© James J. Alonzo

“Jim, do you still think about Viet Nam?’ asked Dr. Tallutto, my shrink at Veterans Hospital.
“How do you stop thinking about it.” I Laughed, “everyday for the last 30 plus years, I wake up with it, go to bed with it. Yeah, I think about it, I can’t quit thinking about it. I never will, but most of the time I have learned to live with it. I’m mostly comfortable with the memories, the flashbacks, I’ve learn to stop trying to forget, and I am trying to learn to embrace it. It just doesn’t scare me anymore.”

“Jim, if you weren’t being affected by the experience of war, combat, and death, that would be abnormal.”
When he told me that , it was like he’d have just given me a pardon,
“Go ahead and feel something for that place, Jim. It ain’t going nowhere. You’re going to wear it for the rest of your life, so you might as well get to know it.”

A lot of my “brothers’ haven’t been so lucky. For them the memories are too painful, their sense of loss to great for them to adjust. One time I was speaking to my sister, and she said to me, “Jim, I have a friend, and her husband was in Viet Nam.”
“Yeah.” I responded. “I asked him when he was there? Do you know what he said?’

“No.” “He said to me, “Just last Night.”

I had to explain what he meant, but it took my sister some time to understand what he and I were talking about. “Just Last Night.” Yeah I was in Nam, when? “Just last night”. During sex with my wife, on my way to work this morning, during lunch, working in the office. “Yeah I was just there.”

My kid brother informed me, once, after I had gotten home from Nam, “You’re not the same brother that went to Viet Nam. Dad says that when you went to Viet Nam, that the Jim we knew, died over there. That the Jim that came back, is not his son, or my brother.” Another time, my wife and I were talking, “You won’t let people get close to you, not even me.” “You’re probably right.” I responded.

Ask a veteran about making friends in Nam, and you will find out it is risky. Why? Because were in the business of death, kill and be killed, death was with us at all times. It wasn’t the death of, “If I die before I wake.” This was the real thing. The kind where young men scream for their mothers! The kind that lingers in your mind and becomes more real each time you luck out and cheat Mr. Death. You don’t want too many friends when there is the possibility of dying is real, that close. When you do friends become a liability.

While in Viet Nam, I feel in love with a Vietnamese woman. Her name was Kim, she was young, 22 years old, smart, educated, beautiful. She lived in ‘Cholon’ a neighborhood or district in Saigon. She worked for my commanding officer, but she was my love.

When the TET Offensive hit, many communists soldier and Viet Cong attacked many cities at the same time. When they hit Saigon, I was in bed with Kim, and I was AWOL, for I had misappropriated a vehicle, and drove 21 miles from my base camp to Kim’s home that night. We were awakened when the fighting started, gun fire, the explosions of RPG’s and chi com grenades went off.  “You have to go!” Kim demanded, “There are many VC in Saigon, they will kill you and my family, if they see you here!”

I told her I would stay but she insisted that it would be better if I was gone. After I escaped, and for the next 30 plus days, on missions, I heard nothing of Kim and her family. After TET, I would find out that she and her family were among the 10,000 south Vietnamese killed for associating or employed by the Americans.

DON’T GET CLOSE TO PEOPLE WHO ARE GOING TO DIE. Sometimes you can’t help it.

You hear Veterans use the term ”my buddy” when they refer to a guy they spent the war with. “Me and this buddy of mine…”  Friend sounds to intimate, doesn’t it. “Friend” calls up images of being close. If he is a friend, then you are going to be hurt if he dies, and war hurts enough without adding to the pain. Get close; get hurt, it’s as simple as that. My wife knows a few people who can get into the soft spots inside me. My daughter Sherri, grandson, and her. She’s put up with a lot from me. She’ll tell you that when she signed on for better or worse, she had no idea there was going to be so much of the latter. But with my daughter and her son Devin, it is different. They will be there in my life, and that is the good part of life.

I can still see the faces, though they all seem to have the same eyes, the thousand yard stare. When I think of us, back in Nam, I always see a line of “dirty soldiers” sitting in the running boards of the convoy trucks or the skids of the choppers. We are caught in the first grey sliver between darkness and light. That first moment when we know we’ve survived another night, and the business of staying alive for one more day is about to begin. There was so much hope in that brief space of time. It’s what we used to pray for, “One more day God. One more day.”

