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Remembrance by a Vet's Wife

By VVAW

'I GUESS YOU NEVER DO...HEAR THE ONE THAT GETS YOU.'

"As I held his body in my arms," he said softly, "he just looked me in the eye, and told me he never hear the shot, the one that hit him. I guess you never do...hear the one that gets you."

All the while he spoke to me, his look was distant. As distant as Vietnam. This was just one of his many memories, some of them unbelievable, all of them horrifying. I never say much during these painful recollections.

What do you say? What can you say? Don't worry about those children you killed over there. Like the one that dropped a grenade in the gas tank of your truck as you drove past, or the carload of villagers you and your men wiped out because you had a suspicion some were Viet Cong. Or the old man sitting atop a water buffalo whom you used for target practice. I know you still have nightmare about that one, except it's you instead of the old man.

The list goes on and on. And so does the war. Inside of him, and me. It's part of my life too, now. A part I'd just as soon forget, but one I can't ignore. He's tired of fighting and I'm tired of losing—losing to an enemy I cannot see. Though not in material form, I know he's there. Much like the one he fought eighteen years ago, which to him seems like yesterday, every day. I know what goes through his mind now when he sees little children, or oriental people, or hears a helicopter. Do you smell the napalm, Joe? Or the mud you had to lie in for days at a time? Or the dead bodies lying around that are later thrown in a pile to be burned, or to be used as human sacks of sand to protect the men in the trenches? I already know where he's at. I only wonder what scene in this never-ending film he's recalling. He hasn't come home yet. I don't know that he ever will.

"It's time to feed the dog," I told him in an effort to bring him out of his trance.

"Alright...I'll feed him," he replied slowly, as he came back to America. How long will you stay this time, Joe? I wondered to myself.

He walked over to the kennel to let the dog out before feeding him. Luke started his usual jumping and ground-stomping, his regular ritual whenever either of us walked up to his kennel. As Joe opened the lock and lifted the latch, he gave the dog a stern "stay "command. But Luke, being the strong-willed and energetic Chesapeake that he is darted past, raced down to the end of the yard and back up again, all the while Joe calling his name, yelling "Come!" and trying to catch him. I realized as I watched that Luke was going to get a harsh correction although he wasn't the one whom Joe was really angry with.

"I told you to come!" he shouted as the dog groveled up to him. He grabbed Luke by the scruff of the neck and dragged his 75-pung body back to the kennel door. Luke let out a loud yelp as Joe threw him as best he could into the kennel. As he closed the latch he looked at me. He could tell I was hut. He knew as well as I that Luke didn't deserve that harsh correction, and I can't stand to see Joe take his frustrations out on him. Luke doesn't know about Vietnam. But he does know he has run out of the kennel before, only to receive praise because he did come back and not take off.

"I don't' think that was necessary," I told him.

"I do. He's lucky I didn't choke him." He looked as if he were ready to. "Why do you think we spend time in obedience classes? He knows better."

"I think you over-reacted ," I said. Something he does a lot of these days, but has little control over.

"Hey—I didn't hurt him. I've done worse things in my life."

I gave up the argument, I knew it was useless. I also knew, when he had time to calm down, he would regret his actions and hate himself more. As I turned and walked into the house, I thought bac on our eight-year relationship. When I first met him, I thought the 14 years between our ages would be a lot to contend with, but that never became a problem. Vietnam did, although I didn't knew it as first. He never talked about it. I knew he had been there, but I didn't know much about it. I did have a feeling something was wrong, but I had blamed his sudden mood swings on myself, the only justification I could find. Now I know better, or should I say worse.

Neither of us ate dinner that evening, a common occurrence. His loss of appetite was due to stomach pains the doctors call a "spasmatic colon," the result of his bad nerves and/or Agent Orange contamination. My loss of appetite was caused by anxiety over that knowledge. When he first spoke of the chemical Agent Orange, he explained it was a defoliant that had been sprayed to kill existing vegetation in order to leave their enemy fewer places to hide. I was appaleed to know the government never admitted for years its adverse health effects. Joe said it had been everywhere, in their food and in their water. They breathed it and lived in it. And knowing the deliberate denial only contributed to the decline in his patriotism, his mistrust in the government, and added fuel to his internal fire. And my own.

His mother called later that evening to see if we were coming over for a visit. It was my duty to answer the phone because of his hatred of dealing with people, even family, making it difficult for us to attend family gatherings. I've become his go-between, his protector. I deal with the outside world while he tends to the matter of war.

"Are you coming over?" his mother asked.

