vietnam.

While so many others their age at home turned to chemically fueled self-indulgence, exhibitionism and apathy, our Vietnam warriors looked outward in dedication and sacrifice.  While many of the ones who were fortunate enough to return came home broken in body and spirit, and were spit on and abused, in years to come a conscience-stricken nation vowed to never again let its warriors be so mistreated.  Our current fighters reap the benefit of this and of the example of honor set by their fathers and grandfathers of the Vietnam generation.  And unlike their tormentors, Vietnam veterans can now walk with their heads held high, knowing that whatever was lost by the press and politicians, they won their war, outfighting a skilled and determined enemy, and did so with consummate skill, courage and honor. 

Thank you, Vietnam veterans.

Small Time Driver

A bit of doggerel from my younger days.

She eyes him with pity.  As they sit in the Airstream, somewhere between hell and Hanford, her baleful stare accuses him, mocks him, but mostly pities him.

No more, he says.  He’s had enough, he says.  Enough of the gut-wrenching gladiator show called racing.  Enough bloodshot bleary-eyed midnights hurtling hell-bent down some two-lane blacktop in a borrowed box van, nodding off between hits of caffeine, nicotine and delusion.  He requires respite from the roller-coaster ride of small triumphs and big failures, from the never-ending demands on his guts and cussedness.  He’s tired of empty pockets, hard luck, busted knuckles and dodging broken men on and off the track.  He’s just plain tired.

He’s through, he says, but she knows better.  Her face says as much as she mentally recites the threadbare confession in unison with him.  She knows that the lure of the dirt, the siren song of shrieking small-blocks, the smell of high-test in the morning (smells like… like victory) will prove too much for his worn-out will.  Too much for this five-o’clock-shadowed effigy hunched in the unforgiving glare of the single swinging bare bulb.  It’ll be too much, and more likely sooner than later.

She’s right of course – they always are.  He’ll fold like a pup tent in a hurricane and once again, the call of competition will see him sucked into the sweat-soaked swirling maelstrom of rubber, steel, fiberglass, fumes, tears, spit, gritted teeth, waving arms, white knuckles, clenched fists, middle digits, muttered curses and maybe, just maybe, some fleeting scrap of glory.

She shakes her head, amused, knowing she won’t be quitting her bank teller job anytime soon.

   

The Measure of Devotion

            On Sunday, May 1, 2011, the Wounded Heroes Fund Kern County Chapter held their 3rd annual Salute to Local Heroes at the CSUB Outdoor Amphitheater in celebration and support of local veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan conflicts.

            Two local veterans honored were Casey Schaubschlager and Wesley Leon-Barrientos.

            In the savage fighting in Ramadi and Fallujah during the darkest days of the Iraqi insurgency, Cpl. Casey Schaubschlager and his brother Marines were so continually battered by daily combat that Schaubschlager can’t even say how many times he was wounded.

            “We got mortared three times a day like clockwork. Morning, noon and night.”

            It was a buried, remotely triggered artillery shell that finally sent him home for good, with 40-60 percent hearing loss and traumatic brain injury.

            Schaubschlager still contends with the invisible wounds of survivor guilt and post-traumatic stress and likely always will, has had to fight for medical care for combat injuries and still hasn’t received his Purple Heart.  But for Schaubschlager, who considered himself a career Marine, the premature end to his Marine Corps career may have been the bitterest loss of all.

            “If it wasn’t for them retiring me out, I would still be in for my 20 years. I was what they called a ‘lifer.’”

            Schaubschlager is open about his difficulties in coping with that loss and readjusting to civilian life.  He’s gradually healing from his seen and unseen wounds with the support of a loving wife and the same determination that saw him through his three combat tours of Iraq.  And he credits the Wounded Heroes Fund with helping with everything from groceries to finding jobs. 

            “They actually approached me.  They just felt like they wanted to help me, so they did.  They were ‘forcefully helpful,’ in a good way, though,” he laughed.

            His work at the Kern County Veterans Center, volunteering with the Wounded Heroes Fund and pursuing a degree in psychology with an eye toward helping other vets have given Schaubschlager a renewed sense of purpose in a post-Marines life that, until recently, he’d never even imagined.  His advice to other vets?

            “Keep the faith, keep the hope, don't let your head hang low.  At first I let my pride get in the way.  Don't let your pride get in the way of getting the help you need.”

            For U.S. Army Cpl. Wesley Leon-Barrientos and his fellow 101st Airborne Division “Screaming Eagles,” death and injury were a daily reality in Iraq’s infamous “Sunni Triangle,” as were enormous mental stresses and ironic twists of fate.  He once flipped a coin with a close friend to determine which one would have to take up the dreaded rear position in a convoy escort.