And I can still hear our conversations as if they had just been spoken. I can still hear the way we sounded, the hard cynical jokes, our morbid sense of humor. We were scared to death of dying or being maimed, and trying our best not to show it.  I still recall the smells, too. Like the way cordite hangs on the air after a fire-fight/ Or the pungent odor of rice paddies, and the mud. So different from the black dirt New York State of farm land. The mud of Viet Nam smells ancient, somehow, like it’s always been there. The smell of rotting jungle vegetation. It is hard to forget the way blood smells, like rusted metal, sticky and drying on my hands. I spent a long night that way once. That memory is not going anywhere.

I remember how the night jungle appears dream like as the pilot of a Cessna ‘forward observer’, at 1200 feet, buzzes over head, dropping parachute flares until morning. The artificial sun light would flicker and make shadows run through the jungle foliage. It was worse than not being able to see what was out there sometimes. I remember once looking at my buddy, J.J. Jackson next to me as a flare floated down from overhead. The shadows on his ebony face, and around his eyes were so deep, that it looked like his eyes were gone. I reached over and touched him on his arm; without looking at me, he touched my hand, “I know man.” And at that moment he did.

God, I loved those guys, my buddies. I hurt every time one of them died or was severely wounded. We all did, despite our posturing, despite our desire to stay connected, we couldn’t help ourselves. I know why some veterans write their stories, I know what gives other Veterans to create poems so honest, I cry at their horrible beauty. It’s love. Love for those people who shared the Viet Nam combat experience. We did our jobs like good soldiers, and we tried our best not to become as hard as our surroundings. We touched each other and said, “I know.” Like a mother would say, holding a child in the middle of a nightmare,
“It’s going to be alright.”

We tried not to loose touch with our humanity, we tried to walk the line. We tried to be the good men our parents had raised and not to give into that un-named thing we knew was inside us all. You want to know what frightening is? It’s a nineteen year old boy-man who’s had a sip of that power over life and death that war gives you. Despite all the things he has been taught, he knows that he likes it. It’s a nineteen year old who’s lost a friend and is angry, scared, and yet determined that some, “@*&%#$ is going to pay!” To this day, the thought of that boy can wake me up from a sound sleep and leave me staring at the ceiling the rest of the night.

As I write this, I see an image in front of me of two young men, with writing tablets on their laps. One smoking a cigarette, both stare without expression at the camera. They’re writing letters to their loved ones back in the world, staying in touch with places they would rather be. Places and people they hope to see again.

My wife Nanci, doesn’t mind of the love I have for these men, or even of Kim. She knows she’s been included in special company. She knows I’ll always love those people who shared that part of my life, a part she never can. And yet she understands how I feel about the ones I know are out there yet.

(C) James J Alonzo

That day, There was single flower rising up from the cold, clammy muck, its delicate petals reaching for the warmth of the sun. Meanwhile, all around, laid the broken and mangled bodies of men, some were Americans in olive green clothing, stained with blood, others, the Viet Cong, in blood stained black clothing. All the bodies were mute testimony to the horrors of war. The wounded Americans had been tended too, by our medics, but the Viet Cong had been ignored, and you can hear some of the groans and cries.

Both the Viet Cong dead and wounded were of many ages, young, middle age, and occasionally older. The dead American soldiers, blank dead eyes, their youthful faces were contorted by the fear and shock they felt in their last moments on this earth and my heart was heavy at the sight of them.

It had to be done, after all we had to fight to protect ourselves and our buddies. We were told to kill the enemy because their beliefs differed from ours and in the heat of combat, it was easy to do so, but when the guns have finally been silenced, it gives one time to reflect on what has happened.

That day, the only sound that remained were the helicopters above, coming to pick up the wounded and the dead.

As time passed there was the stillness of death, then and only then do you realize that in the jungle before you, lying in wait is more of the enemy, bent on destroying the world that you know, someone’s father or son, defending their beliefs, wanting to kill you.

I felt my sanity starting to slip, so I quickly brought all my focus to bear on that flower that rose before me. Its petals, blowing gently in the breeze were yellow around the edges with stems of dark green and a round spot of blood red in the center that somehow seemed fitting for that place and that day. It knew no hate or prejudice, no pain or sorrow; it existed simply for the sake of existing. It was beautiful and I longed for its carefree way of life.

“Lock and Load!” shouted the platoon sergeant, meaning check your weapons , ammo, and be ready. The command shouted along the ranks and I felt once more the sour taste of bile rising in my throat. I knew they would come through the jungle again very soon, black clad Viet Cong screaming insults with hate in their eyes and blood in their hearts and once more, the extermination will resume.

