Previously Published in The Binnacle
Grand Dad
When you get to a reasonable age, important memories from your childhood only come in flashes. That’s how it is right now, thinking of my Grand Dad. I can recall some things immediately. The man drank bourbon by the gallon. He chewed Red Man tobacco all day long. He was a giant, to me anyway, and always wore green coveralls with slip on shoes. Thankfully, when I think harder, more things start coming back.
I remember staying with him and Mema on the weekends. He would always get up early and cook breakfast. I would wake up to the smell of scrambled eggs, bacon and coffee. After eating, everyone would get dressed for church. Grand Dad would still wear the old green coveralls, but he would slick his hair back with grease. He would call me into the bathroom sometimes while he was getting ready.
“Hey Spunky, come here!”
“Yes, Grand Dad”
“Let’s put some of this behind your ears, it drives the women wild!”
With that, he would pour some Brute cologne into his huge hands and slap me on both sides of my neck, rubbing the fragrance into my skin. I didn’t understand this ritual, and at five years old, I would much rather have something that would repel girls instead of driving them wild. But, I was the only grandson he did this for, so it made me feel special.
Soon, we would be on the way to church. Grand Dad drove an El Camino so I had to sit in the middle. He drove and Mema sat in the passenger seat. To this day I remember the most important rule of riding with Grand Dad; don’t touch the spit can! When I said he chewed Red Man all day long I meant it, church didn’t keep him from his chew.
We would make it to church and church happened. The next thing I knew, I was being escorted back home by Grand Dad. Mema was staying behind for a ladies meeting and someone was to bring her home later. Of course, we made a quick little stop on the way home. The Lion’s Den, Grand Dad’s favorite bar and liquor shop. We walked in and Grand Dad knew everyone there. He had a smile on his face the whole time as he chatted up his old cronies. Before long we left, Grand Dad toting two big bottles of bourbon. Looking back, I wonder if he would get in trouble with Mema if she found out he stopped to buy liquor on the Sabbath. Although it doesn’t matter, she wasn’t going to find out, it was our secret. He never asked me not to tell, but he didn’t have to.
The reel ran out on that memory, although, it reminds me of another. I had gotten a toy tank that came with stickers. I asked my Mom where I should put the stickers and she told me I should ask Grand Dad, he was in the Army during WW II, he was in the Battle of the Bulge, whatever that meant, and most importantly, he could tell me where to place the stickers on the tank.
The next time I went to Grand Dad’s house, I took the tank to him and asked him to help me. I could barely reach the table, so he picked me up and set me on his knee while we placed the stickers in the correct spots.
“Momma said you was in the Army during World War two!”
“That’s right, I was.”
His breath was thick with a mixture of bourbon and Red Man.
“What did you do in the Army?”
“I was a cook!”
I was disappointed; I figured a big man like him would be a General or something. Not some lowly cook. He must have seen my disappointment.
“Damn lucky to be a cook too!”
I was perplexed, “How come Grand Dad?”
“Well, one day we were all in the bunker. The way they were made, it was just one big room underground. The only exception was the kitchen; it was back in a corner by itself, so it wouldn’t heat up the rest of the area. Well, one day, I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast and I heard a big boom. I walk out into the bunker and everyone was dead but me! Somebody had dropped a grenade in there, and if I hadn’t been in the kitchen, I’d be dead too!”
“WOW! I bet that was scary!” I was no longer disappointed in Grand Dad; he was a war hero. After a few moments I remembered Mom said something about the Battle of the Bulge. I bet Grand Dad had a good story for that one.
“Mom said you was in the Battle of the Bulge, what was that?”
“Oh, well, that was a big fight where a bunch of people got killed.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, it didn’t take me long to figure out that those dumb bastards that kept sticking their heads up to shoot were the ones getting killed. I just kept hunkered down.”
“After all those fights didn’t you ever get a promotion so you didn’t have to cook anymore?”