            “I lost, and he got to go in the front truck.  The front truck got hit and he died right there.”

            That was the first of many incidents over the course of three combat tours that might have shattered a less resilient man, but not Leon-Barrientos, who earned five Army Commendation Medals and three Purple Hearts.  The third was for an IED attack that cost him a broken jaw, two crushed vertebrae - and both of his legs.  But he believes there are reasons for everything - even for that.  He gestures to his two year old pixie of a daughter, who was born during the time he’d still have been in Iraq had he not been wounded:

            “I see a lot of reasons.  I see one right now.  She wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t lost my legs,” said Leon-Barrientos.  “I wouldn’t change a thing.” 

            Leon-Barrientos’ friendliness and upbeat attitude are remarkable in light of all he’s experienced.  He is lavish and effusive in his praise of the way the people of Kern County support their veterans, especially through the efforts of the Wounded Heroes Fund, which protected his mother’s home from foreclosure while she remained with him during his year-long sojourn at Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington, D.C., and helped build his family a home of their own.

            “If you've never had anything that you're thrilled about, proud about, and honored to do in your life, there's nothing better than volunteering with and donating to the Wounded Heroes Fund.”

            Please join the Wounded Heroes Fund in thanking and supporting these remarkable young men and their families and many others like them for their service and sacrifices.  For more information, or to learn more about Casey Schaubschlager and Wesley Leon-Barrientos and their fellow vets, call 661-324-7453 or visit www.thewoundedheroesfund.org.

Holding Back

     I recall something said by a famous architect, a Los Angeles-based one, I think.  It could have been John Lautner, but really, I don't remember.  I'm going to try to paraphrase it from memory here: 

     If you've got a great idea and are hoarding it, saving it for that big project that will someday come along, your stinginess will stunt your creative growth and you'll be forever waiting for the big project.  Be a spendthrift with your ideas, use every good one as it comes along, even for minor and "unimportant" projects, and the good ideas will flow like water; you will succeed and your reputation will grow and the big projects will come sooner and you'll have plenty of good ideas for them.

     I imagine that must be true for other artists, too.  That way of creating,  resisting the temptation to squeeze every last drop of life from successful formulas and relentlessly moving forward helped set the Beatles apart from every other musical act of their time, and I bet it might apply pretty well to writers, too.

Nobody Reads This Anyway

You think that's bad?  Not so.  I could post anything here and no one would care.  I could admit that I don't like sushi and love ballet and opera but think musical theater is self-indulgent pap.  If nobody is there to read it, am I still a middlebrow dilettante?  I could say "bomb" and not get violated by a TSA agent.    Bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb.  I could post favorite movie quotes.

"Michael "Squints" Palledorous walked a little taller that day. And we had to tip our hats to him. He was lucky she hadn't beat the CRAP out of him. We wouldn't have blamed her. What he'd done was sneaky, rotten, and low... and cool. Not another one among us would have ever in a million years even for a million dollars have the guts to put the moves on the lifeguard. He did. He had kissed a woman. And he had kissed her long and good. We got banned from the pool forever that day. But every time we walked by after that, the lifeguard looked down from her tower, right over at Squints, and smiled."

It's kind of liberating, actually.  I could get used to it.

Like Watching Your Mother-In-Law Drive Off A Cliff In Your New Car

That's how I've heard "mixed feelings" defined.  It doesn't work that well for me because I happen to like my mother-in-law a lot, and I bought my six-year-old truck used, four years ago.  Plus, the mixed feelings I'm experiencing right now are nowhere near that acute.  So now I'm forced to admit I only used that line because I needed a catchy title for this post.  There, you happy?

Anyhow, this here blog is meant as a respository (fancy word for "dustbin") for stuff I write.  I mean, it needs to go somewhere where it will do as little harm as possible (I'm pretty Hippocratic for a non-doctor).  Only now, during rare free moments, I'm working on a book that I hope is destined for publication, and a local magazine article that I'm pretty sure is.  The latter is related to some volunteer work I've started doing, and there's an almost endless stream of worthy story subjects in that pipeline.  Which is all great for me, and I hope not too painful for the reading public, but it makes for a pretty quiescent (fancy word for "still") blog.  Being the proprietor of an inactive blog is lame, but writing things that might possibly make a real audience laugh or think is decidedly not so.  So I'll feel good about the one and bad about the other and hope all two of my fans (the charitable one who reads it on purpose in case I ask her how she liked the latest post and the one who stumbled onto it by mistake during a marathon 4 a.m. web surfing session) keep checking back once in awhile.