I heard the gunfire and angry whine of bullets even before I heard the shouting of the VC and instinctively raised my rifle, my trained eye searching for the culprits. I spotted a boy, probably no older than sixteen coming towards me, his raven black hair flying out behind him, a look of determination and fear vying for dominance on his face. He ran towards me, firing a full magazine then paused, awkwardly trying to load another magazine at the same time and I knew that I can kill him any time I choose.

Once more, instincts and training took over and I raised my rifle, aiming carefully down the sight. I calmed my breathing and gently took up slack on the trigger, and fired a burst of three rounds, center mass, killing him.

Once I believed in that war and what we fought for, but that was many years and many bodies ago and I am not the naive boy that I was then. I only believed in my brothers who fought with me.

After the fire fight, and all was quiet, i sighed heavily, dropping my rifle at my feet and sat down in the bloody mess that surrounded me. Taking my eyes off the dead, I looked over at the flower standing so stalwart beside me and smile, “it truly is beautiful”, I thought to myself.

From the corner of my eye I saw the dead VC boy’s body lying there, only now he has joined his dead friends, each having that same look of death. I sighed heavily once more and closed my eyes. I was tired, bone weary but it felt good to rest. I knew when my tour was over, I would be as free as the blessed petals that bloomed before me.

Little did I know,,,

(C) James J Alonzo

After I got home from the Army and Viet Nam, in 1969, my wife Nanci, Sherri, our baby, (who was born while I was in Viet Nam) had to regroup, and start a new life in the civilian world.

I got a job as a store detective, and in turn, Nanci got pregnant. Back then, they did not use sonograms, or other tests that they have today. So one didn’t know ahead of time what the sex of the child would be. They also didn’t allow the father to be in the delivery room, like they do now. However, I was happy and I sure that this child would be a boy.

All during her pregnancy, people would tell me what it was like, and that some deliveries take a longer time than others, so I would have to be patient when the time came. Nanci’s pregnancy was normal as any pregnancy could be; in fact, she was overdue for delivery by the best estimates of one week.

At 12 noon, when we were settled in the birthing wing, they hooked Nanci up to the IV tubes, check pulse, blood pressure, and started the chemical to induce labor. With out going into the long dissertation on contractions, labor pains, and all the monitoring, and procedures, it was a hectic birthing. They kicked me out of there, because back then fathers were supposed to go wait in the designated “waiting room”. So my experience was very limited, since I wasn’t there when my daughter was born, I bowed to the advice of others. Everyone that had experience would tell me,

“Don’t worry Jim, it takes time, the nurses will kick you out and you may have to wait quite awhile before they call you. “

So I walked down to the waiting room, and sat down. There was a TV, magazines, and two other prospective fathers in the room. They both were passing up and down in the room, passing each other midway. Dress these men in uniforms, and rifles, and one would think it was a military march. After sitting there for 15 minutes, I said to myself,

“Screw this, I’m going to get something to eat.”

I took the elevator and went down to the floor the cafeteria was located at. When I got to the counter, the woman with a cigarette dangling from the side of her mouth asked,

“What you have?”

“Give me a tuna, and a chocolate milk shake to go, please.”

“One tuna and chocolate shake coming up!” The counter woman said, ashes dropping from her as she walked away.

As I stood there waiting, I glance over at a guy that was sitting at the counter, and was dress in hospital whites,

“Yeah, my wife is upstairs,” i said proudly, “they are inducing labor.”

“First baby? “ He asked with a smile.

“No the second, but I wasn’t here when my first child was born. I was in Viet Nam. “

“Yeah, Viet Nam, huh. Well don’t tell too many people; most people around here don’t like you guys. It seems you guys got a bad reputation.”

“That all I ever hear“, I said angrily, “you got a problem?”

“No, I don’t. I was just giving some friendly advice, because there are a lot of other assholes that do. Listen pal, Good luck on the baby today, and don’t be impatient“, He advised, “It takes time for the baby to come out.”

Christ, everyone says this. What do I have to do, camp out upstairs in that bloody waiting room?

I paid for the sandwich and shake, and headed back to the baby ward. When I got upstairs to the Baby ward, I saw at the end of the hall, Doctor Fago walking towards me, and asking,

“Where were you? I was looking for you, your baby is born.?”

I raised my hands holding the milk shake and sandwich, and said, “I went to get lunch.”

“Well do you want to see your baby?” the Doc asked sarcastically.

“Sure,” I said, looking for a place to place my sandwich and shake. As I followed the doctor I placed my sandwich and drink on the nurse’s station counter.