When he heard this question, he let out a big, booming laugh, a deep laugh that could be heard throughout the house.
“You know, I think I am the only man in the Army that went in a buck private, did two years, and came out a buck private.”
Still smiling, “I got promoted a couple of times. But I lost my stripes as soon as I got them. Sometimes, me and some buddies would get out and go to the local bar. We would sit down and drink and have a good time with everyone there. Next thing you know, the Military Police was breaking down the doors and throwing me in the paddy wagon. They tell me I am fraternizing with the enemy and they take my stripes. I tell them I wasn’t fraternizing with the enemy, I am making peace!”
Grand Dad was a good man that lived life on his own terms. The last strong memory I have of him was at his funeral. I was only eleven and he was sixty five. Nobody told me the reason he died, I figured sixty five was pretty old, so he probably just died of old age. This was the first funeral I had ever been to. Of course, I chose to view the body when I got the chance. It didn’t look like Grand Dad. He wasn’t in his green overalls, he was wearing a suit. The flush in his cheeks was gone and his face was pale. What was most disturbing was his scent was gone, a mixture of Red Man, Brute and bourbon that was distinctly him, I was going to miss that.
Twenty five years later I sit on my back porch relishing these memories. I take solace in the fact that his blood is in my veins. I wonder what traits of his were passed on to me. I shrug it off and refocus on those precious few memories I can still recollect about my grandfather. I chuckle and smile to myself reflecting on him as I take a drag on my cigarette and chase it with a sip of wine.
Grand Dad
When you get to a reasonable age, important memories from your childhood only come in flashes. That’s how it is right now, thinking of my Grand Dad. I can recall some things immediately. The man drank bourbon by the gallon. He chewed Red Man tobacco all day long. He was a giant, to me anyway, and always wore green coveralls with slip on shoes. Thankfully, when I think harder, more things start coming back.
I remember staying with him and Mema on the weekends. He would always get up early and cook breakfast. I would wake up to the smell of scrambled eggs, bacon and coffee. After eating, everyone would get dressed for church. Grand Dad would still wear the old green coveralls, but he would slick his hair back with grease. He would call me into the bathroom sometimes while he was getting ready.
“Hey Spunky, come here!”
“Yes, Grand Dad”
“Let’s put some of this behind your ears, it drives the women wild!”
With that, he would pour some Brute cologne into his huge hands and slap me on both sides of my neck, rubbing the fragrance into my skin. I didn’t understand this ritual, and at five years old, I would much rather have something that would repel girls instead of driving them wild. But, I was the only grandson he did this for, so it made me feel special.
Soon, we would be on the way to church. Grand Dad drove an El Camino so I had to sit in the middle. He drove and Mema sat in the passenger seat. To this day I remember the most important rule of riding with Grand Dad; don’t touch the spit can! When I said he chewed Red Man all day long I meant it, church didn’t keep him from his chew.
We would make it to church and church happened. The next thing I knew, I was being escorted back home by Grand Dad. Mema was staying behind for a ladies meeting and someone was to bring her home later. Of course, we made a quick little stop on the way home. The Lion’s Den, Grand Dad’s favorite bar and liquor shop. We walked in and Grand Dad knew everyone there. He had a smile on his face the whole time as he chatted up his old cronies. Before long we left, Grand Dad toting two big bottles of bourbon. Looking back, I wonder if he would get in trouble with Mema if she found out he stopped to buy liquor on the Sabbath. Although it doesn’t matter, she wasn’t going to find out, it was our secret. He never asked me not to tell, but he didn’t have to.
The reel ran out on that memory, although, it reminds me of another. I had gotten a toy tank that came with stickers. I asked my Mom where I should put the stickers and she told me I should ask Grand Dad, he was in the Army during WW II, he was in the Battle of the Bulge, whatever that meant, and most importantly, he could tell me where to place the stickers on the tank.