Come Fly With Me

Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away.

If you can use some exotic booze, there’s a bar in far Bombay.

Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away.

Come fly with me, let's float down to Peru.
In llama-land, there's a one-man band, and he'll toot his flute for you.
Come fly with me, let's take off in the blue.

Once I get you up there where the air is rarefied

We’ll just fly starry-eyed

Once I get you up there, I’ll be holding you so near,

You may hear, angels cheer, ‘cause we’re together

Weather-wise, it’s such a lovely day,

You just say the word and we’ll beat the birds down to Acapulco Bay

It’s perfect for a flying honeymoon they say,

Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly

Pack up, let’s fly away…

© Cahn Music Company; Maraville Music Corporation

Are any of you old enough to remember when train travel was common and air travel was a big deal?  When a trip on an airplane was exotic and exciting?  When Frank Sinatra sang "Come Fly With Me" and you wished you could take him up on it?

Do any of you remember this scene?

Your dad wore his best brown suit and hat (well, back then he always wore a suit, although at the beach he'd at least roll up his pant legs and leave his coat and tie in the Buick) and your mom wore her new floral-print summer dress and lacy white hat.  Airport security consisted of a middle-aged guy with a nightstick and revolver and clip-on tie who looked like he'd eaten more than his share of donuts and rocked back and forth on his heels as he gave you a wink and a nod.  You strode out from the terminal building across the tarmac toward a gleaming, streamlined airplane with either a blue or orange stripe or two red ones, depending on whether you were flying Pan Am, American or TWA.  You ascended a set of air stairs that a coveralled mechanic had wheeled up to the plane and were greeted by a smiling stewardess (as female flight attendants were called in that less enlightened age), impeccably attired in a neat blue suit adorned with silver wings, and a smart, military-style cap.

The cabin wasn't cavernous, but only because wide-body jets weren’t yet invented, not because you were being stuffed into it like so much sausage by a bean counter corps trying to stave off bankruptcy proceedings.  Maybe your dad brought you up to the cockpit where the pilot (who likely flew B-24s during the War) pointed out what the various levers and switches and doohickies did and handed you a set of Junior Aviator wings that weren't plastic.

The biggest challenge for the stewardesses was your little brother wanting to zoom through the cabin with his toy F-86 Sabre jet.  Not business travelers refusing to turn off cell phones or surly men glancing furtively about, looking like they're up to no good.

Jet air travel was in its infancy.  You could get on a 707 or DC-8 for a trans-oceanic flight or major domestic route, but just flying was excitement enough and you felt a thrill, tempered with a bit of caution, as you looked out the window of the DC-6 or Super Constellation and saw the mechanic standing below the streamlined engine nacelle, fire extinguisher at the ready, and each propeller slowly turn before its massive Double Wasp or Turbo Compound radial engine caught and fired in a thunderous coughing fit and cloud of white smoke.  The booming cacophony calmed to a loafing, lopey idle until the pilot deftly eased the four throttles forward together with a practiced touch, unleashing ten thousand impatient horses to urge you free of the ground.  And then, leveling out at cruise speed and altitude, the engines settled down to a reassuring, steady drone.

It was still only 15 years since those same engines powered the Hellcats and Corsairs and Superfortresses that helped your dad and uncles whip the bad guys in the big war.  And even though they couldn't go down and have a big time in Havana anymore since that Castro clown took over, and even though the Russkies were rattling their sabers and sending stuff into space and you had to do duck and cover drills at school and your dad looked over brochures for backyard bomb shelters as he smoked his pipe, you still liked Ike and it was still an idyllic and exciting time, full of ideas and pregnant with possibility.  And on a day like today, bobbing on invisible currents of air between puffs of blinding white cloud in the achingly, impossibly blue heavens, even the Russians couldn't spoil it.

High Flight

Oh!  I have slipped the surly bonds of earth

And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;

Sunward I’ve climbed and joined the tumbling mirth

Of sun-split clouds and done a hundred things

You have not dreamed of – wheeled and soared and swung

High in the sunlit silence. Hov’ring there

I’ve chased the shouting wind along, and flung

my eager craft through footless halls of air.

Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue

I’ve topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace

Where never lark nor eagle flew-

And, while with silent lifting mind I’ve trod

The high untrespassed sanctity of space,

Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Pilot Officer John G. Magee, Jr

American flier with the Royal

Canadian Air Force.  Died in

aerial combat on December 11, 1941