“I can’t believe you left the floor. Do you want to even know if it is a boy or girl? “ Doctor Fago asked me.

“Yeah, But I know it’s a boy Doc.” I laughed.

The doctor directed me to the birthing room where they put a robe and mask on me, and a nurse handed me the baby. I smiled at Nanci, and said,

“I love you baby.”

She gave me a weak smile. For the induction of labor, and the quick cycle of heavy contractions caused a very speedy birth, and heavy exertions on the Moma.

It was a boy, and he was rated 9/10, whatever that meant, but the rating was supposed to be good. Nanci had picked out the name Todd, I wanted Jason, but the girls, Nanci, and my mother in law overruled me. What I saw looking at this new born baby in my arms, was that he had a red scrunched up face, funny pointed shaped head, and scrawny little legs, and he looked more like a toad than a Todd. But that was alright, I was in love with my new son, and never prouder.

They took Nanci to her room, and the baby to the baby room. Before I left, I stay with Nanci for a half hour, and told her,

“I’m proud Of you baby, you did good! Don’t worry i’ll make the calls and let everyone know that we have a new healthy baby boy.”

Nanci reminded me to also call our pediatrician Dr. Ober, who volunteered to come over and check on our Todd, and his new patient.

After telling her again to get some rest, I would be back in a few hours, and that I loved her.
(I also have to get some of those cigars, which have “It’s A BOY” wrappers, and some Jack Daniel’s too)

I left the baby ward and Nanci so she could get some rest, and when I got to the lobby I went to the pay phone. So with a hand full of coins, I made all the necessary calls.

I then went to my mother’s house and had lunch. We talked about children, and after an hour or so, I left. I went to the Flower shop to get Nanci a nice Bouquet.

When I got back to the Baby ward floor, I walked to where you can look through the window at the baby beds, and they were lined up, some wrapped in Pink blankets, and some in blue. As I glanced around trying to figure out where my son was, I saw in the rear of the room, Doctor Ober. He was standing with other medical personnel, and next to a large square thing, with Plexiglas like windows on all sides. I would learn later, it was called an incubator.

Inside the incubator was a baby, breathing very fast and hard, only he was bluish in color! I looked at Doctor Ober, and his eyes caught mine, and I saw something in his eyes, that brought pain to my heart.

“No!! ” My mind screamed!

I then knew with out even asking, that it was my son! I backed up from the window, and tears were running down my face. I step back from the window, backing up till my body touched the wall behind me, and it seemed my legs couldn’t hold me up. I slid down the wall to the floor, my eyes could no longer see through the tears.

All this war, all this killing, wounded soldiers, maimed people, all these images out of hell called Viet Nam, did not prepare me for my blue child.

I did not hear my mother in law, Dorothy, approach, but knew by her voice that she was there. She was a middle aged, tall, medium built, attractive, classy woman.

“James, James, are you alright?”

“No!” I shouted, shaking my head in disbelief

“Listen to me Honey,” she was kneeling next to me, with her arm around my shoulders,
“It’s going to be alright. Doctor Ober arrived, and saw Todd was having trouble breathing, so he ordered the incubator. They are going to take Todd to Children’s Hospital. It’s going to be alright, just a minor problem Dr Ober says. James, do you hear me?”

I nodded, and started to rise up, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I spoke to him, and he told me it was just a minor problem.” She assured me.

“I want to speak to him,” I demanded, and went to the entrance and knocked for the nurse to come to the door. As I waited, Dorothy handed me a hanky to wipe my eyes. When the nurse, came,

“I’d like to speak to Doctor Ober.”

“Listen James,” Dorothy said, “Doctor Ober is a great pediatrician. He will know what’s best for Todd.’

“I know that. But I want the truth, not some watered down version or bullshit! When I tell Nanci, I am not going to lie to her!”

When Doctor Ober came out, they were wheeling the incubator to the elevator, to put Todd on an ambulance to rush him to Children’s Hospital. He explained it could be anything but it was only minor, and that I shouldn’t have to worry.

“Listen Doc, I don’t want to lie to my wife, and when I tell her, I am going to tell her the truth, so just give me the truth, no bullshit, understand?”

“Yes Of course.” he replied. “If you wish, I will tell her?”

“No, I’ll talk to her,” I insisted, “So just give it to me straight.”

“It is nothing more than a little fluid on the lungs, or Hyland membrane disorder. Nothing more. Your son is getting straight oxygen now, and should be alright in a few days.”

“Ok, doc, I’ll go talk to Nanci.”