The next time I went to Grand Dad’s house, I took the tank to him and asked him to help me. I could barely reach the table, so he picked me up and set me on his knee while we placed the stickers in the correct spots.
“Momma said you was in the Army during World War two!”
“That’s right, I was.”
His breath was thick with a mixture of bourbon and Red Man.
“What did you do in the Army?”
“I was a cook!”
I was disappointed; I figured a big man like him would be a General or something. Not some lowly cook. He must have seen my disappointment.
“Damn lucky to be a cook too!”
I was perplexed, “How come Grand Dad?”
“Well, one day we were all in the bunker. The way they were made, it was just one big room underground. The only exception was the kitchen; it was back in a corner by itself, so it wouldn’t heat up the rest of the area. Well, one day, I was in the kitchen cooking breakfast and I heard a big boom. I walk out into the bunker and everyone was dead but me! Somebody had dropped a grenade in there, and if I hadn’t been in the kitchen, I’d be dead too!”
“WOW! I bet that was scary!” I was no longer disappointed in Grand Dad; he was a war hero. After a few moments I remembered Mom said something about the Battle of the Bulge. I bet Grand Dad had a good story for that one.
“Mom said you was in the Battle of the Bulge, what was that?”
“Oh, well, that was a big fight where a bunch of people got killed.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, it didn’t take me long to figure out that those dumb bastards that kept sticking their heads up to shoot were the ones getting killed. I just kept hunkered down.”
“After all those fights didn’t you ever get a promotion so you didn’t have to cook anymore?”
When he heard this question, he let out a big, booming laugh, a deep laugh that could be heard throughout the house.
“You know, I think I am the only man in the Army that went in a buck private, did two years, and came out a buck private.”
Still smiling, “I got promoted a couple of times. But I lost my stripes as soon as I got them. Sometimes, me and some buddies would get out and go to the local bar. We would sit down and drink and have a good time with everyone there. Next thing you know, the Military Police was breaking down the doors and throwing me in the paddy wagon. They tell me I am fraternizing with the enemy and they take my stripes. I tell them I wasn’t fraternizing with the enemy, I am making peace!”
Grand Dad was a good man that lived life on his own terms. The last strong memory I have of him was at his funeral. I was only eleven and he was sixty five. Nobody told me the reason he died, I figured sixty five was pretty old, so he probably just died of old age. This was the first funeral I had ever been to. Of course, I chose to view the body when I got the chance. It didn’t look like Grand Dad. He wasn’t in his green overalls, he was wearing a suit. The flush in his cheeks was gone and his face was pale. What was most disturbing was his scent was gone, a mixture of Red Man, Brute and bourbon that was distinctly him, I was going to miss that.
Twenty five years later I sit on my back porch relishing these memories. I take solace in the fact that his blood is in my veins. I wonder what traits of his were passed on to me. I shrug it off and refocus on those precious few memories I can still recollect about my grandfather. I chuckle and smile to myself reflecting on him as I take a drag on my cigarette and chase it with a sip of wine.
This is an original draft for an article that was published in The Texas Observer
When I was born in Texarkana, Texas in October of 1975 the country was still reeling from losing 50,000 of its best and brightest to the most unpopular war in American history, who would ever imagine only thirty years later the same country would send this baby boy back to Asia to fight another war before even one generation had passed?
Texarkana in the 70s and 80s was, at times, like living life in a Mark Twain play. I suppose my family was poor but I never realized it because everybody I knew was poor too. My daily attire during summers was a pair of cut off shorts, and that’s about it. I remember when I was a young boy we went into town and there was a sign on the EZ Mart door that proclaimed, “no shirt, no shoes, no service.” I asked my mom what that meant. She said it meant people had to wear shoes and shirts if they wanted to buy anything there. I said, “Dang! They sure must have a whole lot of money if they can pick and choose who they deal with!” I suspect the sign was a bluff because I distinctly remember how good the cool smooth tile felt against my bare feet after walking on the hot rough sidewalks.