"No Joe isn't here." I answered, my frequent reply.

"Where is he?"

"He went to the mountains,' I replied which is more often than not truce. He spends a great deal of time in the woods, alone. It's the only place he can relax, somewhat. It helps him more than any drug, which gives credence to the fact that the mind controls the body, if we both weren't proof enough.

After I convinced her we'd visit later that week, I hung up the phone and undressed for bed. As I did so, I noticed my steady decrease in weight. My mother always voices her concern for my anorexic appearance. I always insist otherwise: it certainly isn't intentional. I'd be quick to invite ten additional pounds if I could return my nerves to their previous state, Before this post- Vietnam life. But I never explained to her, or any family member, the cause of my weight loss. I want to spar them that worry. The worry of knowing I live with a time bomb ready to go off at any moment. It doesn't make it easier for me, but that's my choice, be it good or bad.

Bad, I thought, as I looked in the mirror and noticed another gray hair had crept up on me. I help my jaw, it felt sore from clenching my teeth, an unconscious habit I do throughout the day and often during the night.

When I lay down in bed, I noticed my muscles ached from constant tension. He really didn't want this to happen to me. He's been noticing my forgetfulness, my over-reactions to the slightest things. I can't abandon him like his friends and his country. No one else will see this through. I may be the only reason he's still alive, though his doctors have often said it gets worse before it gets better. If it gets better. I closed my eyes in an attempt to fall asleep.

I let my mind drift, to someplace far away. To a jungle somewhere, dark and dense. Sitting with my back to a tree, not knowing what the next moment would bring. Perhaps a tiger would come sneaking over the wire, and drag me off into the night. Maybe I'd walk into a booby trap, and they'd find me the next morning, impaled by a poisoned pungy-stick through my chest. Or maybe one of our own men would freak out and lose it. I wonder what it would be like to have to shoot one of our own in the back because he couldn't be trusted...

The following day provided a disheartening experience. It was one of the many days Joe was schedule to see a psychiatrist at the VA hospital. A first for me, the doctor wanted to see us both. I had been to the other VA facility where they deal mostly with physically impaired veterans, but never the "nuthouse" as Joe so often calls it.

I sipped my morning coffee in an effort to come alive, as I watched Joe smoke cigarette after cigarette and take three tranquilizers and two anti-depressants, his usual morning ritual repeated several times a day. And people wonder why he doesn't work.

"This is going to be a real trip for you," he told me on the way to the hospital. "This place is always a trip."

A good one or bad one I thought to myself, but I figured what the answer would be.

As we walked up to the hospital doors, I noticed a man sitting on a bench by himself. Joe mentioned he had tried to put a bullet through his head but didn't quite do the jobs, the result being a reconstructed face and the probable shame of not completing a task he had, in the past, been so well trained to do.

We stepped inside the building and walked down a long hallway. Just then a fire alarm went off by mistake, and a man behind us yelled "Incoming! Incoming" which confirmed he was a patient.

We reached the cafeteria and stood in line for coffee. As Joe poured I looked around. I watched a man walk past with part of his face missing. A battle wound or another attempted suicide? Joe saw me looking and confirmed the latter, contributing to the statistic that more men have died from suicide than were actually killed in Vietnam. That thought sent chills up my spine.

We wandered into the seating area and sat down next to some men Joe knew from group therapy. As he talked with them, I watched the people around us, mostly patients. I could tell by their appearance. Almost all had long hair and beards, and constantly smoked cigarettes. The ones most readily recognizable are those who walk very slowly with blank faces, the result of their heavy medication. The "Thorazine Shuffle" as it's called.

One man walked up to our table, spoke to Joe briefly, then walked away.

"That guy there, he killed his parents," Joe said.

"Is he an in-patient?" I asked.

"No," Joe replied, "He's just here to pick up his medication.

I wasn't frightened, just saddened. I suppose they're all murderers in a way, though not by choice. The longer I sat there, the more I realized I wasn't all that uncomfortable being in their presence. I guess I know where they were coming from and what they were all about. And they knew the same of me.

I suggested we make our way up to the shrink's office and as we did, Joe mentioned some of the men there never made it home, physically. "They came straight from'Nam to this place," he said; "Most of their families have forgotten them."

We reached the waiting area and, as I took a seat, Joe checking in. I lit a cigarette which I desperately needed by this time, and watched people filter in and out of the waiting room. I noticed an older man in a wheelchair waiting by the elevator. World War II? He didn't appear as if he knew where he was. I watched as he raised his arms as if he were pointing a rifle at an invisible enemy. Then he yelled "BANG" and his arms jerked back as a rifle would kick after being fired.