As I watched him walk away and escort the incubator to the elevator, I began preparing myself to speak to Nanci, when I heard my mother in law say to me,

“Come on Honey, I’ll go with you.”

We went and told Nanci, and together we cried some more. Nanci and her mother were very strong in their faith in God, and of Doctor Ober, and his words. I on the other hand had seen too much blood, tragedy, and death, and was cynical of anything said when it came to my son. I may have been paranoid or damage from the war, but I had such a bad feeling.

We visited for a couple of hours, and Dorothy left after the first hour, when her husband Lee showed up. After they left, I told Nanci, I was going to go home, but on my way, I was going to stop at Children’s Hospital, and see how baby Todd was doing. Baby Todd, my son, our son. Every time I thought of when I saw Todd, that poor blue colored baby, I teared up. I’ve heard of blue babies, but they weren’t joking on how blue they are, with the lack of oxygen and all.
When I left I went directly to Children’s Hospital, which was about 5 miles away from the Hospital where Nanci was.

(Back in the 1970’s, a woman that had a baby was usually a guest for a few days at the hospital before they released her and the baby. But presently, the hospital sends you home the day after birth.)

When I arrived at the hospital, I checked with admissions, and filled out all the paper work for Todd. The clerk told me baby Todd was in Intensive Care on the 4th floor.

“intensive care? Why intensive care?” I thought.

When I got to the intensive care floor, I checked in, and they pointed the way to where Todd was being treated, and that I could see him through an observation window.
Once there, what I saw was a lot of nurses and a couple of Doctors including Doctor Ober, hovering around little baby Todd.

The baby had a funny looking cap on, and tape was over his eyes? He had tubes running from the incubator into his little body, some for fluids, and medicines, and one for oxygen. It didn’t take an idiot to realize this little guy was having a lot of problems, and he was in trouble.
I knocked on the class to let them know I was here, and another Doctor came out, that identified himself as the ICU department head, and his name was Doctor Scheiffle. I asked how my son was, and he told me,

“Well Mr. Alonzo, Your son is in critical condition. The prognosis doesn’t look to good; however we are doing everything we can. “

“What the fuck you talking about? Doctor Ober told me it was nothing to worry about! “

“I don’t know anything about what Doctor Ober told you, Mr. Alonzo, they had to shock him in the ambulance, because he stopped breathing and his heart stopped. When Baby Todd got here, we had to shock him again. We almost lost him a couple of times.”

“Tell me why Doctor? What is wrong with my son?”

“We have not seen this before, but your son’s lungs are premature, even though your son is full term.”

The doctor questioned me if Nanci and I were drug users? He asked if we worked around or in chemical facilities, or nuclear facilities? I said no to both, and asked why. He said,

“If Todd is a full term baby there is no reason that we can think of, that he’s have preemie Lungs.”

(Premature babies have this problem, and is called Hyaline Membrane Disease of Newborn Premature Lungs)

“Why would this be?” I asked, “He is a full term baby, in fact the Doctor Fago suggested inducing labor?

“We don’t know, but we are going to do the best we can.”

Todd eventually came through all this after a stay of 6 days at ICU ward at Children‘s hospital. I fired our pediatrician for lying to me. I had to go back and tell Nanci about our son, his critical condition, and that we may loose our son.

A year later, I began hearing about Agent Orange, Viet Nam Veterans, child birth defects, handicap children and some of the problems from it.

Meanwhile, there was a lot of media coverage of Love Canal, and Dow Chemical, Olin Chemical, and dioxin. That in Western New York, There was a big lawsuit and trial about Love Canal, and it pollution of a whole neighborhood, causing cancer and birth defects. Nanci and I made a decision not to have any more children. A decision I now regret to this day.

To this day, my son Todd is not the healthiest person, and had trouble running when he was a child. He chose not to be a jock, but did become a drummer in the High School Band. Now he is a Chemical Engineer, and manager of a State Environmental Department in the South.

(C) James J Alonzo

I had served in Viet Nam, two years,1967 & 1968 as a member of 2/17 Calvary, 101rst Airborne Division, known as the “Screaming Eagles.”

After Viet Nam i got into law enforcement and it became my career of sorts. It was 1988, and there were times that some days were rougher than others, so there was this bar I would go to commonly called a “cop bar” for it was patronized by mostly cops.

There was this one bartender that frequently had the late night shift, so she and I became well acquainted. Often it was just her and I at the bar. One night in particular it was about 1:30 am, and we were just talking while I nursed a potent rum and coke.