By the time I graduated high school I was sick of learning and decided all I wanted to do was deliver pizzas and hang out with my buddies. I soon realized my upward mobility was stagnating due to this lifestyle I had chosen. I determined I wanted something better but I didn’t want to take out a huge loan for college. I figured the best remedy was to enlist in the Air Force, and then I could get out of Texarkana, learn a skill and save money for college. Besides, the only war I remembered was the Gulf War, and if that was the future of war fighting, there wasn’t anything to worry about.
I went to San Antonio for basic training in August of 1997, spent a year in California and then six long years at Ellsworth Air Force base outside Rapid City, South Dakota. I was a Security Policeman, which meant I was a cop when I were on station and did base security while I was deployed, and I deployed a lot. First I did two tours in Saudi Arabia where I learned about this guy named Osama Bin Laden. I remember the intelligence officers made him sound like a real jerk. Then after Sept 11th I did a tour in Oman where I learned about dysentery through personal experience and how two hundred people really could live in one aircraft hangar. My final deployment from Ellsworth was to the United Arab Emirates where I reenlisted. After my reenlistment I got a chance to request a change of station and was approved to move back to Texas where I landed at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. I was finally home.
From Lackland I had the great honor to deploy to Iraq and serve with the 101st Airborne as a convoy commander. This was a job Air Force Security Police hadn’t done since that unpopular war in Viet Nam, but the Army was fighting two wars and we all had to pick up the slack. While there, I completed over sixty five combat patrols, and experienced an unknown amount of actual combat engagements. Suffice it to say I participated in enough to get the full effect. Among other things, I saw first hand what a roadside bomb could do, how a broken neck could change a young man’s whole life instantly and how quickly vehicles and people could burn if the right accelerant is applied.
I returned home from Iraq and it took about six months for me to seek help due to my post traumatic stress. The symptoms were completely debilitating. Anxiety attacks while driving down the road or in public are difficult to deal with. There is also depression that comes and goes at the drop of a hat; serious depression in which you can not even force yourself to move, because it just takes too much energy. Of course the uncontrollable rage is what bothered me the most. Fortunately, it was never focused on any family or close friends but if someone did something I didn’t agree with, or exhibit unusual mannerisms, adrenaline flowed through me with the force of Niagara Falls. I would confront them aggressively and hope - pray they gave me one reason to attack them and I knew once I started I wouldn’t stop until they were dead. Thank God, they were stronger willed than me, none of them ever provoked me any further.
This all led to several months of counseling, medication and discharge from the military. I have no regrets on seeking help for my disorder. I was in the military for over ten years. So long, in fact, I forgot about the freedom civilian life held for me. I enjoy that freedom very much.
There are some things everyone should know about combat related PTSD. First of all there is a lot of guilt associated with it. For instance, people who watch their buddies get injured feel guilty that they didn’t take the shrapnel for him. The buddy that is injured feels guilty that he didn’t take the bullet for the dead guy beside him. No matter what physical malady you endured, it is never enough to free you from the guilt that combat dishes out.
Another big factor with PTSD is shame. I am sure you have seen those blockbuster movies in which a wayward hero, in a moment of reflection, tells a kid or a contemporary that it isn’t easy killing people. Well, I’m here to tell you that’s a bold faced lie. It is real easy to kill people, especially when they are trying to kill you! What isn’t easy is dealing with all the shame that comes after the deed. You have been taught your entire life, “Thou shall not kill” and then at the first chance you get, what do you do? Kill somebody.
The final factor I want to share is fear. Many times veterans have gone directly against the morals that they hold dear. We have looked inside our souls and saw what we could be. We have seen the evil a man is capable of, even within ourselves. We all like to blame evil on Satan, or whatever the antagonist in your spiritual world is, but the truth of the matter is, we all have it in our hearts to do those evil things. We don’t want to share these things with our spouses, Moms, Dads, Brothers or anyone really. We don’t want them to think of us in that light, as one of ‘those people’. This is why so many veterans keep it all inside them and let it eat at them like a cancer. Living with PTSD in that manner is a horrific life.