At that point I just wanted to get up and walk out, but I stayed—if not for Joe then for the sake of the man sitting next to me who was proceeding to tell me his war stories. He was a large man with light brown hair and sunglasses, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Most of what he told me I already knew but I didn't say anything. He seemed comfortable talking to a complete stranger; maybe he needed someone to talk to. And maybe by listening I was helping him to stay alive just one more day.

Someone from the desk called him over and as he walked away, I felt numb with depression. Now I had to talk with this doctor. I knew there wasn't much he could tell me either.

Joe came over and told me I could go in and see the doctor. He didn't want to go in with me, he'd go in by himself when I was through. It didn't matter to me; I just wanted to get out of that place. We met the doctor as we walked down the hall to his room. As Joe wished, I went in by myself.

Dr. Peterson was a tall, heavy-set man with a balding head and a completely paralyzed left arm.

"Joe has what we call Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," he told me. "I think he should come into the hospital for awhile, he hasn't been talking these past few sessions. This is a bad time of year for him."

This time of year is bad for him, I repeated to myself. Eighteen years ago this time, Joe was due to come home. He had only a month of duty left, and since he was still in one piece, they wanted to send him home that way. So they put someone new—just over from the states—into his job of driving his truck. " A young kid," Joe always says. Young? They were all young, just out of high school. Maybe Joe felt older after 13 months of duty. They aged quickly over there.

The day the switch of duty took place all the vehicles were blown away, all the men killed. Joe has felt extremely guilty about that. He always felt it should have been him. And along with the guilt comes the vivid memory of having had to clean the truck of all the blood and pieces of friends and comrades he had just spoken to that morning. When he had told me this I realized why it was difficult for him to get close to anyone, and why it took me a long time to break through that barrier.

I agreed with the doctor that he should go in the hospital and told him I could talk Joe into going in better than he. I thanked Dr. Peterson and promised to remove all the guns from the house, more for Joe's sake than mine.

Within the next week, Joe was in-patient. I wasn't sure how long he'd be in. I needed the break as much as he did, but I didn't know if his stay would help him or make him worse. It certainly isn't a good environment for someone suffering from anxiety and depression. I did feel safe in that he couldn't hurt himself or anyone else. They're very strict about the personal belongings brought in, and should someone get out of hand, they pin them to the floor, put them in restraints, and throw them in a room by themselves. I knew Joe couldn't handle that. I knew he'd do his best not to lose it.

No sooner was Joe out of the hospital, he was gone again. To the woods. The only place he could find a little peace and comfort, away from people. The next day was opening day of deer seasons. But he wasn't going for the hunt. The absence of his firearms prevented that. He just wanted to be alone. "I don't think I could stand the sight of blood," he told me.

I missed him that first night. I had been looking forward to his return from the hospital, although sometimes when he's with me, I feel alone. I missed his presence, anyway. As I lay in bed, I wondered where he was at, what he was thinking. I tried to remember the last time he lay in bed beside me. He always sleeps on the couch for fear of hurting me in his sleep. As much as it keeps me close to him, it keeps me away from him. I wondered how much longer I could live this way.

The woods were just coming alive as I made my way through the fallen leaves and over the trees that lay in my path. The bird's songs echoed through the trees and some squirrels above me chattered loudly, letting everything in hearing range know I was approaching. I was making enough noise, between my footsteps and the pick and shovel I dragged behind me, to sound like a small army. I held the urn close to my body and looked around, getting my bearings and realizing why Joe loved the woods so much. It was here he was truly at peace, it was here he would stay. I looked up at one tree and noticed a hunter's tree stand that had been left behind. I kept repeating in my mind: was it truly an accident? That someone would have mistaken Joe's movement through the woods for a deer is not hard to believe; on opening day especially, they'll shoot at anything that moves. I couldn't understand why Joe had not been wearing any fluorescent orange which all hunters are required to wear, even if he weren't hunting. He knew how trigger-happy any hunter can be.

I came to a small clearing, with a stand of pines in the center. Among them was a blue spruce, and I picked a spot beneath it. I dug the hole, thought to myself; was it really too much for Joe? Have you finally found the peace and freedom you so desperately wanted? Or was it for me? Is this your way of releasing us both? The war that had had a hold on the both of us, that robbed us of so many things, had ended with his life. I filled the hole and looked down upon it. I wondered if he heard the shot, the one that got him. I wiped my tears and walked away. Yes, Joe, for me, too, the war is finally over.