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Angel

By Don Dzagulones

Washington DC in 1968 was a flashpoint in the social and political upheaval afflicting America, much of which I had witnessed firsthand as an Army Pfc. assigned to the 528 MI Co at Ft. Meade, MD, which was also the home of the 7th Cav and the mysterious NSA.

By October of '68 mine had been a brilliant and distinguished military career of eleven months. I had been Platoon Guide and Outstanding Trainee in both Basic Training and AIT. And I had been offered NCO Academy, OCS, WO Flight, and even an appointment to West Point Prep. I refused all. I was a draftee and I had no desire to extend my obligation. FTA!

I had been at the 528 for about 6 months after completing AIT there. I had successfully morphed from a civilian shitbird to a skilled Interrogator/Analyst, fluent in Polish and trained to repel hordes of Eastern Bloc invaders. I was beginning to think that I had symbolically dodged the bullet — no RVN for me!

Military logic, however, dictated that I refine and employ my training with intensive OJT in I Corps, Republic of Vietnam.

But that's not why I write.

On a bleak Saturday evening, I left Ft. Meade to begin my leave prior to RVN. All my possessions were loaded into my '60 Chevy and I was headed for Detroit. I hadn't gotten far before my car began to shudder violently. I coasted into the first available driveway, which took me to a dimly lit service station. To my horror, I found the cause of the shudder to be a broken, dragging drive shaft. Where does one find a drive shaft at 2100hrs on a Saturday evening in Odenton, MD? The station attendant was iconic. His face was either dirty or unshaven, or both. His ball cap and coveralls were grease encrusted as were his permanently stained hands. And though he was preparing to close, he offered me the use of a hoist and tools after I had explained my predicament. My ineptitude must have been painful to watch because he took over after he made some phone calls.

Before long, a pickup truck pulled in, delivering, of all things, a drive shaft. One of my benefactors calls had been to a friend in the same business who also dealt in used parts. His inventory included a compatible GM part. In a matter of minutes the job was complete and my car was road worthy. My benefactors refused payment despite my sincere and repeated offers of cash. Determined to pay in some way, I found a liquor store, an easily accomplished feat in an Army camp town. I bought the finest bottle of whiskey I knew and I made it back to the station before my savior left. And though grateful for my offer, he had to decline because he was a recovering alcoholic. Humbled and dumbfounded I left for Detroit.

Forty Three years later, I reflect on a life of remarkable events and remarkable people, but the humble mechanic occupies a special place. I hope somehow his kindness and generosity to a scared and desperate young soldier was repaid.

My wife believes in angels.

Don Dzagulones, 1st MIT,11th LIB, is a long-time member of VVAW from Michigan.