Right now during this war veterans need their friends and family to look after them more than ever. If a veteran is showing signs of depression or anxiety they must be encouraged to see a counselor. From personal experience I know making the first appointment to see a Psychologist was the most difficult step I had to take in my battle with PTSD. You have to understand that in today’s American military culture, it is seen as a sign of weakness to seek help for any psychiatric problems. That is why it takes so long for a lot of Veterans to come forward, many won’t acknowledge their problem until they are out of the military.
If you are someone who does not know any veterans I only have one plea. Do not stigmatize PTSD. It is difficult enough for Veterans to come forward and admit they are having problems that may be attributed to PTSD, the more negative connotations that are associated with PTSD the more difficult it will be for an emotionally wounded veteran to step forward and ask for help.
I know a lot of vets are just like me, just some average kid that grew up in a little town and joined the military in pursuit of a better life. We got sent into Iraq and did what we were told because, as Americans, we believe in holding up our part of the agreement we signed onto. Some of us need help dealing with what we did while we were over there. Most importantly some of us need help to take the first step on the long journey to recovery. If you love a veteran that may need help but they are out of the service, they can always go to the Veterans Affairs hospital. Encourage them to go and tell them no matter what they have done, there is always someone there for them.
When I was born in Texarkana, Texas in October of 1975 the country was still reeling from losing 50,000 of its best and brightest to the most unpopular war in American history, who would ever imagine only thirty years later the same country would send this baby boy back to Asia to fight another war before even one generation had passed?
Texarkana in the 70s and 80s was, at times, like living life in a Mark Twain play. I suppose my family was poor but I never realized it because everybody I knew was poor too. My daily attire during summers was a pair of cut off shorts, and that’s about it. I remember when I was a young boy we went into town and there was a sign on the EZ Mart door that proclaimed, “no shirt, no shoes, no service.” I asked my mom what that meant. She said it meant people had to wear shoes and shirts if they wanted to buy anything there. I said, “Dang! They sure must have a whole lot of money if they can pick and choose who they deal with!” I suspect the sign was a bluff because I distinctly remember how good the cool smooth tile felt against my bare feet after walking on the hot rough sidewalks.
By the time I graduated high school I was sick of learning and decided all I wanted to do was deliver pizzas and hang out with my buddies. I soon realized my upward mobility was stagnating due to this lifestyle I had chosen. I determined I wanted something better but I didn’t want to take out a huge loan for college. I figured the best remedy was to enlist in the Air Force, and then I could get out of Texarkana, learn a skill and save money for college. Besides, the only war I remembered was the Gulf War, and if that was the future of war fighting, there wasn’t anything to worry about.
I went to San Antonio for basic training in August of 1997, spent a year in California and then six long years at Ellsworth Air Force base outside Rapid City, South Dakota. I was a Security Policeman, which meant I was a cop when I were on station and did base security while I was deployed, and I deployed a lot. First I did two tours in Saudi Arabia where I learned about this guy named Osama Bin Laden. I remember the intelligence officers made him sound like a real jerk. Then after Sept 11th I did a tour in Oman where I learned about dysentery through personal experience and how two hundred people really could live in one aircraft hangar. My final deployment from Ellsworth was to the United Arab Emirates where I reenlisted. After my reenlistment I got a chance to request a change of station and was approved to move back to Texas where I landed at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. I was finally home.