The bartender’s name was Rose, a blonde, had a slender figure and about twenty years younger than me. She had asked me once if I had served in Viet Nam, so she knew I was a Viet Nam vet.

What I didn’t know was that her dad had been killed in the war. For some reason this late night she decided to tell me about it.

“You know my Dad was killed over there.” she said, as a matter of fact, like she was telling me that it just started to snow. Her statement caught me off guard and I paused to look her in her blue eyes.

It was then I realized Rose had something to get off her chest.

“No I didn’t know that.” I responded firing questions at her like a machine gun, “I¹m sorry. How did he die, if I may ask? What outfit was he in? Do you know what happened?”

“Yeah, he was an army helicopter pilot.” Rose said, “Mom told me that my father flew a Huey and was on a night rescue mission with another helicopter. They had to rescue some soldiers that had been trapped and surrounded by the enemy. My Dad’s chopper was shot down as they came in for the rescue. My mother told me he flew a lot of rescue missions.”

Even though she was staring somewhere beyond me, I could see she wanted to talk more, so I asked,

“How old were you when he died.” I asked

“I was just a baby, when he left us!” she said sharply.” he volunteer for a second tour!”

I could hear some anger in her voice, and that maybe she was still mad at his dad for dying and leaving her.

In psychiatry we are taught that this a normal reaction, we all tend to have some anger at those that die. We feel deserted, left alone to drift through life without their support. I could see Rose’s anger at her father is still causing her to suffer.

“Can I tell you a story,” I asked, as I started to repack my pipe, and lite it.

“I want you to imagine your nineteen years old”, I started, “You are away from home for the first time and like many young men, you¹re in the military and in the middle of a war zone.”

I paused as Rose lit a cigarette and sat down on a stool behind the bar. Once settled I continued,

“imagine you’re out with a patrol, it hot, the mosquitoes are eating you alive, the sweat is in your eyes, trickling down you spine, it’s night time, and it’s so dark you can’t hardly see your buddy in front of you. Suddenly a much larger force of enemy soldiers has ambushed your patrol.”

I stopped to take another sip of my drink,

“In mere seconds, a few of your guys are already down, some wounded (WIA’s) a couple killed, (KIA’s), and your platoon is fighting for its life! You’re scared, crazy scared and you hear the radio operator calling in for help, as red and green tracers are flying back and forth,

(“Red Dog 2 to Red Dog 1! Red Dog 2 taking fire, overwhelming Victor Charlie, we have KIA’s and WIA’s, need immediate evac! Will pop smoke!”)

“The radio operator is told there is no help available! You realize your platoon is gonna be left out there in the dark to die! You think nobody cares enough about you to save your life. But in truth there is no one willing to make a night evacuation under fire, especially at a hot LZ! (landing zone) Your guts are shriveling into itself in fear. You and your men don’t want to die but death is out there in the dark trying to get at you.”

Rose clears her throat, and drinks her beer, shaking her head at what she is hearing. At this point she is no longer looking at me or anything in the room. She is seeing what i am seeing, but like me she is living it. Her eyes are glazed with a tear in each eye.

“So there you are and it can’t get any worse.” I said, my voice starts cracking, I too am having a hard time controlling my emotions.

“Suddenly the radio crackles and the voice that we hear comes out is like the voice of god himself promising salvation! “Red Dog 2, this is White Bird 4 & 5, hang on we¹re coming!” There are two of us and we can get everybody out! Pop smoke, we will verify.”

I had to clear my throat, I was choked up a bit, so I downed the remainder of my drink and continued,

“We soon heard the chopping of the air from the rotors of the helicopters. It was the pilot of the lead helicopter and he somehow had heard about us and just couldn’t leave us out there to die. I don’t know who that pilot was, but I’ll tell you Rose, whoever that was, that was your old man.”

I Then stood up to leave, slowly placing money on the bar, grabbing my jacket.

Rose looked like she’d been clubbed. There were tears streaming down her cheeks and she seemed incapable of movement. After a bit she turns to me and says,

“I didn’t know, I didn’t know.”

“There was no way you could of known.” I said, “I think your dad was a man that placed more importance on the lives of others more than his own”

At the city of Buffalo marina, there is a memorial to the Deceased personel that were from Buffalo of the Viet Nam war and the names are engraved in the granite. Rose told me her dad’s name was on the wall and asked that I give him my regards. I did that the next time I was there, and looked his name up. I was glad he got his relationship with his daughter back. A girl needs her father even if it is just the memory.