From Lackland I had the great honor to deploy to Iraq and serve with the 101st Airborne as a convoy commander. This was a job Air Force Security Police hadn’t done since that unpopular war in Viet Nam, but the Army was fighting two wars and we all had to pick up the slack. While there, I completed over sixty five combat patrols, and experienced an unknown amount of actual combat engagements. Suffice it to say I participated in enough to get the full effect. Among other things, I saw first hand what a roadside bomb could do, how a broken neck could change a young man’s whole life instantly and how quickly vehicles and people could burn if the right accelerant is applied.
I returned home from Iraq and it took about six months for me to seek help due to my post traumatic stress. The symptoms were completely debilitating. Anxiety attacks while driving down the road or in public are difficult to deal with. There is also depression that comes and goes at the drop of a hat; serious depression in which you can not even force yourself to move, because it just takes too much energy. Of course the uncontrollable rage is what bothered me the most. Fortunately, it was never focused on any family or close friends but if someone did something I didn’t agree with, or exhibit unusual mannerisms, adrenaline flowed through me with the force of Niagara Falls. I would confront them aggressively and hope - pray they gave me one reason to attack them and I knew once I started I wouldn’t stop until they were dead. Thank God, they were stronger willed than me, none of them ever provoked me any further.
This all led to several months of counseling, medication and discharge from the military. I have no regrets on seeking help for my disorder. I was in the military for over ten years. So long, in fact, I forgot about the freedom civilian life held for me. I enjoy that freedom very much.
There are some things everyone should know about combat related PTSD. First of all there is a lot of guilt associated with it. For instance, people who watch their buddies get injured feel guilty that they didn’t take the shrapnel for him. The buddy that is injured feels guilty that he didn’t take the bullet for the dead guy beside him. No matter what physical malady you endured, it is never enough to free you from the guilt that combat dishes out.
Another big factor with PTSD is shame. I am sure you have seen those blockbuster movies in which a wayward hero, in a moment of reflection, tells a kid or a contemporary that it isn’t easy killing people. Well, I’m here to tell you that’s a bold faced lie. It is real easy to kill people, especially when they are trying to kill you! What isn’t easy is dealing with all the shame that comes after the deed. You have been taught your entire life, “Thou shall not kill” and then at the first chance you get, what do you do? Kill somebody.
The final factor I want to share is fear. Many times veterans have gone directly against the morals that they hold dear. We have looked inside our souls and saw what we could be. We have seen the evil a man is capable of, even within ourselves. We all like to blame evil on Satan, or whatever the antagonist in your spiritual world is, but the truth of the matter is, we all have it in our hearts to do those evil things. We don’t want to share these things with our spouses, Moms, Dads, Brothers or anyone really. We don’t want them to think of us in that light, as one of ‘those people’. This is why so many veterans keep it all inside them and let it eat at them like a cancer. Living with PTSD in that manner is a horrific life.
Right now during this war veterans need their friends and family to look after them more than ever. If a veteran is showing signs of depression or anxiety they must be encouraged to see a counselor. From personal experience I know making the first appointment to see a Psychologist was the most difficult step I had to take in my battle with PTSD. You have to understand that in today’s American military culture, it is seen as a sign of weakness to seek help for any psychiatric problems. That is why it takes so long for a lot of Veterans to come forward, many won’t acknowledge their problem until they are out of the military.
If you are someone who does not know any veterans I only have one plea. Do not stigmatize PTSD. It is difficult enough for Veterans to come forward and admit they are having problems that may be attributed to PTSD, the more negative connotations that are associated with PTSD the more difficult it will be for an emotionally wounded veteran to step forward and ask for help.
I know a lot of vets are just like me, just some average kid that grew up in a little town and joined the military in pursuit of a better life. We got sent into Iraq and did what we were told because, as Americans, we believe in holding up our part of the agreement we signed onto. Some of us need help dealing with what we did while we were over there. Most importantly some of us need help to take the first step on the long journey to recovery. If you love a veteran that may need help but they are out of the service, they can always go to the Veterans Affairs hospital. Encourage them to go and tell them no matter what they have done, there is always someone there for them.